December 6, 1992, Sunday
Exactly a week later, the very first meeting of the Fight Club was set to begin.
And because of the overwhelming number of students who'd signed up, nearly half the school, if the parchment pile outside my office was to be believed, it had been decided the Great Hall would serve as our arena.
Even I was a little impressed.
Convincing Dumbledore to approve the idea had been laughably easy. He'd leaned back in his chair, twinkle in his eye, and said, "Ah, a bit of excitement for the students, splendid idea, Gilderoy." He'd even offered to attend the first session himself, though thankfully, he'd said it with that vague tone that meant he'd almost certainly forget.
McGonagall, however…
Merlin help me, that woman could weaponize disapproval.
The moment she'd heard about the name Fight Club, she'd looked like she was about to transfigure me into a toad. "Fight Club?" she'd said, her brogue sharp enough to cut through steel. "Are you mad, Lockhart? Do you want the children dueling each other into the hospital wing?"
It had taken an entire afternoon, three cups of tea, two safety demonstrations, and an entire list of magically binding promises before she'd finally agreed, reluctantly, that perhaps it could be "educational."
"But if one student ends up missing a finger," she'd warned, "I will transfigure you into a parrot and you'll be teaching Defense like that for a week."
Even now, hours later, I could still feel the shivers down my spine.
Still, all her fussing was worth it. The club had generated a level of excitement I hadn't seen since the Quidditch Cup. The students had been whispering about it all week, Slytherins predicting they'd wipe the floor with everyone, Gryffindors loudly vowing to prove them wrong, and even a few Ravenclaws betting on tactical dominance.
Hufflepuffs, bless them, just wanted to learn something useful.
By Sunday afternoon, the Great Hall had been stripped of its long tables and benches, leaving a wide, gleaming floor space surrounded by shimmering magical barriers. Charms flickered faintly along the edges, protection wards woven by Flitwick himself to ensure not a single spell went astray.
Speaking of Flitwick, he was already on a raised platform, checking the enchantments with a level of concentration that could make a dragon feel inadequate. His enthusiasm had only grown since our last tea. He'd even prepared scoreboards, training targets, and a whistle that, in his words, "produced the ideal disciplinary frequency."
Meanwhile, I was standing near the entrance, watching the students pour in, murmuring to each other with that electric mix of excitement and nerves.
Everything was going perfectly.
Well, almost everything.
Aurora had cornered me that morning.
I'd been halfway through my second cup of coffee in the staff room, pretending to read Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts (for appearances, of course), when she appeared beside me like a ghost made of silk and starlight.
"Gilderoy," she'd said, tone deceptively calm.
I'd looked up, smiled my best "I'm innocent" smile. "Aurora! Good morning. You're looking radiant as ever…"
"Don't," she said softly. "You've been avoiding me for almost two weeks."
There was no heat in her voice, just quiet certainty. Which, in my experience, was far worse.
"I, ah, well, I've been terribly busy," I'd begun, fumbling for charm that didn't want to be found. "You know how things get around this time of the year…"
She'd raised a single eyebrow, silencing me more effectively than a Silencing Charm.
"I know why, Gilderoy," she said finally. "And I think we should talk. After your… club meeting tonight."
Then she'd walked away, leaving me staring into my coffee like it might offer advice.
Now, hours later, I could still feel the weight of that pending conversation hanging in the back of my mind.
But that was a problem for later.
For now, the Fight Club awaited.
And if the gleam in the students' eyes was any indication, Hogwarts was about to have the most memorable Sunday of the year.
…
Flitwick and I spent the last half hour putting the finishing touches on the Great Hall.
Or rather, he did the work, and I offered "supervisory brilliance."
"Perfect, perfect!" I said, as the Charms Professor flicked his wand and a shimmer of silver-blue light rippled across the dueling barriers. "The wards are practically humming with authority. I daresay even a seventh-year's Stunner wouldn't breach that."
"That's the idea," Flitwick said cheerfully, checking a small runestone at the base of the nearest barrier. "If I've calibrated them correctly, even a misfired Reductor Curse will simply bounce off harmlessly."
"Marvelous," I said, clasping my hands together. "Though let's hope no one tries to test that theory too enthusiastically."
The last few charms glowed faintly as they locked into place. The Great Hall had been transformed, gone were the long tables and hovering candles, replaced by wide, open floor space and faintly gleaming wards along every wall. A raised platform had been conjured at one end for demonstrations, and on the opposite side, enchanted banners floated in midair displaying the words Fight Club in bold gold letters.
Flitwick wiped his brow with the satisfaction of a craftsman. "There. Safe, stable, and more than ready for use."
I gave him a grin. "Filius, my friend, you've outdone yourself. This is artistry."
