To be perfectly honest, Allen found the idea of dueling a wizard his own age a bit like playing chess against a toddler. It wasn't that he was arrogant—it was just the math of the situation. Between the relentless coaching from a literal Dueling Champion like Professor Flitwick and the sheer variety of high-level magic he had witnessed (and survived) over the past year, his "peers" lived in a different world. He had already dissected Ian's combat style during the chaos at the shack; the boy was talented, certainly, but predictable.
The real challenge wasn't winning—it was how to win without crushing Ian's spirit. Jessica and Leonard were watching with eagle eyes. If Allen ended this in three seconds with a bored yawn, he might just break the rebellious streak that made Ian a capable wizard.
But while Allen was busy playing diplomat in his head, Ian decided to remind him that even a "toddler" can land a punch if you aren't looking.
"Relashio!"
It wasn't a stunning spell. It was a low-level Trip Jinx, fired with such blinding speed that Allen, caught in his own thoughts, didn't react in time. The spell clipped his ankle just as he was shifting his weight. Allen let out a grunt of surprise, his boots sliding on the frozen ground. He had to perform a frantic, ungraceful leap to the side, stumbling several paces before he managed to dig his heels into the dirt and steady himself.
Ian didn't look disappointed that Allen hadn't face-planted. In fact, his expression was one of grim determination. He knew exactly who he was facing. He had spent two days watching this British kid Apparate like a seasoned Auror and cast disarming charms with enough force to shatter furniture.
Ian knew he couldn't win a war of attrition. He needed to be the storm.
"Stupefy!" Ian roared, his wand tip erupting in a flash of scarlet light.
"Protego!" Allen didn't dodge this time. He snapped his wand upward, a shimmering translucent barrier appearing just in time to catch the bolt. The impact vibrated through his arm.
Ian didn't stop. He leaned into the movement, his wand a blur. "Locomotor Wibbly! Tarantallegra! Petrificus Totalus!"
The spells came in a rhythmic, unbroken chain. It was impressive—classic American dueling, high-pressure and relentless. Allen found himself forced into a defensive rhythm. He could have ended it using some of the more exotic items in his inventory, or perhaps a darker curse he'd picked up from his private studies, but he pushed the thought away. Winning because you had better gear wasn't winning; it was just being rich. He wanted to win with his own hands.
From the sidelines, Jessica was practically vibrating. She had expected her brother to be flattened in the first exchange, but seeing him hold his own made her burst into cheers. "Go on, Ian! Show him what the Sterlings are made of!"
To Ian, however, the frustration was mounting. Every spell he threw seemed to be a "near miss." Allen's shield didn't just block; it deflected the magic harmlessly into the snow. The British boy moved with a calm, maddening economy of motion.
"Diffindo!" Allen finally went on the offensive, but he didn't aim at Ian. He slashed his wand toward a large pine tree at the edge of the yard.
A cloud of sharp, frozen needles whirled off the branches, caught in a localized cyclone of Allen's making. With a sharp jab, he sent them screaming toward Ian like a swarm of angry hornets.
"What in the—!" Ian yelped, covering his face as he dove for cover.
But the needles were charmed. They banked in mid-air, following him with a high-pitched whistle. Realizing he was about to become a human pincushion, Ian showed the kind of grit Flitwick loved. He stopped dead, spun around, and tried to cast a wide-area Counter-Curse to shatter the animation.
He partially succeeded. The needles froze in place for a fraction of a second, but Allen's control was superior. He flicked his wrist, reinforcing the charm, and the needles buried themselves into Ian's heavy winter coat even faster than before.
"Ian!" Jessica shrieked, her hands flying to her mouth.
Ian stood there, looking like a very angry, very blue porcupine. The needles hadn't pierced his skin—Allen was too precise for that—but they were stuck deep into the fabric of his clothes, pinning his arms slightly to his sides.
"A bit of Transfiguration flair mixed with animation," Leonard noted, taking a slow sip of his coffee. He looked entirely unconcerned. "Rather mischievous, isn't it?"
"Ian's decisiveness is what catches my eye," Flitwick replied, his eyes twinkling. "Most boys his age would have frozen. To attempt a counter-curse against a superior caster while under fire? If he were facing anyone else, the duel would be over and Ian would be the one holding the trophy."
Ian growled, shaking his head to clear the snow from his eyes. He wasn't done. He leveled his wand again, his face set in a mask of defiance.
Allen decided it was time. Jessica was starting to look genuinely worried, and if they kept this up, someone was going to get hurt. He needed to end the "show."
"Expelliarmus!"
