"Hmph."
The cool stone walls of Snape's office exuded the bitter scent of wormwood and aconite. The black-robed professor's gaze landed on Dylan, the corners of his lips curling slightly.
"I've wasted so much time on you—I'd better see results. Otherwise, I might as well snap your wand in half and bury it under the Whomping Willow."
Dylan blinked. By now, he was completely immune to Professor Snape's sharp tongue. Instead, he filtered through the disdainful remarks and caught onto the most important part.
"So what you're saying is… you want to give me a test? Like the time you tested my Occlumency skills—"
"Silence!" Snape's voice cracked through the air like a whip.
Dylan immediately shut up, his eyelashes fluttering innocently.
After a long pause, Snape finally spoke again, his voice even lower than before. "This duel evaluation won't just involve me. McGonagall and Flitwick will also be participating."
"I want to see exactly how much you've learned."
Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Professor, I still value my life, you know. Facing just you alone is already tough enough—now you're throwing in Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick? Are you trying to make sure I don't make it out alive?"
Snape scowled. "I said, silence."
"…."
Dylan was speechless.
So not only was he about to get absolutely wrecked by three professors at once, but now he wasn't even allowed to complain about it?
Wait, since when did those three start working together like this?
Dylan had just seen Professor Flitwick yesterday, yet Flitwick hadn't mentioned anything about a duel evaluation.
Clearly, they must have discussed it this morning—probably while he was busy sneaking into the Restricted Section to borrow books.
Who had brought up the idea in the first place?
"Anyway," Snape continued, "McGonagall and Flitwick asked me to inform you that you should stop by their offices later."
Snape's lips curled into a faint, dragon-like smirk. "Those two are at their wits' end with you. See? Not everyone has my patience when it comes to teaching."
Dylan: (._.)
Oh? Who was it that once said teaching him basic potions was a waste of time and cut his tutoring sessions from weekly to once every two or three weeks?
"…What's with that face?" Snape's gaze darkened.
Dylan instantly put on a bright smile. "I was just thinking—Professor, you are absolutely right!"
"Enough nonsense. I'll be teaching you a few other things in the upcoming lessons. Now get out."
With a wave of his hand, Snape practically shoved Dylan out the door.
**BAM!**
As the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him, Dylan rubbed his nose and turned toward the staircase.
"A duel evaluation, huh…"
Climbing to the second floor, he followed the corridor until he reached a small study room. He knocked lightly on the door.
No response.
Dylan paused.
Was McGonagall out for lunch?
After a moment's thought, he decided to check her office. When he found it empty, he gave up for now and headed up to the fourth floor.
Fortunately, Professor Flitwick was still in his office.
**Knock, knock.**
"Come in."
As Dylan stepped inside, he saw Flitwick standing behind a desk cluttered with books and magical artifacts. The tiny professor greeted him with a warm smile—until he realized who had just walked in.
The smile froze.
"…I don't believe we had a tutoring session scheduled for today."
Then, as if recalling something, Flitwick quickly followed up, "Wait—you just came from Severus, didn't you?"
"Yes, Professor."
Hearing this confirmation, Flitwick sighed in relief and wiped away some imaginary sweat from his forehead, muttering under his breath, "Whew, thank goodness. For a second, I thought he was here to ask for more tutoring again. Almost forgot what we agreed on this morning…"
Regaining his composure, Flitwick beamed. "Take a seat, child. I assume Severus didn't bother explaining much, did he?"
Dylan nodded. That was an understatement.
Feeling perfectly at home, Dylan pulled out a chair, sat down, and casually poured himself a glass of Coke. He also poured Flitwick a cup of tea, as if this were a regular routine.
Flitwick didn't seem to mind at all. Instead, he chuckled and explained, "This morning, Headmaster Dumbledore called us in for a meeting. During the discussion, Minerva suggested giving you an evaluation to assess how much progress you've made—both last year and over the summer."
"You see, we didn't really assign you any summer homework."
Dylan nodded. "So you, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape decided to test me through a duel?"
Flitwick nodded. "Exactly. It's the best way to measure your true abilities and adjust our teaching accordingly."
"—You're not going to turn it down, are you?"
Dylan nodded again. "No, I already agreed to Professor Snape."
Flitwick's small, bespectacled eyes lit up, and he grinned. "I knew it! You're a true genius, child. Your learning speed is beyond my wildest expectations."
"Sometimes, I even feel like you understand certain spells better than I do—which is utterly astonishing."
"The ideas you've brought up… Honestly, I don't even know if I'm teaching you or if you're helping me gain new insights."
Dylan pursed his lips and said nothing.
At this point, the number of spells he had mastered at a 'perfect' level far exceeded what any young wizard should be capable of.
