The dormitory woke like a single, slow animal: a rustle of blankets, a muffled cough, the scrape of a shoe against the stone. Light from the high windows was thin and gray, the kind of morning that made breath show in little clouds even inside. Thomas was first, as usual, already sitting on the edge of his bed with his feet on the floor, rubbing his hands together and making small, impatient noises. He had the look of someone who had decided the day could not possibly start soon enough.
"Get up, Nicholas," he whispered, loud enough that the whole top of the room heard him. "We'll be late if we dawdle."
Nicholas blinked at the ceiling for a moment, then swung his legs over the side and padded to the washbasin. He moved with the slow, careful motions of someone who had learned to keep his things in order: a quick prayer by the common room fire, a tidy fold of his robe, a check of the iron tools under his bed to make sure they were still where he'd left them.
Margaret was already at her desk, the small lamp throwing a warm circle of light over a neat stack of parchment. She had a pencil tucked behind one ear and a list of things to practice written in the margin of a book. When Nicholas came in she looked up without surprise and slid a spare scarf across the bed. "You'll freeze if you stand there," she said, and then went back to her notes.
"That's what the hand warmers and charms are for. Thanks anyways," I replied as I took the scarf around my neck.
Eleanor was last to rise, as if she had been waiting for the room to finish waking. She moved quietly, folding her hair back with two quick fingers and tucking a small notebook into her robe. She smelled faintly of the herbs she kept in a little cloth pouch, lavender and something green and sharp reminiscent of a cedar tree, and she smiled at Thomas when he made a face in the cold. "You always make the most noise," she said, and Thomas grinned, seemingly treating her comment as the highest praise one could receive.
We put on our outer wear consisting of woolen robes and socks, with knee high shoes. I made sure to check the bands on my wrists for magical growth in sensing and capacity before making the way to the door. Holding it open for the two girls (Thomas had already gone ahead), we made our way through the common room and exited the barrel entrance out to the cold stone halls, joining the crowd of fellow Hufflepuffs headed towards the great hall. .
The walk to breakfast was a tumble of scarves and laughter. The corridors smelled of stone and the faint tang of the kitchens, of which you could hear the faint bustle of house elves behind the portrait of a fruit bowl. Students passed in pairs and small groups, trading last‑minute advice and dares. "Don't let Birch get in your head," someone told Thomas, and he puffed his chest out and said, "I'll make him eat his words," which made the others laugh because it was exactly the kind of boast a child makes to make himself feel braver.
The Great Hall was warm from the fireplaces along the sides, causing me to almost sweat instantly after crossing the doors into the hall. Steam rose from bowls filled with hearty soup, and the long tables were a riot of color and noise: plates clinking, a chorus of small voices, the scrape of chairs. The house‑elves were as efficient as ever, setting out bread and porridge and the last of the cold mutton from the night before if I had to wager a guess.
Breakfast was a noisy, comfortable thing.
Around us, the other tables were full of the same nervous energy that grew as breakfast neared its end: a great many whispering and forced out laughs. I could almost see the anime-like effects in the air, all we needed was a low, bass symphony with a slow tempo that builds suspense, hmmm, the Hall of the Mountain King perhaps?
When the plates were cleared and the last of the porridge gone, the headmaster rose from the dais. The room quieted in a way that made the children sit up straighter, the way a bell makes you stop mid‑sentence. He was not a man of many theatrics, which is unfortunate given this was a magical school and if there was a time for theatrics, its now. But alas, the boring old man walked in the quiet that had settled over the hall and pinned a fresh parchment to the board at the front of the hall and the paper unfurled like a map.
"Good morning," he said, and his voice carried due to the silence in the hall. "This week we hold our preliminary rounds. Lower years will duel on Monday and Tuesday. Upper years will follow on Wednesday and Thursday. Matches begin at noon each day. Wins determine advancement. Only those who remain undefeated during the preliminary rounds shall move onwards. Thy professors shall be thy judges, and the scoring shall be on a thirty‑point scale, which shall be used to determine tiebreakers."
As my chinese friends like to say, his words were like a stone cast upon a lake, creating ripples throughout the room. Whispering voices turned louder as everyone was talking to someone else. Thomas whooped once, a short, delighted noise that made the table beside them look over and smile indulgently, which to me would be condescending but to each their own. After growing quiet once we were signaled to, the headmaster continued with the rules: "Matches will be judged for safety, control, and creativity. Students who cause permanent harm or use forbidden spells shall be disqualified and appropriate disciplinary action shall be adjudicated accordingly. House staff will maintain the arena between rounds. If you are injured, seek the infirmary immediately. And remember, 'tis only a competition."
After the formalities the headmaster stepped down and the parchment was left for anyone to read. Students clustered around the board in small knots, elbows bumping, breath fogging in the cold air that still found its way into the hall.
After finding their names on the schedule, students began filing out of the great hall, headed toward the courtyard where our rounds were to take place. After having found our own slots, I waited for the others and we joined the exodus of students, chattering along the way.
Having crossed the threshold of the castle, the cold biting air met my face, the humidity so great your hands immediately felt sticky. We had just ad a cold front come in, and along with it the muggy weather I had come to associate with the depressing spring of Scotland. Though the rain did cause everything to be much greener than the Texas I remember, so I guess everywhere has its pros and cons. As we made our way over, you could see some people going through their superstitious rituals and warmups, some a little too weird for my taste. A Neville wannabe was talking and kissing his toad, which I hoped for his sake wasn't full of psychedelics. Did you know there are actually a couple of non-magical toads that have toxins in their skins which have 'psychoactive' effects, which cause hallucinations or something of the like? I wonder if magical toads have a greater effect? Maybe that's why ol' Longbottom had memory problems, he was simply too high from his Trevor!