It was the spell Allen had practiced until it was as natural as breathing. He didn't use the raw, bone-shattering power he'd used on Henry Jones; this was a surgical strike. The red beam sliced through the air, hitting Ian's wand hand with the precision of a needle.
The wand flew high into the air, spinning toward the roof of the cottage. Allen stepped forward, ready to accept the concession.
Then, the world got weird.
Instead of raising his hands, Ian reached into his pocket and threw something small and green toward Allen's feet. It looked like a shriveled, leathery egg sac.
"Go!" Ian yelled.
The object didn't hit the ground. It unfurled in mid-air with a wet, flapping sound. Within seconds, a Swooping Evil—a Curl-Winged Demon—was spiraling through the air. It was a garish, bat-like creature with iridescent wings and a spiked hide, and it looked very, very hungry for a distraction.
"That little rascal," Leonard laughed, nearly spilling his coffee. "He actually released the Swooping Evil his parents left in the family vault! His competitiveness is going to be the death of me."
"He reminds me of a certain young man who once tried to use a jar of Billywigs during a final exam," Flitwick quipped, glancing pointedly at Leonard.
The Demon was a nightmare to deal with. It didn't just fly; it blurred. It lunged at Allen, its shrieks echoing in the yard and making it nearly impossible to focus on a complex incantation. Every time Allen tried to fire a spell at Ian, the creature would buffet the air with its wings, knocking the magic off course. It gave Ian exactly what he needed: time.
Ian scrambled through the deep snow, lunging for his fallen wand.
Fine, Allen thought, his eyes narrowing. No more holding back.
He didn't try to hex the creature. Instead, he broke into a dead sprint. He didn't run away from the Demon; he ran around it, using his momentum to close the gap between him and Ian.
The Swooping Evil dived at his head, but Allen didn't even look up. "Impedimenta!"
He cast the spell over his shoulder. He didn't hit the Demon; he hit the air directly in its path. The creature slammed into an invisible wall of slowed time, tumbling through the air in a daze.
Allen reached Ian just as the American boy's fingers brushed the wood of his wand.
"Too slow," Allen whispered.
With a blur of movement, Allen used a silent Disarming Charm to sent the wand skittering away again. In the same breath, he pointed his wand at Ian's own heavy wool robe.
"Vera Verto!"
The fabric of the robe didn't turn into a cup or a bird. It elongated, turning into thick, barbed ropes that wound themselves around Ian's torso and arms, cinching tight in a heartbeat.
Ian toppled over into a snowbank, bound hand and foot by his own clothing.
"Brilliant!" Leonard clapped, standing up from his chair. "Transfiguring the opponent's own clothing into a restraint? And with barbs for psychological effect? That's high-level thinking, Allen."
Leonard stepped into the yard, a wave of his wand restoring Ian's robe to its normal state and dissolving the needles. The Swooping Evil, finally shaking off its dizziness, fluttered back to Ian's shoulder, looking sheepish.
"The victor is clear," Leonard announced. "Allen wins."
Ian sat in the snow for a long moment, staring at his hands. The pride was still there, flickering in his eyes, but it was dampened by the cold reality of the gap between them. "I lost," he muttered. It wasn't a question.
"It's not that you're bad, Ian," Jessica said, jogging over to him. She reached out to give him a supportive hug, but seeing a few stray pine needles still stuck in his hair, she settled for a maternal pat on the head instead. "Allen is just... well, he's Allen. Even I'd have a hard time taking him down in a fair fight."
"Don't touch me," Ian grumbled, dodging her hand in typical teenage disgust. He scrambled up, brushed the snow off his butt, and bolted toward the house. "I'm changing! It's freezing out here!"
Leonard and Flitwick watched him go, both wearing identical smiles.
"A loss like that will do him wonders," Leonard said softly. "He's had it too easy for a while. Seeing a peer operate at that level... it gives him a ceiling to aim for."
Flitwick nodded, but his gaze drifted back to Allen, who was calmly brushing a bit of frost off his sleeve. "I agree. But it makes me wonder, Leonard... who will ever give Allen a chance to taste defeat? A wizard who never loses can become a very lonely, very dangerous thing. Smooth sailing isn't always the best teacher."
Allen opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of wings interrupted him.
A large, mottled owl swept down from the clear blue sky, circling the yard once before landing on the stone wall. It held its leg out expectantly, a thick roll of parchment tied with a heavy red wax seal.
The atmosphere of the quiet Christmas morning vanished instantly. In the world of wizards, an owl arriving during a private holiday rarely brought good news.