“Cock-a-doodle-doo—!” A red-crested rooster let out a piercingly loud crow the moment Vincent Zhang stepped inside.
“Quiet,” Vincent said.
The rooster ignored him completely and continued to crow.
“Cock-a-doodle-doo—!”
Infected by the energy, the other two roosters joined in.
The three roosters began an impromptu chorus in the fourth-floor storeroom.
The volume was so immense it could likely be heard through two sets of walls.
“I should have asked Flitwick to put a Muffling Charm on this room,” Vincent said, covering his ears.
Artoria stood at the doorway, watching the scene with a stony expression.
“They are indeed loud enough,” she remarked.
“If the Basilisk hears this, it should be in considerable pain.”
“The problem is how to make sure the Basilisk hears it,” Vincent replied.
“We can’t exactly carry roosters while patrolling the castle.”
“Why not?”
Vincent shot her a look.
“Are you serious?”
“On the battlefield, armies carry drums and horns to intimidate the enemy.
These roosters serve the same purpose against the Basilisk.
If we can make them crow at the critical moment—”
“The visual is too absurd.
The great King of Knights, charging into battle cradling a rooster.”
“Utility takes precedence over appearances.”
Vincent had to admit she had a point.
Still, he decided to keep “Charging with Roosters” as his absolute last resort.
“I’m thinking of another way,” Vincent said.
“Record the crowing and use magic to amplify it.
That way, we don’t have to lug live birds around.”
“Does the wizarding world have recording equipment?”
“No.
But the wizarding world has memory storage.” Vincent’s mind began to race.
“The Pensieve can store memories.
If I can extract the memory of a rooster crowing and store it in some kind of vessel to be played back when needed—”
“Too complicated,” Artoria vetoed immediately.
“Tactical plans must be simple.
The more steps involved, the higher the probability of error.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Train the roosters.”
Vincent blinked.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Train them to crow under specific conditions.
For instance, to crow upon hearing a certain signal.
That way, we only need to place the roosters in key positions and trigger the signal when necessary.”
“You want to train roosters to follow military commands.”
“Not military commands.
Conditioned reflexes.
Make a specific sound every time before feeding; the roosters will associate that sound with food.
Afterward, whenever they hear that sound, they will crow in excitement.”
Vincent stared at Artoria for five seconds.
“When did you study animal behaviorism?”
“I kept hunting hawks in Camelot.
The principle is the same.”
Of course.
The King of Knights kept hawks.
That made perfect sense.
“Fine,” Vincent nodded.
“The Rooster Training Program.
You’re in charge.”
“I will need assistance.
Have Hagrid coordinate with the feeding training.”
“I’ll talk to Hagrid.”
Vincent glanced back as he stepped out of the storeroom.
Artoria was standing before the three roosters, inspecting them with the same intensity she would a squad of soldiers.
The roosters seemed to feel the pressure; they fell silent.
Even chickens could sense the majesty of a King.
Vincent decided to refrain from commenting on the spectacle.
On Monday morning, Snape provided his response.
His owl delivered a note during breakfast, written in sharp, precise script: Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
“Agreed.
The first session of the Duelling Club is set for the second Saturday of October.
You will draft the rules; I will review them.
P.S.
Your essay grading standards are far too lenient.
A third-year essay that earns a ‘B’ from you would only receive a ‘D’ from me.
—S.S.”
Vincent tucked the note away.
The second half of the note was pure Snape.
He could never agree to cooperate without belittling you first to maintain his sense of superiority.
But the first half was the key—he had agreed.
Duelling Club: Launch.
Vincent immediately began drafting the rules and schedule.
The first event was set for the second Saturday of October, which was two weeks away.
He needed to complete the following preparations within that time:
First, report to McGonagall and obtain approval.
This should go more smoothly now that Snape was co-hosting.
Second, notify the entire student body, explaining the conditions for participation and the rules.
Third, prepare the venue.
The Great Hall needed to be cleared of tables and chairs, padded with protective mats, and fitted with a dueling platform.
Fourth, discuss the specific match arrangements with Artoria—especially ensuring that no one summoned any snakes.
“What is the most important rule for the Duelling Club?” Vincent asked Artoria.
“No lethal injuries allowed.”
“Besides that.”
Artoria thought for a moment.
“No losing control.”
“Exactly,” Vincent said.
“The purpose of dueling is learning, not combat.
If someone loses control—like if Gryffindor and Slytherin students start a real fight because they can’t stand each other—we have to stop it immediately.
This requires the hosts to have sufficient deterrent power.”
“Snape has enough deterrent power.”
“He has it over Slytherin.
Not over Gryffindor.
Gryffindor students aren’t afraid of him; they just hate him.”
