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Chapter 7
Two days had passed since Flourish and Blotts.
The morning edition of the Daily Prophet sat open on Gilderoy's desk, and his face smiled up from the front page. The photograph showed him standing behind the signing table in his navy blue robes, one hand raised in greeting, the other resting on a stack of Magical Me. The headline read: LOCKHART ANNOUNCES HOGWARTS POST AT PACKED DIAGON SIGNING. The article praised his charm, his dedication to education, and his "commanding presence." There was a brief mention of a "minor altercation between patrons" that Lockhart had "swiftly resolved," but the journalist had clearly been more interested in the announcement than the fight, which he personally thought was a pity.
Gilderoy read it twice, because it was about him and he deserved to enjoy it, then folded the paper neatly and set it aside.
The joy of the signing had faded. What remained was a persistent knot in his stomach that had been there since the morning of the twenty-third, when the memories of the Chamber had crept back in and his hands had trembled.
He had not actually fought anything, after all. Separating two middle-aged men having a scuffle in a bookshop and tidying up some fallen novels was hardly combat, and he was painfully aware of the difference. He remembered the Dueling Club clearly from his previous life, the humiliation of standing across from Severus Snape, of being launched through the air by a single Expelliarmus while the students laughed and whispered. The bruise on his ego ached every time he looked at the Potions Master.
He had the spells and he had the power to back it up, and he would not be humiliated this time. Thank you very much. But he had spent weeks casting at walls and furniture, and the nagging voice in the back of his mind, the one that sounded uncomfortably like a Healer from the Janus Thickey Ward, kept reminding him that wooden targets did not fire back.
He needed practice. Real practice, against a real opponent.
The problem was who to ask.
Dumbledore was out of the question. Gilderoy would sooner challenge the Whomping Willow to a fistfight than stand across from the Headmaster with a wand drawn, because the man would see through him in a second flat.
Snape was equally impossible, for different but equally terrifying reasons. The man would treat a practice duel as a legitimate excuse to cause bodily harm and enjoy every second of it. Gilderoy could picture it perfectly, Snape standing across the room, black robes billowing, pale face twisted into that thin sneer as he dismantled Gilderoy piece by piece. No, thank you.
Minerva might have agreed if asked politely, but Gilderoy suspected her idea of "going easy" would still leave him in the Hospital Wing. The prospect of being Transfigured into something embarrassing was not a risk he was willing to take.
That left Filius Flitwick.
His old Head of House. The tiny Charms Master who had spent seven years patiently grading Gilderoy's essays and gently suggesting he spend less time on his antics and more time on his incantations. Filius was kind, encouraging, and would not mock him for asking.
He was also, Gilderoy reminded himself, a former dueling champion.
It was a detail that was easy to forget when looking at the man. Flitwick stood barely three feet tall, perched on a stack of cushions at the High Table, his small legs dangling above the floor. He looked more like a cheerful garden ornament than a competitive duellist. But Gilderoy had read enough about the dueling circuit during his research to know that Filius Flitwick had been one of the most decorated champions in the history of the sport. The man had won titles across Europe before retiring to teach, and his students consistently achieved some of the highest Charms scores in the country.
If anyone could teach Gilderoy how to actually fight rather than simply cast, it was Filius.
The question was how to ask without sounding desperate.
Gilderoy stood in front of his mirror and practiced.
"Filius, old friend, my pal, I wonder if you might have a moment to, you know, help me brush up on my... no. Too long."
He adjusted his collar.
"Filius, I have been meaning to ask, as one accomplished wizard to another... no. Too arrogant."
He smoothed his hair.
"Filius, I need help. I have never actually duelled another person in my life and I am terrified that a greasy-haired Potions brewer is going to humiliate me in front of three hundred children and a giant snake will eat me. Please fix me." He stared at his reflection. "Absolutely not."
He settled on something in between and headed for breakfast.
The Great Hall was quiet at this hour. Late August mornings had a calm to them before September flooded the corridors with students and noise, and for now, the only sounds were the clink of silverware and the rustle of newspapers.
Gilderoy walked in without his usual dramatic entrance and grin. He had been making an effort, something he was very proud of, though the effort itself was largely undermined by the fact that his robes today were a vivid cornflower blue that caught every beam of morning sunlight and practically announced his presence anyway. He simply could not help it. A man had standards.
