His voice was taut with anger.
"Draw your wand! This is an honor duel!"
Penelope did not respond to his roar, nor did she so much as glance at the wand trembling slightly in his hand from agitation. She followed Alan's carefully prepared script to the letter, speaking with calm clarity.
"Senior McMillan, before the duel begins, may I ask you a few questions?"
She paused, meeting his startled gaze, and continued.
"Because I must make sure I know exactly what I am fighting for."
Ernie froze.
He had prepared for a dozen possible spells, rehearsed dodges and counterattacks in his head, but never—not once—had he expected this. Questions? In a duel?
Absurd.
But as the self-proclaimed embodiment of justice and honor, as the student leader standing before so many eyes, he could not refuse what seemed a reasonable request.
"Ask."
He nodded proudly, his tone carrying the lofty indulgence of one granting permission.
"Very well."
Penelope stepped forward.
It was a small step, yet it shifted the pressure in the entire room. Her gaze locked on Ernie's eyes, free of fear, free of provocation—only pure inquiry.
"You accuse me of 'betraying magical tradition.' Then may I ask—what exactly is this 'magical tradition' you speak of?"
Her words came slowly, ensuring every syllable could be heard.
"Who defines it? Is it written down in some codified magical lawbook?"
Ernie's expression stiffened instantly.
Tradition… definition?
The pairing of those words felt alien to him. Tradition was simply tradition—it flowed in the blood of wizards, etched into every stone of Hogwarts' walls. It was self-evident, unquestionable. Why would it need defining?
His mind felt clogged with paste, unable to find the right words.
"Tradition… is everything we've always followed!"
He stammered, settling on the safest possible answer.
"'Always'?"
Penelope seized on the vagueness at once, her logic gleaming like a blade. She took another step forward, the invisible weight pressing Ernie so that his body tensed instinctively.
"Then where does this 'always' begin? A thousand years ago, five hundred, or merely a hundred? As far as I know, many so-called traditions we obey today—like forbidding the use of hexes in Hogwarts corridors—didn't even exist centuries ago. And other customs that once were 'tradition'—such as allowing upper-years to magically punish lower-years—are now considered unlawful. So which era should we take as the true standard?"
Ernie was struck speechless.
The hand gripping his wand hesitated, stiff and uncertain. The convictions he took such pride in felt like a sandcastle, its foundations washed away again and again by her relentless questioning.
In the Ravenclaw section of the crowd, whispers began to spread, unable to be contained. The students' eyes shifted from initial worry to admiration and excitement as they looked at Penelope.
This—this was Ravenclaw.
And Penelope gave her opponent no chance to recover. Her mind turned like interlocking gears, precise and unyielding, as she pressed forward with her next question.
"You say I have 'betrayed' it. Then may I ask—what is the standard for judging 'betrayal'?"
"If questioning and uncovering fallacies is betrayal, then what of our founder, Lady Rowena Ravenclaw? Her creed—'Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure'—which urges us to seek wisdom and truth, would that too be considered a potential betrayal of 'tradition'?"
The question landed like a hammer blow.
This was no longer a simple debate—it had escalated into a challenge that touched the very honor and creed of Ravenclaw itself.
"I… I didn't mean that!"
Beads of sweat began to form on Ernie's forehead. He felt as though he was not dueling, but standing trial in a merciless academic court, judged by the spectral presence of Ravenclaw House itself.
"Then what exactly do you mean, Senior McMillan?"
Penelope's tone was still calm, but her logic cut like a cold, sharp scalpel, slicing away the ornate rhetoric and lofty ideals Ernie had wrapped himself in, exposing the hollow, fragile core beneath.
"You see, you cannot define the 'tradition' you claim to defend. Nor can you define the standard by which I have supposedly 'betrayed' it."
"All you have done is impose upon me a vague accusation, rooted only in your personal emotions."
Her voice echoed through the silent classroom, each word striking directly at Ernie's pride.
"With respect, Senior McMillan—this is not the defense of honor. This is a tyranny of thought."
At last, Penelope closed the loop of her flawless logic, delivering her final verdict—and with it, the conclusion of this extraordinary 'duel.'
"I believe that to question, to explore, and to correct, in pursuit of a truth closer to the essence—that reflects the spirit of magic far more than blindly clinging to rigid dogma."
She lifted her eyes, sweeping across the room before returning to Ernie's ashen face.
"And if you choose to call this too a betrayal—then I gladly accept the guilt."
Her words fell into the air.
The hall was silent.
Ernie Macmillan stood red-faced, frozen in place. Sunlight fell across his face, glinting on the sweat at his temple, making it sting all the more.
The convictions he had been so proud of, the principles he had sworn to uphold, all that he held as sacred—were shattered utterly, not by a curse, but by the very weapon he disdained most: words. And in the very arena of "honor" he cherished above all.
The seconds dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity.
Under the eyes of nearly a hundred students, beneath the complex and unreadable gaze of Professor Flitwick, Ernie Macmillan—ashamed, defeated—slowly lowered his wand.
That piece of wood, once his knight's sword, now weighed on him like lead.
And so this duel—without a single exchanged spell, without a single flash of magic—came to an end in a way no one had expected.
Penelope Clearwater had made her name in a single stroke.
And in the minds of the few who knew the truth, Alan Scott—the strategist behind the scenes—became a figure even more unfathomable.