The selection trials held at Hogwarts for Britain's team in the European Under-Seventeen Dueling Championship did not remain a school affair for long.
By the following morning, the story had spread far beyond the castle walls.
Owls carrying freshly printed newspapers flew across Britain before dawn, delivering the latest editions to homes, shops, cafés, and Ministry offices. As witches and wizards unfolded their newspapers over breakfast, they found themselves reading about something they had not expected.
For the first time in weeks...
The front pages were not dominated by death.
Ever since Lord Voldemort's return had been publicly acknowledged, the magical newspapers had become increasingly grim. Every edition carried reports of Death Eater attacks, mysterious disappearances, arrests, political disputes within the Ministry, or frightened families abandoning homes in search of safer places.
Fear had become routine.
People had almost forgotten what it felt like to read something hopeful.
The European Under-Seventeen Dueling Championship changed that.
It was not a story about war.
Nor was it another political scandal.
Instead, it reminded Britain that Hogwarts still produced remarkably talented young witches and wizards despite the darkness gathering over the country.
Many readers found themselves smiling as they read about the selection trials.
Parents spoke proudly about Hogwarts over breakfast.
Children excitedly wondered whether they, too, might one day represent Britain in an international competition.
Even retired duelists wrote letters praising the school's renewed commitment to competitive magic.
For a brief moment...
The wizarding world remembered something other than fear.
Unfortunately, not everyone viewed the articles with the same enthusiasm.
Inside the Ministry of Magic, Cornelius Fudge's morning began rather differently.
The Minister of Magic sat behind his large oak desk, a steaming cup of tea untouched beside him as he slowly worked through the morning newspapers.
The front page of the Daily Prophet did not concern him.
It was the third page that caused his face to darken.
His eyes stopped on a large moving photograph occupying nearly half the page.
Professor Filius Flitwick stood upon one of Hogwarts' dueling platforms, animatedly demonstrating proper footwork to a group of attentive students. Every few seconds, the tiny Charms Professor would enthusiastically flourish his wand before laughing at something one of the students had said.
Above the photograph, a bold headline stretched across the page.
HOGWARTS RETURNS TO EUROPEAN DUELING UNDER PROFESSOR FLITWICK'S LEADERSHIP
Fudge's eye twitched.
He read the title again.
Finally, with an expression somewhere between disbelief and outrage, he slammed the newspaper onto his desk so hard that his teacup rattled.
"What nonsense!"
His voice echoed throughout the office.
Outside, several assistants immediately exchanged nervous glances.
One unfortunate junior secretary, who had been waiting patiently with a stack of documents, nearly jumped out of his skin.
Fudge jabbed an angry finger toward the newspaper.
"It was the Ministry that approved Britain's participation!"
His voice rose with every sentence.
"It was my office that signed the authorization."
"It was the Ministry that coordinated with the International Confederation."
"And yet..."
He snatched up the newspaper again before waving it dramatically through the air.
"...they make it sound as though the Ministry had absolutely nothing to do with it!"
The secretary wisely remained silent.
Experience had taught him that interrupting the Minister during one of his outbursts rarely ended well.
Unfortunately for him, silence did not save him.
Fudge rounded on him.
"Well?"
The young wizard swallowed nervously.
"Minister..."
"The article... does mention the Ministry."
Fudge stared at him.
Then he looked back down at the paper.
"Where?"
The secretary hesitated before pointing carefully toward the middle of the article.
"There, sir."
Fudge adjusted his spectacles and read the paragraph aloud, each word sounding more irritated than the last.
"'The Ministry of Magic has officially approved the school's participation following Professor Filius Flitwick's proposal and preparation by the Hogwarts staff.'"
He stopped.
Then, without warning, he threw the newspaper back onto the desk.
"One sentence!"
The shout startled several witches working outside.
He began pacing behind his desk, his robes swishing angrily around his ankles.
"The rest of the article praises Flitwick."
"'Professor Flitwick rebuilt Hogwarts' dueling program.'"
"'Professor Flitwick spent months preparing the students.'"
"'Professor Flitwick hopes to restore Britain's reputation.'"
He turned toward his secretary.
"Does it mention the Ministry organizing any of this?"
The secretary wisely chose his words.
"Not... extensively."
Fudge threw both hands into the air.
"Exactly!"
He resumed pacing, muttering under his breath.
Every positive headline mattered now.
Only two days remained before the Wizengamot gathered to vote on the motion of no confidence that had haunted him for weeks.
Under normal circumstances, Britain's return to international competition should have been a political victory.
A competent newspaper would have emphasized the Ministry's support for magical education.
It would have praised the government's commitment to young witches and wizards.
More importantly...
It would have praised him.