—In fact, no young wizard should have even a single spell at that level.
So it was only natural that, in some areas, his understanding of magic surpassed even Professor Flitwick's.
Of course, there was no way he could explain that. What was he supposed to do, pull out a magical skill list and show him?
Still, his expertise had helped Flitwick refine his own spell research, pushing the tiny professor to new heights.
A true case of *When two people walk together—one is the teacher, and the other is also the teacher.*
Flitwick gazed at Dylan with pride. "Honestly, if not for your age, I'd say you could enter a dueling tournament right now and win the championship!"
"This evaluation is just to test your limits."
Dylan nodded. "Professor Snape hasn't set a date yet. What about you?"
Flitwick chuckled. "It was a last-minute idea, so we haven't decided. That's why we wanted to ask when you'd be available."
"I'm free anytime—aside from regular classes. Just send me a message, and I'll be there." Dylan patted his chest confidently.
"Excellent, excellent! I'll make sure to prepare thoroughly. You should do the same." Flitwick nodded eagerly.
They chatted for a while longer, but as soon as their conversation started shifting toward magic theory, Flitwick promptly ended it—clearly fearing it would turn into another impromptu tutoring session.
"Go see Professor McGonagall," he urged.
Dylan stood up and bid him farewell.
Stepping out of the office, he decided to check if McGonagall had returned. If not, he planned to grab a bite at the Great Hall first.
As he descended the stairs, he turned a corner—
—and nearly collided with Malfoy and his two lackeys, Crabbe and Goyle, who were heading up.
Not long ago, in Diagon Alley, Dylan had completely shut down both Draco and Lucius Malfoy in an argument.
Ever since school started, Draco had been avoiding him like the plague.
Now, caught off guard on the staircase, Malfoy hesitated for a moment. But seeing Crabbe and Goyle behind him, he straightened up and strode forward confidently.
The three of them blocked the entire staircase, forcing Dylan to step aside if he wanted to pass.
Dylan narrowed his eyes. *This brat again?*
If Malfoy insisted on testing his patience, then maybe… it was time for a lesson.
A smirk played on Dylan's lips as he recalled a certain curse he'd read about in the Restricted Section.
Stepping forward, his footsteps echoed down the stairwell.
Meanwhile, Malfoy strutted up the staircase with his two lackeys in tow. The three of them walked side by side, completely blocking the hallway as if they owned the place.
Dylan, however, remained calm. He didn't slow down, nor did he show any intention of stepping aside.
As he drew closer to Malfoy and his entourage, a faint shimmer of light flickered around him. The next moment, a bird materialized out of thin air, gliding gracefully as it circled Dylan's side.
Then, in the blink of an eye, a second bird appeared. Then a third. More and more birds emerged, surrounding Dylan in a fluttering formation. Yet, he hadn't even lifted his wand, let alone spoken an incantation.
The birds didn't attack—they simply hovered around Dylan in silence. Still, the sight alone was enough to shake Malfoy and his cronies. Their arrogant expressions faltered, and their steps instinctively slowed.
As the birds flew toward them, they hesitated, attempting to sidestep.
But Dylan kept walking.
And as he moved, the birds' movements suddenly accelerated.
**BANG!**
Malfoy and his two lackeys, caught off guard, stumbled in different directions, desperately trying to dodge. But it was no use. The flock, carrying Dylan's momentum, slammed into them with full force, sending all three tumbling down the stairs in a chaotic heap.
**"Ow—!!"**
They landed with a heavy thud, groaning as they clutched their bruised backsides.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?! You just used magic to attack your fellow students! Do you want detention like Potter and his friends?!"
Embarrassed beyond belief—even with no witnesses around—Malfoy lashed out in fury.
---
"I was just practicing a spell," Dylan replied coolly, looking down at Malfoy sprawled on the ground. His gaze was indifferent, almost icy. "It didn't attack you. You ran into it yourselves."
Then, his expression darkened ever so slightly.
"And, if I remember correctly… I told you that if you tried messing with me again—"
He trailed off, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air.
Malfoy shuddered.
What… what was this guy planning to do? He was scarier than his father!
But before Malfoy could voice his panic, a sharp pain twisted in his gut.
A sudden, unbearable pressure shot through his stomach.
!!!
His expression changed instantly. Hands clutching his abdomen, he clenched his legs together in a desperate attempt to hold it in before scrambling to his feet and bolting for the restroom.
And it wasn't just him.
Crabbe and Goyle, eyes widening in alarm, were right behind him, their faces contorted in distress.
**PFFT.**
**PFFT. PFFT.**
A series of earth-shaking farts echoed through the hallway, sending nearby students scattering in horror.
