The dueling platform was cold beneath my boots, its ancient runes flickering faintly beneath the enchanted torches that lit the Transfiguration classroom. Dumbledore had cleared the entire space for our exercise today—benches pushed to the walls, desks vanished with a wave of his wand. The air smelled of dust, wand smoke, and something citrusy I could only assume came from his peculiar lemon-drop habit.
He stood at the far end of the platform, tall and thin, his auburn hair swept back and neatly combed, beard trimmed to a respectable length—not yet the flowing silver river of the man he'd one day become, but already unmistakably *Dumbledore*. His deep green robes were embroidered with faint golden stars that shimmered as he moved, a quiet twinkle behind the glass circles of his spectacles.
"Today," he said, in that warm, lilting voice that made every sentence feel like an invitation to discover something impossible, "we will focus not on victory, but *resilience*. Magical combat is not about overwhelming force, Mr. Starborn. It is about surviving long enough to *understand* your opponent."
He raised his wand with a playful flick. "The rules: three spells only. Disarming Charm, Shield Charm, and a basic pinching hex—mildly uncomfortable, quite annoying, but not dangerous. You will attack, defend, and keep moving. You may counter, but not with any other magic. This is a test of mind and muscle. Agreed?"
I nodded, tightening my grip on my wand. "Agreed."
He smiled. "Excellent. Then—begin."
His *Expelliarmus* came fast, a crimson streak of force that I barely parried with a hastily muttered *Protego*. The air cracked as our spells collided, and already my heart was thudding against my ribs. I darted sideways and returned fire, wand slashing through the air. "*Pincherva!*"
A shimmer of blue leapt toward him, the telltale twist of a pinching hex. He blocked it easily with a chuckle. "Inventive pronunciation. I approve."
Then his own hex came zipping toward me like a hornet. I ducked, rolled, and shot off another *Expelliarmus*, trying to find his rhythm. He was fast—far faster than any opponent I'd faced in the dueling club. His movements were elegant, never rushed, never frantic. Every spell was a question. Every defense was a lesson.
I blocked two more disarming charms, nearly lost my wand to the third, and retaliated with a sharp hex that actually singed the edge of his sleeve.
"Very good!" he called. "You're thinking now—adjusting! But don't be afraid to *breathe*, Marcus."
I adjusted my stance, circling the platform, sweat already beginning to sting my eyes. I couldn't tell how long we'd been at it. Two minutes? Three? Time distorted under pressure.
"*Expelliarmus!*" I roared, then feinted and sent a hex right behind it. He countered both with a casual sweep of his wand.
"Predictable," he murmured, almost kindly. Then with a blur, he fired back three spells in quick succession—hex, disarm, hex.
My shield absorbed the first, wavered under the second, and shattered under the third. I staggered, nearly losing my footing. My wand sparked in my hand. My lungs burned.
But I *refused* to fall.
I dodged the next two spells, then rolled across the platform and struck with a snapping *Protego* to block his latest charm. The dueling practice I'd done with Henry and Elizabeth came flooding back—Edgar's footwork tips, Eleanor's calm voice reminding me to *watch the eyes, not the wand*.
For a moment, I caught Dumbledore slightly off guard. My hex grazed his ankle, and he stepped back with a grin.
"Ah! A touch! You're improving swiftly. But beware—"
He flicked his wand and my next shield buckled before I finished the incantation. My wand twisted in my grip as a disarming charm caught me off balance. I held on by sheer will and clenched teeth.
The ninth minute came, and I knew because I was counting now, not in seconds but in heartbeats. My limbs ached. My shoulder throbbed from a poorly deflected hex. I could feel magic thinning at the edge of my control, flickering like a flame too long exposed to the wind.
"Ten minutes," Dumbledore called out, circling now, like a predator kindly testing its cub. "Only one minute more. Can you hold?"
I growled under my breath and fired a double strike—hex followed by a reverse-angled disarming charm. It worked, partially. He raised his shield, deflected both, but didn't press the attack.
That was his way—giving me the *chance* to succeed, if I had the strength to seize it.
By the time the eleventh minute struck, I was down to instincts. *Protego*, *Pincherva*, *Expelliarmus*, over and over again in a spiraling, stuttering rhythm. My stance faltered, my last hex fizzled. And then—his final disarming charm struck full force.
My wand flew from my grip.
It clattered to the stones.
I stood, chest heaving, eyes burning with defeat and pride tangled in equal measure.
Dumbledore lowered his wand and gave a short, respectful bow. "Eleven minutes. An admirable time."
I bowed back, slower. "It felt longer."
He laughed, the sound warm and clean. "That's how you know it was worth it."
I retrieved my wand, my hand still trembling faintly, and sat heavily on one of the benches he conjured with a flick. He handed me a small handkerchief. It smelled like lemon drops and peppermint oil.
"Resilience," he said, settling beside me, "isn't about being the strongest. It's about *lasting*. And in lasting, learning. You've done both today."