Instead...
Professor Flitwick had become the hero of the story.
Fudge stopped beside the window overlooking the Ministry atrium.
"This should have been my success."
His reflection stared back at him from the glass.
The newspapers had ignored them almost entirely.
That, more than anything else, was what truly frightened him.
Because newspapers had not always behaved this way. There had been a time when a polite owl from the Minister's office was enough to alter tomorrow's headlines.
Editors would quietly soften criticism, move unfavorable articles deeper into the paper, or simply replace them altogether.
Those days were gone.
Ever since the scandal involving Rose Potter...
Ever since the photographs suggesting an affair between himself and Dolores Umbridge had appeared...
Ever since he had publicly blamed the Daily Prophet for printing false information...
The relationship between the Ministry and Britain's largest newspaper had collapsed completely.
The editors no longer sought his approval.
Worst of all...
They no longer cared whether he was pleased.
For the first time in years, he felt something unfamiliar.
Power slipping through his fingers.
Politics was built upon perception.
If the public believed Professor Flitwick had restored Britain's place in international dueling, then Professor Flitwick would receive the praise.
His expression darkened once more.
"I need to speak with Wesley Rivers."
The secretary shifted uncomfortably.
"Minister..."
Fudge looked up sharply.
"What is it?"
The young wizard hesitated before answering.
"I... don't believe he'll agree to another meeting."
Fudge frowned.
"The last three invitations from your office..."
He swallowed.
"...were returned unopened."
Fudge simply stared at him.
For several long moments, he said nothing.
Then, very slowly, he leaned back in his chair.
The Daily Prophet had already made its decision.
Its editors no longer believed Cornelius Fudge had a political future.
And if they believed he was about to fall...
There was no longer any reason to protect him.
The realization settled over the office like a heavy weight.
Several floors below the Minister's office, another witch was coming to the very same realization.
Dolores Umbridge sat alone in her old office, staring silently at the letter resting upon her desk.
It was the third polite refusal she had received that day.
With slow, deliberate movements, she folded the letter and placed it neatly on top of two others.
The office around her felt strangely empty.
Only a few months ago, the room had been alive with activity. Junior clerks constantly hurried in and out carrying stacks of parchment, department heads requested meetings, and ambitious officials eagerly sought her approval before making even minor decisions.
Now...
The silence was almost unbearable.
Outside her open door, Ministry employees continued walking through the corridor, but very few glanced inside anymore.
Fewer still stopped.
Dolores noticed every one of them.
She noticed the clerk who walked past without greeting her.
She noticed the young witch who no longer stood respectfully when she emerged from her office.
She noticed the department secretary who pretended not to see her altogether.
They were small things.
Yet in politics...
Such things mattered.
People did not stop showing respect overnight.
They stopped because they sensed power shifting elsewhere.
Dolores hated that feeling.
Power...
Once tasted...
Was impossible to forget.
She clenched both hands until her fingernails dug into her palms.
"I won't disappear."
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"I refuse."
For years she had climbed the Ministry's ranks one careful step at a time.
She had reached her position through patience.
Through loyalty.
Through understanding exactly which powerful people deserved her support—and which rivals needed quietly removing before they became inconvenient.
Every alliance had been cultivated.
Every opportunity had been seized.
Now...
Everything threatened to collapse.
Her greatest fear was no longer losing the title of Defense Professor of Hogwarts .
She feared losing the Ministry itself.
If Cornelius Fudge lost the upcoming vote of no confidence, then the entire political network surrounding him would collapse alongside him.
And Dolores Umbridge stood near its very center.
She slowly rose from her chair and walked toward the window overlooking the Ministry atrium.
Far below, hundreds of witches and wizards crossed the polished floor, speaking with one another, carrying files between departments, and continuing their daily work as though nothing had changed.
No one wished to be seen standing beside a sinking ship.
Her reflection stared back from the glass.
"Hogwarts..."
she muttered bitterly.
"It was never my place."
The Ministry was.
That was where real power existed.
If she wished to survive...
She needed to remain here.
Whatever the cost.
After several moments of thought, she opened one of the drawers and removed a fresh sheet of parchment.
Across the top she carefully wrote a single heading.
Potential Allies
She stared at the blank page for several seconds before dipping her quill into ink.
One by one, names began appearing.
Lord Greengrass.
She paused.
Then slowly drew a line through it.
"No."
Her lips tightened.
"Impossible."
Ever since the incident involving Astoria Greengrass, the entire family had become openly favorable toward Helios Black.
Approaching Lord Greengrass now would accomplish nothing except public humiliation.
The next name appeared.
Lady Longbottom.
Dolores didn't even finish writing it before shaking her head.
"Absolutely not."