Filius was in his usual spot, perched on his cushions, a cup of tea balanced on the table in front of him. He was reading a thick journal with Charms Quarterly printed across the cover. He looked up when Gilderoy sat down beside him and offered a warm smile.
"Good morning, Gilderoy," he squeaked. "I saw the Prophet article. Quite the spread. The photograph was rather dashing, I must say."
"Naturally," Gilderoy replied, pouring himself a cup of tea with a flourish. "The camera has always been fond of me. I suspect it's the bone structure."
Further down the table, Snape turned a page of his newspaper with an aggressive flick but said nothing. Minerva sipped her tea and raised an eyebrow at Gilderoy's robes but offered a curt greeting and a nod.
Progress, Gilderoy thought. She had gone from visible disgust to mild tolerance. At this rate, she might actually smile at him by Christmas.
He buttered a piece of toast and chewed slowly. Flitwick returned to his journal, and the two of them sat in a comfortable quiet that Gilderoy found surprisingly pleasant. He had never been good with silence before. In his previous life, every second of his mind had been aimed at the next fix of fame, the next opportunity to have people staring at him and hanging off his every word, and silence was simply wasted time where no one was paying attention to him. But the weeks he had spent working in isolation, actually earning something through effort rather than charm, had shifted something in him. Not every moment needed to be a performance, and the simple act of sitting next to a colleague and eating breakfast without talking felt like its own small achievement.
He waited until Flitwick had finished his tea and set the cup down.
"Filius," Gilderoy said, keeping his voice light, "are you terribly busy today? I had something I wanted to discuss with you, if you have a spare hour or two."
Flitwick's eyebrows rose with interest. "For you, Gilderoy, I always have time. What is it?"
Gilderoy glanced down the table. Snape was buried in his paper, and Minerva was engaged in a quiet conversation with Pomona about greenhouse renovations. Dumbledore's seat at the centre of the table was empty, the Headmaster running late this morning, it seemed. Good. He leaned closer to Flitwick and lowered his voice.
"I find myself in a rather unusual position," he began, choosing his words carefully. "You see, I have spent the better part of the last decade dealing with all manner of foul magical creatures. Werewolves, banshees, vampires, the list goes on. And when one is facing a beast, the approach is rather straightforward. You hit it with the right spell, and it either goes down or it doesn't."
He paused to sip his tea, letting the words breathe the way a good storyteller should.
"But dueling," he continued, "wizard to wizard, wand to wand, that is an entirely different discipline. I am embarrassed to admit that in all my years of travel and adventure, I have simply not had the time to properly train in it. I know the spells, of course, backwards and forwards, but the practical application against another witch or wizard who is actively trying to curse you?" He shook his head with a self-deprecating smile that cost him considerable effort. "I could use some pointers, Filius. And you are, without question, the finest duellist I know."
He meant the compliment genuinely, which was a novel experience. In his previous life, every compliment he had ever paid another person was a calculated investment, a coin dropped into the well of their ego so he could draw from it later. But Flitwick really was the finest duellist he knew, and the only one who would not use the opportunity to embarrass him.
Flitwick's face lit up. The tiny Charms Master put down his teacup and actually bounced on his cushions, his feet swinging with excitement.
"Oh, Gilderoy, how wonderful!" he squeaked, clapping his hands together. "I have not had a proper dueling partner in years! Minerva is always too busy, and Severus is perpetually buried in his potions research. The man simply will not make time for it, no matter how many times I have asked over the years."
"I would be delighted to help," Flitwick continued, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "When would you like to start?"
Gilderoy had been hoping for sometime later in the week, but the eagerness in Flitwick's face was infectious.
"Would this afternoon be too soon?" Gilderoy asked.
"This afternoon is perfect!" Flitwick declared, hopping down from his cushions with a nimbleness that belied his age. He barely came up to Gilderoy's hip. "I shall prepare the old Charms classroom on the third floor. Plenty of space, thick walls. It will do nicely."
"Splendid," Gilderoy said, his smile firmly in place. "I shall see you at two."
Flitwick scurried out of the Great Hall with the energy of a man half his age, his short legs carrying him at a remarkable pace. Gilderoy watched him go and took a long sip of tea.
He had spent weeks working through the Hogwarts curriculum and beyond, mastering defensive spells, counter-curses, and complex charms that most adult wizards never bothered to learn. He was, by any reasonable measure, an exceptionally capable wizard now.
