The sun had long since dipped below the jagged horizon of the Forbidden Forest, leaving Hogwarts shrouded in a velvet, ink-black darkness. High above, the Ravenclaw tower was a beacon of light, but on the grounds below, the air was still humming with the residual energy of a high-intensity Quidditch practice.
Allen walked back from the pitch with his teammates, the Nimbus 2001 slung over his shoulder. The broom was still warm to the touch, its enchantments vibrating slightly against his palm. Around him, the team was in high spirits, their laughter echoing off the stone walls of the castle. Roger Davies was already dissecting plays, while Cho Chang was discussing the aerodynamic stability of the new brooms during a high-speed dive.
After a quick, scalding shower that washed away the sweat and the smell of damp grass, Allen changed into clean robes. He felt a different kind of anticipation now. If Quidditch was a test of physical coordination and team synergy, what he was about to do was a test of pure, individual magical willpower.
He made his way to the fourth floor. When he reached Professor Flitwick's office, he didn't even have to knock. The heavy oak door swung inward with a welcoming creak before his knuckles could make contact.
The office was a cozy sanctuary of knowledge and warmth. Soft light emanated from thirteen magnificent, arched windows that overlooked the grounds. In the center of the room, the furniture had been pushed to the walls, creating a wide, open circle of polished stone—a duelist's ring. On a side table, two plates of honey-glazed cake sat beside a steaming pot of honey-yuzu tea. The citrusy, sweet aroma was enough to make Allen's mouth water.
"Come in, come in, Allen!" Flitwick chirped, gesturing with a wand that looked almost like an extension of his own hand. "I saw the tail end of your practice from the window. You look like you've been put through the wringer. Sit, drink, and let's settle the mind before we unsettle the air with spells."
Allen took a seat, gratefully accepting a large cup of the golden tea. The first sip was like liquid sunshine, cutting through the fatigue of the day.
"Professor, your office looks a bit... different," Allen noted, glancing at the cleared floor.
"A duelist needs room to breathe, Allen," Flitwick said, his eyes dancing with a familiar, competitive glint. "But before we start throwing sparks, you need to understand the tradition you're stepping into. To many, a duel is just a violent argument. To a true wizard, it is a high art form."
Flitwick leaned forward, his excitement palpable. He looked less like a professor and more like a veteran commander reflecting on old victories.
"In the old days, dueling wasn't about who had the faster wand; it was about the truth," Flitwick explained, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "Men believed that magic itself was sentient enough to favor the righteous. They thought Merlin wouldn't let a liar win a duel of honor. Of course, we know better now—magic favors the one with better focus and a more stable core—but that sense of 'integrity' still lingers in the rules."
He took a quick sip of his own tea, his feet dangling off his oversized chair.
"Today, we have the International Wizard Duel Tournament. Every six years, the greatest minds and fastest hands in the world gather. It's not just a sport; it's a measurement of a nation's magical soul. To win is to prove that your culture's understanding of the arcane is superior."
"Who holds the title now?" Allen asked, leaning in. He had heard rumors, but Flitwick was the ultimate source.
Flitwick's chest puffed out with immense pride. "Britain has held the gold for three consecutive cycles, Allen! A hat-trick of excellence. The last tournament concluded just as you were finishing your first year. I had the distinct pleasure of being in the front row when the title was claimed by none other than Kingsley Shacklebolt."
"Kingsley?" Allen blurted out.
The image of the tall, deep-voiced wizard flashed in his mind. He remembered Kingsley from the Moonstone operation—the way the man moved with a terrifyingly calm efficiency. He didn't waste movement, and his spells were dense, heavy things that didn't just hit; they crushed.
"You've met him?" Flitwick asked, pleasantly surprised.
"Briefly," Allen replied, choosing his words carefully. "My brother Albert is an Auror, and our paths crossed. He seemed... formidable is an understatement."
"Ha! Formidable indeed!" Flitwick laughed. "And Albert! I remember him well. A brilliant Ravenclaw, though Professor McGonagall spent half her time trying to lure him into specialized Transfiguration research. It seems talent runs through the Harris blood like a river."