Augusta Longbottom had never bothered hiding her contempt.
Dolores doubted the formidable old witch would even allow her through the front door.
Another line.
Another name.
Lord Nott.
She tapped the end of her quill thoughtfully.
"Perhaps."
The Notts rarely committed themselves too early.
If approached carefully...
There might still be an opportunity.
Below that came another.
Lord Parkinson.
She circled it once.
"Possible."
The Parkinson family valued influence above sentiment.
If they believed she remained useful...
They might listen.
Finally she wrote one last name.
Lord Selwyn.
This time she circled it twice.
"Worth considering."
Unlike several of the older families, the Selwyns had remained relatively quiet throughout the recent political turmoil.
Dolores leaned back, studying the list.
Cornelius Fudge had always believed loyalty was permanent.
She knew better.
Politics had never rewarded loyalty.
Politics rewarded survival.
If Fudge remained Minister...
Wonderful.
If he fell...
Then she intended to be standing beside the next man before the dust settled.
Her fingers tightened around the quill.
"If Fudge falls..."
A slow smile spread across her face.
"...I'll already have another master."
The words sounded cold.
Almost emotionless.
Yet they reflected exactly how she viewed the world.
People were ladders.
Some carried you upward.
Others had already broken beneath your weight.
And once a ladder became useless...
You climbed another.
While the Ministry descended further into political uncertainty, the rest of magical Britain had found something far more pleasant to discuss.
Inside the Charms classroom, Filius Flitwick sat alone behind his desk, surrounded by stacks of parchment.
A small smile rested on his face as he carefully reviewed the notes he had made yesterday.
Every student's name had its own page.
Strengths.
Weaknesses.
Reaction speed.
Spell accuracy.
Movement.
Decision-making under pressure.
Years of competitive dueling had taught him that victory depended upon details.
The smallest habit could decide an entire match.
He adjusted his spectacles before making another note beside one student's name.
"Excellent shield work. Needs greater confidence when attacking."
Another parchment received a different comment.
"Creative spell combinations. Occasionally rushes the finishing move."
Flitwick leaned back in his chair and smiled.
"It has been a long time..."
His eyes drifted toward the polished dueling platform at the center of the classroom.
He could almost hear the applause from international tournaments decades earlier.
There had once been a time when Britain regularly produced duelists capable of competing with the very best Europe had to offer.
Somewhere along the way...
That tradition had faded.
Until now.
His smile widened slightly.
The selection trials had exceeded every expectation.
Not simply because several students possessed exceptional talent.
But because almost hundred had participated.
Students who had never considered dueling before had volunteered simply for the chance to improve themselves.
That alone made every month of preparation worthwhile.
A gentle knock interrupted his thoughts.
The classroom door opened, revealing Professor Minerva McGonagall.
"There you are."
Flitwick looked up with a cheerful smile.
"Minerva!"
"I suspected I'd find you here."
She stepped inside, glancing toward the mountain of parchment covering his desk.
"You do realize there is two more days for the final selection?"
"I do."
"And yet you're still working."
Flitwick laughed softly.
"Old habits."
McGonagall picked up one of the evaluation sheets and examined it.
"You've made remarkably detailed notes."
"I'll need them."
"For training?"
"Exactly."
He accepted the parchment back with obvious satisfaction.
"We've selected talented students."
"But talent alone never wins championships."
McGonagall looked around the classroom before speaking again.
"The newspapers seem rather pleased."
Flitwick blinked.
"The newspapers?"
"You haven't read today's editions?"
He looked genuinely surprised.
"I've been here since lunch."
McGonagall laughed quietly.
"I should have guessed."
She walked over to the desk and placed a folded copy of the Daily Prophet before him.
"The country appears quite proud of Hogwarts today."
Flitwick unfolded the newspaper and immediately noticed his own moving photograph smiling back at him.
His cheeks turned slightly pink.
"Oh dear."
McGonagall smiled knowingly.
"You've become something of a celebrity."
"Nonsense."
"You've inspired quite a few people."
Flitwick looked back down at the article.
His expression gradually softened.
"That wasn't my intention. I simply wanted to give the students an opportunity."
He folded the newspaper carefully before setting it aside.
"If seeing them compete reminds people that Britain still has gifted young witches and wizards..."
He smiled quietly.
"...then perhaps the future isn't quite as bleak as everyone fears."
For a few moments, neither professor spoke.
Outside the classroom windows, the evening sun bathed the castle grounds in warm golden light. Students laughed as they crossed the courtyard toward the Great Hall, their conversations still filled with stories from the morning's duels.
McGonagall watched them through the window.
"They needed this."
Flitwick followed her gaze.
"Yes."
"They did."
"So did the country."