Morning sunlight filtered into the Great Hall in long, pale bands, glinting off goblets and plates as students filtered in, voices low and sleepy. Amelia sat across from Gilderoy at the Ravenclaw table, posture straight, hands folded around her teacup. She had barely touched her breakfast.
Her eyes flickered downward for a split second—then quickly back up at him. Her cheeks colored faintly, the tips of her ears just as pink.
"W-what…" she began, then paused, as if the words themselves refused to come out smoothly. She cleared her throat, lowering her voice. "What… did you do to me last night?"
The question came out small. Shy.
Gilderoy raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a slow, knowing smirk. "It's something some men do for their lovers. Most avoid it, though. No one really knows why."
He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice just enough that it brushed only her ears. "As for me… I love devouring my girlfriend."
Her face went scarlet.
"Gilderoy!" she hissed, swatting at his shoulder in flustered protest.
He caught her wrist mid-motion, fingers closing warmly around it, and before she could react he pulled her into a kiss, exploring her mouth for the chocolate she had just eaten.
A pointed throat-clearing cut sharply through the moment.
Gilderoy turned, irritation already rising—then froze.
Dumbledore stood beside them.
The headmaster wore bright periwinkle robes, exuding the presence of an old master. His spectacles twinkled, making it seem as though his eyes themselves sparkled—a charm, Gilderoy realized, to create the effect.
Smiling at them, Dumbledore said calmly. "I appreciate you and Miss Bones showing affection for one another," his voice carrying the soft authority of someone long accustomed to being obeyed. "But I would ask that you keep such demonstrations to the confines of your private time."
Amelia nodded immediately, cheeks blazing as she stared determinedly at her plate.
"Yes, Professor," she murmured.
Gilderoy inclined his head a beat later, expression composed, polite. It was his first real meeting with Dumbledore since arriving in this world—not as an observer, not as a distant presence, but face to face.
He felt the weight of the man's gaze linger for a brief, thoughtful second longer than necessary.
Then Dumbledore gave them a calm, approving smile before moving toward the head table, his periwinkle robes flowing gracefully behind him.
They finished breakfast quietly after that, exchanging only small, murmured comments.
--
By evening, after bidding each other farewell, Amelia went off to usual study while Gilderoy headed alone to the Room of Requirement for his training with Professor Flitwick.
It was now Mid-November, and the drills had evolved far beyond simple chain casting or environmental awareness. Flitwick had called it the "integrated control" stage.
"Ready?" Flitwick asked, wand held at his side, stance precise. His eyes flicked over Gilderoy with measured appraisal.
Gilderoy nodded, muscles tense but mind alert. His grip on the wand was relaxed, almost casual, yet entirely focused, feeling the magic inside him.
Flitwick didn't announce the start.
A sharp hex came flying.
Gilderoy blocked it with a quick flick, letting the magic flow through him as Flitwick had instructed him, and responded with a chain of three spells together, each connected seamlessly.
The floor beneath him shifted suddenly—stone giving way to ice.
He adjusted mid-step, conjured a small barrier without breaking rhythm, and deflected a hex Flitwick sent seconds later.
The rhythm of spells and counters was constant, unrelenting. Every strike, block, and environmental hazard had to be read, anticipated, and integrated.
"Good," Flitwick called, calm but approving. "Again."
Gilderoy conjured a boulder and sent it rolling forward with a subtle Depulso, angling its path rather than simply accelerating it.
Flitwick deflected it effortlessly, adjusting mid-step as he conjured shards of ice and sent them screaming toward Gilderoy.
Spells came fast: hexes, conjured blades, sudden walls forming and dissolving. Gilderoy's wand moved like an extension of his will.
"You're reading me and your surroundings like it's part of your wand," Flitwick said quietly, voice threaded with approval. "Exceptional."
Gilderoy allowed a small internal smile. He didn't need to show it outwardly; Flitwick would have noticed anyway. He felt the quiet warmth of approval in the professor's words—a rare, unspoken acknowledgment that went beyond skill.
The duells stretched on, minutes blending into nearly an hour.
Sweat slicked his hair, muscles burned, His lungs worked in steady rhythm. Yet exhilaration thrummed beneath every movement.
He wasn't just executing spells.
he was orchestrating them.
.
At last, Flitwick conjured a small table and called two elves, who promptly snapped their fingers, making two cups of tea appear.
Finally, Gilderoy stretched, muscles trembling lightly, chest still racing as he collapsed into the chair. "That was… intense," he said softly, wonder threading his voice.
"Intensity matters," Flitwick replied, eyes twinkling faintly. "Without pressure, growth is limited. And you've handled every element of dueling with composure. Many duelists, even advanced ones, would falter under full integration."
"You've surpassed my expectations," he continued, sitting opposite Gilderoy. "Chain casting, environment integration, transfiguration, conjuration… instinctive execution. That's exceptional. And rare—especially for my first dueling pupil."
Gilderoy tilted his head slightly bowing, a faint, amused thought passing silently. Instinctive, huh? Not a bad way to describe a few months of practice. He smiled inwardly, letting the warmth of approval settle quietly in his chest.
Flitwick's gaze softened. "Not just skill. Your focus, eagerness… presence matters as much as magic."
He notices everything. Not just the magic, but me Gilderoy thought.
A subtle warmth threading through him.
I have my very own Master Shifu.
They spent the next twenty minutes analysing their duels: rrors corrected with gentle nudges, insights offered without condescension. The dynamic was no longer instructor and novice alone; it was something quieter, steadier.
Flitwick watched, calm and measured. "You see, Gilderoy, what we've practiced isn't just dueling. It's controlling magic, reading a battlefield, improvisation… I'd say you're more than ready for a fight."
"He's right," Gilderoy thought. "Flitwick had asked me before whether I wanted to learn fighting or dueling, and I had chosen fighting. And indeed, he had taught me—control, improvisation, instinct…"
Flitwick gave a small nod, a quiet, almost imperceptible smile. "Well done, Gilderoy. You've learned what few ever do."
Finally, I'm a trained wizard.
---
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P.S. Just to clarify something—this isn't a full-time job for me. I write in my free time and currently manage two fics, without any paid support backing me. Posting 6+ chapters a week is extremely rare for original works; most writers who do that are handling translated content, so comparisons aren't really fair. I genuinely respect the grind of those authors who actually write 3+ chapters a week, but that pace isn't possible for me.
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