The Moment of the Lion and Serpent's Showdown (2)

Draco ignored the noisy voices and simply strolled past Ron, the hem of his robe nearly brushing Ron's knee. Ron's face was red enough to serve as a road sign, but this time, he said nothing. He knew Draco was provoking him, waiting for him to charge forward, lose points, get thrown out of the match, and have everyone point at him and say, "Weasley is nothing but a brainless brute."

He did not move. Harry's hand was still resting on his sleeve, that slight weight like a string tethering a balloon.

"Crabbe." Draco stood at the edge of the dueling platform, turned sideways, and called out to the figure below who was still warming up.

Crabbe's warm-up was simple—squat down, stand up, squat down, stand up. Every time he rose, the floor around his knees gave off a faint creak, as though something were being compressed.

In front of him sat a stone block he had dragged over from some unknown corner to use as a grip trainer. It was dusty and rough-surfaced, looking as though it had been picked up from a riverbank at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It weighed at least twenty or thirty pounds.

Crabbe squatted down and gripped both sides of the stone block with his hands, his ten thick, stubby fingers sinking into its cracks. He did not take a deep breath like a weightlifter, adjust his posture, and then use his waist and legs to lift it.

He simply crouched there, tightened his fingers, and then—stood up. The stone block had been pinched straight up by his fingers. Not held. Pinched.

His fingers were buried in the stone like five nails driven into tofu.

The stone block hung in midair, utterly still in his palm. His arm did not shake, nor