He was also, he suspected, about to get absolutely demolished by a man who needed a stack of cushions to see over the dinner table.
The third-floor classroom had been rearranged. The desks and chairs were pushed against the walls in neat rows, and the floor had been cleared to create a long, wide space. Padding charms had been applied to the stone walls and the wooden floorboards, giving the room a slightly spongy quality underfoot.
Flitwick stood at the far end, his wand held loosely at his side. He had removed his outer robes and stood in a simple waistcoat and shirtsleeves, looking even smaller without the layers. Gilderoy knew better than to be comforted by that.
"Right then!" Flitwick called out cheerfully, gesturing for Gilderoy to take his position at the opposite end. "Standard dueling etiquette. We bow, we raise our wands, and we begin on the count of three. I will start gently, and we will work our way up. Shall we?"
Gilderoy drew his wand and took his place. He rolled his shoulders, loosened his neck, and assumed what he hoped was a competent stance.
"Ready," he said, pleased that his voice did not waver.
They bowed. Flitwick's was quick and clean. Gilderoy's was deeper, more theatrical, because some habits simply refused to die.
"One," Flitwick counted. "Two. Three!"
Gilderoy opened with a Stunning Spell. It was fast and well-aimed, and he put serious power behind it, sending a bolt of red light streaking across the room.
Flitwick sidestepped it. He did not shield or counter, just shifted his weight to the left, and the Stunner sailed past his ear and splashed against the padded wall.
Gilderoy fired again, adjusting his aim to the left to anticipate the dodge.
Flitwick stepped right, and the spell missed by a wider margin than the first.
"Good power!" Flitwick called out encouragingly. "Excellent form on the wrist! But you are telegraphing, Gilderoy. Your shoulder drops before you cast, and I can see it coming a full second before the spell leaves your wand."
Gilderoy gritted his teeth. His spellwork was precise, the [Prodigal Sorcerer] perk ensured that, but precision meant nothing if the target was never where he aimed. He switched tactics and fired a rapid sequence of three Disarming Charms in quick succession, spacing them to cover the left, centre, and right.
Flitwick ducked under the first, batted the second aside with a flick of his wand that sent it into the ceiling, and shielded the third with a Protego so small it barely flickered into visibility. The three movements flowed into each other seamlessly, and Flitwick had not moved his feet more than six inches.
Then Flitwick fired back.
A Knockback Jinx hit Gilderoy square in the chest before he even registered the tiny man's wand moving, and he flew backwards three feet before the padding caught him and bounced him upright. His hair fell into his face.
"You stood still," Flitwick observed, not unkindly. "You planted your feet and cast like you were in a classroom. In a duel, your feet are more important than your wand. If you are not moving, you are a target."
Gilderoy pushed his hair back and set his jaw. He had been practicing alone in an empty room for weeks, casting at objects that did not move and did not fight back, and he had trained himself into a stationary target without even realising it.
"Again," Gilderoy said firmly.
Flitwick smiled. "Again."
They went again. And again.
Over the next hour, Gilderoy learned just how wide the gap was between knowing spells and knowing how to fight.
Flitwick was terrifyingly fast. The man presented almost no target at all, slipping from one position to the next with a fluidity that his small frame made possible rather than hindered. Trying to hit him was like trying to hex a sparrow. And when Flitwick attacked, he attacked from angles Gilderoy did not even know existed. He would fire low, high, and then from the side in the space of two seconds, and Gilderoy's shield would catch one while the other two sailed through and knocked him flat. The [Prodigal Sorcerer] perk made his magic quick and powerful, but it could not teach his body where to stand or his eyes where to look. That came from experience, and Gilderoy had none.
But the perk did something else. It made him learn fast.
By the fifth exchange, he was moving his feet. By the eighth, he managed to dodge two of Flitwick's spells in a row before a Tripping Jinx caught him in the ankle and flipped him onto his back. By the tenth, he threw up a shield, pivoted left, and returned fire with a Jelly-Legs Curse that actually forced Flitwick to raise a proper defence. By the twelfth, he was chaining two spells together, a Disarmer followed immediately by a Freezing Charm, and Flitwick had to sidestep rather than simply stand and deflect.
"Oh, well done!" Flitwick squeaked, genuine delight in his voice as he lowered his shield. "That was properly quick, Gilderoy! Your casting speed is remarkable, honestly. I have not seen someone improve this fast since my own competitive days."
