You didn't, as a strict rule, duel at the Lazy Kelpie.

You defended.

As Deus scrambled out of the way of a nasty looking stream of purple sparks—sending equally nasty hex right back at the spellcaster as he did so—he reflected that the dueling club at Hogwarts, with its precision and supervision just didn't have the same...joie de vivre as an out-and- out magical brawl. People assumed his reluctance to join the club had everything to do with laziness, and that was true, to a point. But it was more that he got plenty of practice at home, where a ruckus regularly started up if someone sneezed, or looked like they were going to sneeze, or looked like they were going to imply that someone else was going to sneeze. Drinks were flying, hexes sizzled through the air, and the cacophony of screeches, howls and pounding limbs drowned the wheezy strains of the enchanted fiddle and pipe that were attempting to choke out jaunty holiday tune (and failing miserably).

His shirt set in fire.

Well that wasn’t really a surprise, considering the entire nearest wall was also on fire, and through the slightly frantic put-it-out hopping, Deus could immediately pick out the regulars (though why anyone would choose the Kelpie for their regular haunt was beyond most people's comprehension) because they didn't scramble for the exits, well aware the dampening spell would put it out in a minute or two.

No sooner was his clothing out than there was a Hag lunging for him, whom he quickly repelled, sending her bouncing off of the bar's protection shields and into a disgruntled wizard covered in snarling nundu tattoos—dodging another stream of sparks that turned the chair behind him into a squealing pig.

Sensing an opportunity, Deus smacked the creature on its rump, and it immediately lurched forward, bolting into the mess of patrons, screeching in terror. The pig scrambled, bowling over witches, wizards, banshees and all like dominos while Deus grabbed a serving tray—for obvious reasons, he'd enchanted them years with Protego spells, because as the youngest and most expendable, he was the one sent most often into the fray, and he'd gotten dead tired of being transfigured into the variety of nasty things people dreamt up—and, holding the tray over his head, dove behind the protection of an ancient, scarred table that had seen more brawls than beers (and the Kelpie served a lot of beer). He sat there, whistling to himself while a wizard went flying over head to slam into the wall, which made a tired ‘glupfk’ sound as he displaced a good amount of blackish sludge on the slide down.

“BOY” Came the bellow from behind the bar, and the boy in question sighed, knowing the order inherent in the single word. He did not get paid enough for this job. For that matter, he didn't get paid at all, but he liked his cozy room with its scent of the sea and scarred wood, perched on top of the pub. And while he wouldn't admit it most days, he rather liked the Kelpie, too. Even if the job description involved knocking out paying customers (although Deus personally suspected more than one brawl began as a distraction so no one had to pay—but Pa had methods for getting his coin, and no one who tried to cheat him ever got away without losing something far more important).  Timing himself carefully, Deus began casting Stupefy spells over the side of the table, his shouts lost among the rest.

You didn't come to the Kelpie for glamour. You came because you were desperate.

“Stupefy!”

Or crazy.

“STUPEFY”

Or because no one else would have you. But the Kelpie, bless the Kelpie, took 'em all. The muggleborn, the mad, the murderers and the mistaken.

About the time Deus got the third patron, the part-troll Pa occasionally brought in for security finally remembered his job, stopped banging people's heads together and began tossing the unconscious patrons unceremoniously through the Vanishing Door, where they appeared in a muddled heap where the door was opening these days. They used to disarm patrons, but wands weren't the only weapons  this lot carried, and generally speaking—they just got into more fights while waiting to get them back, and Pa’d gotten tired of trying to cleanup the bloodstains.

Diving back behind his overturned table, Deus popped up and down only long enough to pick a target and take them out, chirping cheerfully to the walrus of a man behind the bar—"Sure captures the holiday spirit, eh?"

Pa Quigley was unamused, jabbing a blubbery thumb the size of a sausage at the few patrons crazy enough to keep their wands sheathed (or at least out of sight), and barked. "Refills." He grunted.

Deus held up his tray, repelling a hex right back at its caster as he went to pick up the beers, in a terribly good mood.

Christmastime at the Kelpie—just as it should be.