He chuckled. "Well, you did say you wanted something dramatic."
"Yes," I said, surveying our work, "but I must say, you've captured the perfect blend of danger and good taste."
The Great Hall doors opened just then, and a tidal wave of students began to pour in chattering, whispering, craning their necks for a better view. It was a full house: Gryffindors loud as ever, Slytherins pretending to be unimpressed but watching everything, Ravenclaws already analyzing the ward structure, and Hufflepuffs politely finding a good position to watch from.
I stepped forward, flashing my most dazzling smile as I raised my wand.
"Students!" I called, my voice magnified by a charm. The noise dropped to a murmur. "Welcome, one and all, to the grand opening of Hogwarts' newest and, let's be honest, most exciting extracurricular activity: The Fight Club!"
The room erupted into cheers, laughter, and scattered applause.
I waited for the enthusiasm to crest before continuing, "Before we begin, I would like to extend my sincerest gratitude to a few individuals who made all this possible. First and foremost, to Headmaster Dumbledore for graciously approving this endeavor…"
I let my gaze drift casually across the hall, then added, voice dropping conspiratorially, "And I'd also like to thank him for joining us this afternoon, though I must say, the Desillusionment Charm is rather wasted on you, sir. You've been standing in the back the entire time."
There was a pause. Then a faint shimmer at the far end of the hall revealed a very amused Dumbledore, twinkling eyes and all.
"Well spotted, Gilderoy," he said, chuckling as he made his way forward amid laughter and applause.
"Comes with experience," I said smoothly, though inside I was thanking every lucky star I'd guessed right.
"Secondly," I continued brightly, "a heartfelt thank you to Professor McGonagall for… not cancelling this club."
That earned a roar of laughter from the students and a faint, exasperated sigh from somewhere near the staff's seating area. I didn't need to look to know her lips were pressed into a very thin line.
"And last but by no means least," I said, sweeping an arm toward the small man standing proudly beside me, "my co-founder, the brilliant duelist, and the one who made all this possible, Professor Filius Flitwick!"
A cheer rose for him, especially from the Ravenclaws. Flitwick gave a modest bow, his feet barely touching the ground as he floated down from the platform.
"Now then," I said, drawing myself up. "Before we begin, allow me to clarify what this club is, and what it is not."
A hush settled.
"This is not simply a dueling club," I said, letting the words hang in the air. "We will not be limited to polite bowing, prearranged gestures, and one-on-one formalities. No, no, no. This is the Fight Club."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"My goal," I continued, pacing across the platform, "is to teach you how to fight in real situations. You will learn to face multiple opponents. To cooperate, or, when necessary, to not cooperate. To adapt, improvise, and overcome. And, on occasion, you'll even face magical creatures. Don't worry, simulated ones, courtesy of a clever blend of Transfiguration, Charms, and illusion magic. You'll learn to think, react, and defend yourselves in ways no simple classroom duel can prepare you for."
The students looked spellbound. Even the Slytherins seemed intrigued.
"Now then," I said with a grin, "the rules!"
A glowing list appeared behind me in midair.
"Rule number one," I said grandly, "you do not talk about Fight Club."
A confused silence spread through the hall. Dozens of students exchanged puzzled looks.
I smiled serenely. "Don't worry about that one. Just… tradition."
Flitwick gave me a baffled sideways glance but wisely decided not to ask.
"Rule number two: No lethal spells or intent during student duels. We're here to learn, not to populate the hospital wing."
Nods all around. That one they understood.
"Rule number three," I continued, "in team battles, you will not be penalized for betraying your teammates."
The hall immediately exploded into noise, shocked laughter, protests, even a few cheers.
"Now, now," I said, raising a hand for quiet. "I know what you're thinking. But this is about realism. Betrayal happens in life, voluntarily, through coercion, or even under the Imperius Curse. You need to learn how to deal with it, not pretend it doesn't exist."
Flitwick looked faintly horrified, but even he couldn't quite suppress his intrigue.
"Rule number four: only one fight at a time. Rule number five: the fight ends when a teacher says it does. Rule number six: everyone fights. No spectators here. You learn by doing."
Excitement buzzed through the crowd again.
"Rule number seven," I added lightly, "if you refuse to fight, you're out of the club. Simple as that."
And finally, I leaned forward, lowering my voice conspiratorially.
"Rule number eight: what happens in the Fight Club stays in the Fight Club. If someone bests you, or perhaps insults you, do not seek revenge in the corridors. Instead, settle your scores properly, right here. With wands, honor, and supervision."
A murmur of approval went around the hall. Even the staff looked reluctantly impressed.
I straightened my robes, flashed another dazzling smile, and said, "Now then, shall we begin?"
…