Gilderoy lay on his back, breathing hard, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He stared up at the ceiling and allowed himself a tired grin. Coming from a former European champion, that was not nothing.
"One more," Gilderoy said, hauling himself upright. His robes were wrinkled, his hair was a disaster, and his right arm was throbbing where he had hit the floor. He looked, by his own standards, absolutely dreadful.
He had never felt more alive.
Flitwick tilted his head, studying Gilderoy with bright eyes. "You really have changed, haven't you, Gilderoy?" he said quietly, his squeaky voice carrying a warmth that went beyond pleasantness.
Gilderoy did not know how to answer that honestly, so he simply raised his wand and said, "One more, Filius."
Flitwick raised his.
It was Gilderoy's best exchange of the day. He opened with a feint, a deliberately wide Stunning Spell designed to push Flitwick left, followed immediately by a Disarming Charm aimed at where the tiny professor would step. Flitwick recognized the trap, twisted mid-step, and deflected the Disarmer with a sharp upward flick, but the brief moment of adjustment left him open and Gilderoy seized it with a silent Impediment Jinx, putting everything he had behind it.
It hit Flitwick's hastily raised shield and shattered it.
The tiny professor skidded backwards, his shoes squeaking against the wood, but he stayed on his feet. His eyes went wide, and then he let out a delighted laugh.
"Oh, splendid!" he cried, clapping his hands together. "Absolutely splendid! You broke through! That feint was crude, but the follow-up was genuinely inspired. Gilderoy, you must come back tomorrow. You simply must. I insist!"
Gilderoy lowered his wand. His arm was shaking from the exertion, and his heart was hammering against his ribs. He had broken through the shield of a former dueling champion. It was one exchange out of a dozen, and Flitwick had clearly been holding back, but it was real and he had earned it.
"Tomorrow," Gilderoy agreed, wiping the sweat from his brow with what remained of his dignity. "Same time?"
"Same time!" Flitwick confirmed, already bouncing toward the door. He paused at the threshold and turned back, his small face serious for the first time all afternoon. "I will not go easy tomorrow, Gilderoy. You are too good for that."
Gilderoy flashed a smile that was somewhat diminished by the fact that his hair was sticking up at four different angles and there was a scorch mark on his left sleeve. "Filius, I was born prepared."
Flitwick chuckled and disappeared down the corridor.
Gilderoy stood alone in the empty classroom. He tucked his wand into his robes and walked toward the door, already thinking about tomorrow. The feint had worked because it was unexpected, but Flitwick would anticipate it next time, so he would need to vary his combinations. A low spell followed by a high one, or a delayed cast that broke the rhythm Flitwick was reading off his body.
His shoulder. That was the first thing. Flitwick had spotted the telegraph immediately, the slight drop before every cast, and Gilderoy had not even been aware of it.
He walked the corridor back to his chambers, beaten twelve times over and bruised in places he did not know could bruise, but thinking about spell combinations and angles instead of hair products and fan mail. He had broken through once. A dreadful ratio, certainly not worthy of a five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award, but the twelve defeats had each taught him something specific, and tomorrow Flitwick would not hold back. Well, he’d hold back slightly less.
Good, Gilderoy thought, pushing open the door to his quarters and catching sight of his ruined reflection in the bedroom mirror. He winced. Tomorrow he would fix the shoulder, learn to move his feet properly, and also, critically, apply a Stain-Repelling Charm to his robes before the session. He was willing to sacrifice many things for self-improvement, but his wardrobe was not among them.
AN: We're back at it again with another chapter of Celestial Star as per the schedule, which you can find pinned on the Patreon page.
If you think that Gilderoy is progressing a bit too quickly in this story, it's because Flitwick is currently holding back significantly. If he decides to go all out and lock in, he'll humble Lockhart in just a few seconds. [Prodigal Sorcerer] perk allows him to grow quickly even in something like dueling, because his spellcasting is better, and I consider dueling to be a part of being a magical prodigy, but lesser when compared to learning and using spells, it's still not on par with someone like Flitwick, but he's above most Hogwarts graduates by now. Hopefully the dueling was fun to read!
As usual, thank you so much for your support here on Patreon. I hope you'll all stay with me till next week, when In Naruto with an Achievement System's next chapter comes out.
Spider-Lite swingin’ away!