“So you need someone else who can keep the Gryffindors in line.”
“That would be you,” Vincent said.
Artoria looked at him.
“What you did at the Opening Feast left a deep enough impression on the whole school,” Vincent explained.
“If you stand by the platform as the referee, no student will dare lose control.”
“You want me to be the referee.”
“Referee and safety officer.
If things get out of hand, you intervene directly.”
“How should I intervene?”
“In whatever way you deem appropriate.”
Artoria gave a slight nod.
“But no excessive force,” Vincent added quickly.
“These are students, not an enemy army.”
“I can tell the difference.”
Vincent wasn’t entirely sure if she could.
Her standard of “moderate” was likely different from a normal person’s.
To her, there were probably only two categories: “won’t die” and “might die,” with no middle ground.
“Let’s be clear,” Vincent said, holding up a finger.
“‘Intervene’ means neutralizing the combat capabilities of both parties.
It does not mean sending someone flying across the room.”
“Understood.”
“Don’t use that ‘I understand but reserve the right to my own judgment’ tone.”
“My tone is always like this.”
It really was.
Every “Understood” from Artoria came with an invisible set of parentheses—(But I will act according to my own judgment).
Vincent decided that before the Duelling Club officially began, he would need to have a very detailed discussion with her on exactly what level of intervention was appropriate.
Otherwise, he feared the first meeting of the Duelling Club would also be its last.
Monday dinner.
At the Gryffindor table, Ginny’s seat was different today than it had been last week.
She was no longer sitting at the very end of the corner; she had moved two seats toward the middle.
Hermione was on her left, and a first-year girl—someone Vincent didn’t recognize, likely a new friend Hermione had introduced—was on her right.
Fred and George sat opposite her, performing a trick involving flicking peanuts with forks.
Ginny watched their performance, a visible smile on her lips.
It wasn’t a forced, polite smile.
She genuinely found it funny.
Neville sat next to Fred, talking to Ginny while he ate.
Ginny nodded in response every now and then.
The conversation between them looked natural—the comfortable silence shared between two quiet people who didn’t need many words.
Harry sat next to Ron, a bit further down.
He didn’t speak to Ginny directly, but Vincent noticed him look in her direction twice.
Twice.
Which was twice more than the zero times of last week.
Progress was slow, but it was heading in the right direction.
“Ginny’s state has improved,” Artoria whispered.
“Yes,” Vincent nodded.
“But it’s not enough.
Look at her face—she’s still pale.
The dark circles under her eyes haven’t faded either.”
“The diary is still affecting her.”
“A social network can slow down the diary’s erosion, but it can’t stop it.” Vincent kept his voice very low.
“As long as that diary is in her hands, Tom Riddle has a channel to reach her.”
“Why not just take the diary away?”
Vincent had considered that question many times.
“Two reasons.
First, the diary is a Horcrux.
If I take it directly from Ginny, Tom Riddle will realize someone knows his true identity.
He might act through other means—like being picked up by someone else.
We would lose control of the situation.”
“And second?”
“Ginny has already established an emotional connection with the diary.
If I take it away abruptly, her reaction is unpredictable.
She might break down, she might resist, or she might turn to the diary for help—and the diary would use her panic to accelerate its control.”
“So your strategy is to make her let go of the diary voluntarily.”
“Yes.
When she has enough friends and support around her, when she no longer feels lonely and helpless, the diary’s attraction will diminish.
By then, even if the diary tries to increase its erosion, Ginny will have enough psychological resistance to reject it.”
Artoria was silent for a moment.
“And if her resistance isn’t enough?”
“That’s when we intervene,” Vincent said.
“But I hope that day never comes.”
Artoria didn’t speak.
She cut a piece of roasted chicken breast and ate in silence.
Vincent knew what she was thinking.
She was calculating the worst-case scenario—Ginny being fully controlled, the Chamber of Secrets opening, the Basilisk being unleashed.
In that case, social networks and psychological support would be useless.
The only things that would matter were a sword and a rooster.
The mindset of a knight—always preparing for the worst while striving for the best.
In that regard, they were the same.
“What’s for dessert?” Vincent asked, trying to lighten the mood.
Artoria’s gaze swept across the table.
“Apple pie and cream puffs.”
“Which one are you choosing?”
“I want both.”
“You always want both.”
“Food should not be wasted.”
“This has nothing to do with waste.
You just want to eat both.”
The corner of Artoria’s mouth twitched.
“Apple pie first,” she said, reaching for a slice.
Vincent shook his head.
Some things never changed.
Like the threat of the Basilisk, Dumbledore’s riddles, or Snape’s acid tongue.
And Artoria’s obsession with dessert.
In this world full of uncertainty, that kind of certainty was reassuring.