The Duelists

In the halls of Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, not a single tone ran down their vacant lengths. The silence was broken by the creaking of a portrait door. The offender pitter-pattered down the deserted corridors, making the occasional turn, his naked feet sounding the slightest echoing rhythm on the cold stones. The boy passed a window, and a single beam of moonlight bounced off his hair, reflecting the bright carrot strands as he continued towards his destination. He stopped in front of a non-descript wooden door, and paused. Glancing over his shoulder, the boy whispered a password.

"Sessoine."

The door creaked open to reveal the chamber within, a dank and musty cavern of a room, just one of many dungeons. This one, however, had a nobler purpose, at least in the young man's view.

"You're late."

The voice came from one of the room's shadowy corners. Its owner was lost in darkness, just another mystery of the blackness within. The boy gripped his rapier more tightly in his right hand, his breath quickening with anticipation. Yet, he stayed silent.

"Well, Weasley? Prepared for defeat?" the voice taunted him.

He stayed where he was, daring the other boy to come forward. The silence stretched on for several seconds. The boy was only aware of his heart, thumping with adrenaline, his breath, coming in quick, but controlled spurts, and his arm, weighted with sheer power. He waited.

"Awfully silent tonight, Weasley. What's the problem got the jitters?"

Silence. The boy thought he saw something shifting its weight in the far corner of the chamber.

Silence. A flicker of steel in the shadows.

Silence. Then...

He immerged. The contrast of his pale, pointed face with the black emptiness of his surroundings was stunning. Wisps of silvery hair hung about his face, falling from the widow's peak above his forehead down to his aristocratic chin. He stood in the half-light, one stormy gray prism turned pointedly towards the boy, the other obscured by the curtain of darkness.

"Raise thine sword, Weasley," he commanded with a smirk, bringing his own blade to ready.

The boy raised his eyes to meet those of this ghost-like child. He smiled. He thrust.

Thrust. Parry. Thrust. Parry.

They were consumed in the dance of the ages, their bodies spinning wildly back and forth, thrust, thrust, parry.

The madness burned like a fire within his breast. Thrust. Parry.

In that perfect moment, there was no pain. There was no hate. There was only the dull ping, ping of metal, the soft scrape of feet against the stones.

It was a tapestry of color woven in darkness and light.

Thrust. Parry.

It was perfection.

Slash. It was over.

The ghost-boy was painted red.

"Excalibur strikes again, Malfoy."

The aristocrat shook his head. Pulling out his ward, he settled the tip near the slice in his cheek, and muttered a spell.

"Next time you won't be so lucky Arthur."

"Goodnight, Lucius."

Arthur victorious spun on his heel, leaving the defeated to his dreams and his shadows.