Dylan, meanwhile, casually lowered his wand, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
"Huh. Didn't expect that diarrhea hex from the Restricted Section to be this effective."
He clicked his tongue in amusement.
Watching Malfoy and his goons disappear into the distance, Dylan resumed his way downstairs.
---
Unfortunately, Professor McGonagall still wasn't in her office.
"Wait a second… Malfoy just said that Harry and the others got detention? Could she be handling that right now?"
It seemed possible.
So, instead of waiting, Dylan decided to head to the Great Hall for a meal.
When he returned and knocked on McGonagall's office door again, she was finally there.
"Oh, Dylan," she greeted, adjusting the miniature Quidditch pitch inside her crystal ball with the tip of her wand. Her green and silver-trimmed robes had traces of cat fur clinging to them. "Has Professor Snape spoken to you about the evaluation?"
"He has," Dylan nodded. "But we haven't set a date yet."
McGonagall's lips curled into a smile—one that, for some reason, seemed unusually eager.
Dylan hesitated.
Why did she look like she was itching for a fight?
He cleared his throat. "Professor, have you and the other professors already discussed how you plan to assess me?"
"Not yet," she admitted. "But don't worry—we'll come up with something soon."
Her smile widened slightly, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling with satisfaction.
"Oh, and there's something else I need to tell you in advance."
Dylan blinked. "What is it?"
"From now on, I think we can reduce the frequency of our tutoring sessions."
McGonagall's smile grew even brighter.
"Your grasp of Transfiguration is already quite advanced. Frankly, I don't think there's much more I can teach you."
Dylan frowned slightly.
First Snape, and now McGonagall? Both had recently hinted at cutting down their extra lessons with him.
…Had they coordinated this?
In the end, it seemed like the only professor who truly appreciated him was Flitwick.
At least he hadn't mentioned reducing their tutoring sessions.
"Professor, did I do something wrong?" Dylan asked.
"No, quite the opposite. You've done exceptionally well—remarkably well, in fact."
"Then… I still have a lot to learn in Transfiguration. For example, I haven't mastered Animagus transformation yet."
McGonagall shook her head.
"Dylan, do you know why I never formally introduced you to Animagus training?"
"Why?"
"Because, given your abilities, I believe you're already capable of learning it. But becoming an Animagus isn't just about studying hard—it requires luck. It's a long, complex process, and it can be dangerous."
"—Of course," she added, "when it comes to safety, I have no doubts about you."
McGonagall's gaze softened slightly as she recalled something else.
She had repeatedly invited Dylan to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Not because of favoritism, but because she had recognized his incredible talent for flying.
His broomstick control was impeccable—cautious, steady, and precise.
Almost as if he were afraid of falling off.
Still, no matter how many times she had asked, Dylan had always politely declined.
---
Meanwhile, in the second-floor girls' restroom…
Malfoy barely made it. He burst through the door, nearly knocking the brass faucets loose in the process.
His normally pale face was flushed an unhealthy shade of red, his boots scraping against the tiles as he stumbled toward a stall.
The sound jolted Moaning Myrtle awake from her sulking.
"OUT! ALL OF YOU, GET OUT!!"
Malfoy's shout was mixed with the angry gurgling of his stomach. Unfortunately, whatever intimidation he had left was immediately shattered by another series of thunderous, involuntary noises.
Thankfully, the restroom was mostly empty—except for one girl washing her hands, who, upon seeing the three desperate boys, let out a squeak and fled in terror.
Crabbe and Goyle, no longer caring about dignity, crashed into the neighboring stalls, dropping down onto the toilet seats with a loud **THUMP.**
Even the brass rings on the toilet lids creaked under the sheer weight.
Malfoy barely managed to shut his stall door before—
**PFFT!**
**PFFT! PFFFFFT!**
It went on for quite a while.
Then—
**BAM!**
Peeves appeared, hanging upside down from the ceiling. Grinning mischievously, he smacked a toilet door with a makeshift duster—crafted from Mrs. Norris' tail hair, no less.
"Ah-ha! Freshly brewed Malfoy Special! Who wants a sniff? Three Knuts per whiff!"
Cackling, he lobbed several dungbombs into the stalls, the stench fusing with the already foul air into a truly lethal combination.
Outside, passing Hufflepuff students gagged and stumbled backward.
By the time Filch arrived, his already gaunt face turned a disturbing shade of green.
"Did you lot fall into a bloody sewer?!" he barked.
Malfoy said nothing. His face was a mess of humiliation and misery.
And just when he thought things couldn't get any worse—
Moaning Myrtle's translucent form rose from the toilet bowl.
"You look awful, dear," she cooed. "Need me to flush for you?"
"GET OUT!!" Malfoy roared.
**(End of Chapter.)**