The Professor's expression softened, becoming more serious. "But listen to me, Allen. Kingsley is a master of the present, but you... your potential is something I haven't seen in fifty years of teaching. You aren't just learning to duel; you're preparing for a world that is becoming increasingly unpredictable. Every second we spend in this room is a brick in the wall of your future."
Flitwick stood up, his small frame radiating a surprising amount of authority. "Enough talk. The tea has done its work. Stand up, Allen. Let's see that Ravenclaw posture."
Allen moved to the center of the ring, drawing his wand. The air in the room seemed to tighten, the temperature dropping a few degrees as the two wizards focused their intent.
"Since this is your first formal lesson, we won't be using anything that leaves permanent scars," Flitwick said with a wink. "We'll focus on the 'Stupefy' and 'Expelliarmus' foundations, but I want to see how you handle a moving target. I'll be using a specialized charm that Leonard—"
BAM-BAM-BAM!
The frantic pounding on the door shattered the silence of the office. Flitwick frowned, flicking his wand to let the door fly open.
A first-year Ravenclaw named Josie B stumbled in, her hair disheveled and her face pale. "Professor! You have to come! It's started! Down in the Entrance Hall!"
"What has started, child? Speak clearly," Flitwick urged.
"The teams! Roger and Marcus Flint! They ran into each other after practice and it turned ugly fast. Everyone's out there, Professor—the Slytherins are cornering our Seekers!"
Flitwick didn't waste a second. He hopped off his books and was out the door with a speed that defied his age. Allen was a half-step behind him, his wand already palmed. He knew Marcus Flint; the boy had the temperament of a mountain troll and the tactical nuance of a sledgehammer.
As they descended toward the ground floor, the noise hit them like a physical wave. Shouting, the rhythmic stomping of feet, and the unmistakable crack-snap of uncontrolled magic echoing off the stone.
The Entrance Hall was a scene of pure chaos. It looked like a riot had broken out. Dozens of students from both houses were gathered on the stairs and in the corridor. In the center of the fray, the Quidditch players were the primary combatants.
"He's a cheat! Your whole team is a collection of bought-and-paid-for thugs!" Roger Davies was shouting, his face purple with rage.
"And you're just a bunch of bookworms who think a shiny broom makes you a flyer!" Marcus Flint roared back, his oversized teeth bared in a snarl.
Before Flitwick could even draw breath to yell, Flint's wand whipped out.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
A jet of white light caught Bradley, the Ravenclaw Chaser, squarely in the chest. Bradley's arms snapped to his sides, his legs locked together, and he fell backward like a felled tree, his head hitting the stone floor with a sickening thud.
The Ravenclaws screamed in fury. Wands were drawn in a heartbeat. The air became a kaleidoscope of jinxes and hexes. First-years, seeing their older housemates fighting, began throwing punches and grappling with Slytherins in a messy, Muggle-style brawl.
"SILENCE! STOP THIS AT ONCE!" Flitwick's voice was high and piercing, but it was drowned out by the roar of the crowd and the explosions of stray sparks.
Allen watched Marcus Flint. The Slytherin captain was enjoying himself, already aiming a second curse at a group of cowering second-years. Flint was the catalyst; he was the one keeping the fire burning.
Standing behind Flitwick, Allen didn't hesitate. He didn't shout. He didn't telegraph his move. He simply raised his wand, his focus narrowing down to a single point on the back of Flint's greasy head.
"Stupefy."
The red bolt was faster and more concentrated than any of the others flying through the air. It hit Flint right between the shoulder blades. The big boy didn't even have time to grunt; his knees buckled, and he collapsed into a heap on the floor, his wand clattering away.
The sudden drop of the Slytherin leader caused a momentary lull in the fighting. Taking advantage of the shock, Penelope Clearwater stepped forward, her face a mask of cold fury. She didn't go for a stunning spell; she went for something much more visible.
She muttered a series of sharp, jagged syllables, and suddenly, Marcus Flint's unconscious face began to erupt in a dense cluster of angry, pulsating red boils. It was a visceral, ugly sight that served as a grim warning to the rest of the Slytherin team.
"Who's next?" Penelope hissed, her wand tip glowing with a dangerous, steady light.
Allen stepped up beside her, his expression unreadable, his wand held in a perfect duelist's grip. The message was clear: the 'bookworms' had teeth, and they were very, very sharp.