I nodded slowly. "You didn't go easy on me."
"No," he agreed, "because you're capable of *more* than ease."
We sat there a while, quiet save for the soft clinking of spells fading from the runes embedded in the platform. He let the silence hang, not awkwardly, but comfortably—as though the pause itself was part of the lesson.
"Thank you, Professor," I said finally.
He turned to me with a smile that reached his eyes. "You'll go far, Marcus. And not just because of talent. But because you listen. And because you endure."
I walked back to the Ravenclaw common room slowly, wand held loosely at my side, the weight of the duel still pressing into my limbs. The castle was quiet at this hour, the great stone corridors filled with the muffled whispers of the past—centuries of footsteps and magic echoing faintly through the walls. I could still feel the duel humming in my nerves, the way Dumbledore's spells had pressed against me like ocean waves, relentless and instructive. I hadn't just been fighting my professor—I'd been fighting the limits of my own discipline, the boundaries of what my wand and my will could accomplish.
Eleven minutes. It didn't sound like much on parchment, but in the heat of magical combat, it was an eternity. And Dumbledore hadn't once faltered or lost his pace. I had faced creatures, cast complex charms, even stared into the eyes of a Basilisk and survived, but this duel had left me breathless in an entirely different way. It reminded me that magic wasn't just about knowledge or instinct—it was about resilience. Precision under pressure. The dance of will and word.
I stepped through the bronze eagle-shaped door, answering the riddle with automatic ease—something about stars and silence—and made my way to the familiar blue-toned calm of the common room. The fire had dimmed to glowing embers. Books were stacked on a nearby table, and an abandoned cup of tea steamed faintly, forgotten. The comfort of Ravenclaw Tower embraced me like an old friend.
Collapsing into one of the deep armchairs by the hearth, I let the exhaustion settle in. I stared at the flickering shadows on the stone wall, feeling the quiet pulse of the castle around me. Here, in this stillness, the full weight of the year came washing back.
Second year had been no less extraordinary than my first. If anything, it had been more intense—more dangerous, more revealing. I had learned to speak to serpents in their own tongue, to battle creatures long thought myth. I had explored magic buried so deep in the roots of the world it felt ancient and alive.
And I'd done it all with people who mattered.
Eleanor and Edgar had become something like anchors in the storm. Edgar, with his obsession for magical architecture and endlessly clever insights into spell mechanics, had shown me the elegance behind even the simplest magic. Eleanor, with her cool wit and steady gaze, had pushed me to see beneath the surface of spells and people alike. She challenged me constantly—quietly, but thoroughly. Even when she said nothing, her expectations were clear: be better. Always be better.
Then there were Henry and Elizabeth—Gryffindors through and through. Henry's reckless bravery, his fire and unwavering loyalty, had gotten us into—and out of—more trouble than I cared to count. He made magic feel like something to charge into headfirst, heart blazing. And Elizabeth, sharp as a blade and twice as quick, kept us all grounded. She was the one who reminded me to breathe when things got chaotic, who always had the right spell, the right word, when everything else felt like falling.
They weren't just classmates. They were… *mine*. My people.
I thought about what they'd say if they'd seen me tonight—sweating and stumbling, barely keeping up with Dumbledore. Henry would've grinned and clapped me on the back like I'd dueled Grindelwald himself. Eleanor would have said, "You lasted longer than most adults would," and then asked what I learned. Edgar would immediately want to recreate the duel, probably with enchanted chess pieces mimicking our footwork. And Elizabeth would raise an eyebrow and say something like, "Only eleven minutes? You're slacking."
And I would laugh, because that was our rhythm. That was our world.
I leaned my head back against the chair and let the quiet swallow me.
There was so much still to learn. So much left to master. But tonight had taught me something even more important than spellwork or technique. It had reminded me that I *could* improve. That even when facing someone like Dumbledore—brilliant, composed, seemingly untouchable—I could stand my ground. Maybe not for long. Maybe not well. But I *could* stand.
And that meant something.
It meant that I wasn't just drifting through my magical education, surviving on instinct and talent. I was *becoming*. Slowly, painfully, stubbornly—I was shaping myself into someone who could matter in the world I was beginning to truly see.
The war hadn't started yet. Not the real one. But the shadows were lengthening. Whispers of dark magic spreading through Europe. Gellert Grindelwald's name spoken in hushed voices by older students and wary professors. And I knew—deep in my bones—that one day, this world would ask something of me. That my wand wouldn't just be a tool for classwork or exploration.
It would be a weapon.
And I'd have to choose what to fight for. Who to protect. What to become.
So I'd keep training. I'd push myself. I'd learn from the best—be it Dumbledore, Slughorn, Fairburn, Beery—or the lessons carved into my own mistakes.
But for tonight, I let my eyes drift closed, letting the warmth of the fire and the echo of spells danced in my mind settle me into the softness of sleep.