Anyways, we got to the arena after a few minutes of walking and it wasn't much to write home about: flattened earth, chalk circles scored into the ground, short ropes held up by stakes that had been driven in with a few firm taps. Rings were spaced so you could see two or three at once, ten or twenty paces between them so spectators could move and professors could keep an eye on everything without shouting. Straw bundles sat at the edges like little islands, ready to catch a dropped wand or give a softer landing to a stumble. There were no grand protective domes, which I guess is far seeing as most probably only knew expelliarmus or some basic charms in the second to fourth years. There was only the presence of teachers on raised stools and older students or staff at each ring to reset props, fetch errant wands, and keep the ropes from tangling. It'd be cool if there were a magical colosseum or something, but it was as down to earth as the second Triwizard task, which I mean come on! It was such a depressing scene and not what the magical international competition between schools should be, but I digress. Baby steps, baby steps.
Each ring had its own small choreography. A professor sat on a stool, as I mentioned previously, with a score parchment and a pen, watching for safety, control, and creativity; an assistant hovered with a coil of rope, a spare plank, and a first‑aid kit. Matches were short and brisk: three to five minutes of active exchange, a quick judge's call, and then the assistant sweeping the circle clean and signaling the next pair. Four duels an hour kept the pace moving
The weather did its part to complicate things in small ways. A gust would make a levitated object tremble at the edges; chalk dust puffed when a charm struck the ground and left a faint, glittering halo in the sun; a plank slid with a soft scrape that sounded louder than it should have in the hush of a match. Those little details mattered: a foot that slipped on damp turf, a glove that lost its grip, the sting of a grazing charm that left a red line and a story. In short, a slightly uncontrolled environment caused spoiled little wizards and witches to mess up on their already mediocre prowess. Though maybe I'm a little too harsh, with their magical capacity still growing, most of these children came from wizarding families so you would expect greater capability, alas! 'Tis not so!
Children behaved like children in the best way: loud and small and immediate. There were whoops when a clever move landed, quick consolations when someone took a graze, and the instant transformation of a fall into a boast. Thomas ran his footwork in short bursts at the ring's edge, counting steps under his breath and grinning when a pass felt clean. Margaret kept a tiny notebook open on her knee and made neat, furious margin notes between matches, timing windows, what to practice, which opponent had a tell. Poor thing, I've pinned her down as one of those who runs away from emotion and tries to cover it up with something else, in this case feigned intelligence, though that's just my speculation.
Eleanor was drawing little sketches and scenes of people practicing, humming a little tune as she worked away. I, on the other hand, daydreamed away, waiting for the first round to finally come. We had an hour or so until the first round at noon and I was utterly bored. Sitting down beside Eleanor, I pulled out my own pad and idly wrote as my mind was miles away. Minutes passed by as I considered how exactly to move forward on my creations. There were a couple adjustments for my new manual carver, mainly when I lose concentration, I need the pen to stop until I'm ready to move forward. I had though of doing something like a mouse pad, but controlling with my mind directly seemed to be more efficient, and I mean, its pretty cool, right? A primitive magical neural connection. A couple of other thoughts came to mind for other projects to work on. Like a space similar to Newt's suitcase (a portable home), a flying castle, immortality, you know, the basic idle thoughts.
A bang sounded, announcing the first flight of round 1, starting at high noon. Which meant, it was my first duel of the day, against some second year Gryffindor. At each of the four rings, labeled A through D, there was a post with a sign that had each flight and the pairings for those flights. Having made my way to the ring, I entered leaving the others to watch outside the fences.
Performing the wand salute as was proper etiquette, the professor dropped a stone and as soon as it touched the ground, the duel would begin.
Watching the stone out of the corner of my eye, it hit the ground with a muffled thump, and immediately, I whispered under my breath, "Silencio", before my opponent could cast his first spell. With a depulso, he was sent out of the ring, landing on his butt, trying to shout but no sound would come out. And that my friends is how you do it, why make a big hoo-ha when most lower years can't use silent spellcasting?
The professor, who I think was the Ancient Runes teacher, announced the end of the duel and my fellow Hufflepuffs cheered as I made my way back. You may be saying, Nicholas, how could you bully the poor kid? Bully? I say, I say, I was magnanimous, sparing the child of true terrors of what lies in the recesses of my mind. This is what we call character building! You see, I spent some time thinking of the best strategy that would take me the furthest and wouldn't you know, almost every wizard and witch is useless without their wand! But that means I have to ge their wand away from them, which almost always allows the other to also cast magic. So my mind turned to another prerequisite, speech. If they can't speak, they can't cast, though that assumes they can't cast silently, which in canon, the vast majority couldn't do more than a lumos silently.
Once again, my transmigrator status has given me the rgeatest advantage there is, knowledge! Having tinkered with the silencing charm, there are two important details: instantaneous effect and invsibility. If you can't see any effect, and it occurs instantly, unless you already have a shield up, you won't stand a chance! Thus, the first meta of the wizarding world was created by yours truly. Just you wait, there's more to come! Imagine it, having a spell combo that causes the opponent to lose their sense of touch, sight, hearing, and even taste! Or stacking so many debuffs, there's nothing you can do be suffer. Or the classic turtle strategy! Oh, what a saint I am, spreading wisdom and kindness, preparing the children for the real world. Wiping away an invisible tear, I feel the invisible weight of this God-given mission and make my way to my friends.
God: ??? This is blasphemy! Why do people blame me for their own evil?
After being congratulated by the trio, we walked over to Ring B thirty yards away, where Thomas was supposed to begin in ten minutes. Watching the ongoing duel was rather eye-opening, given these kids had better skills than what we saw in canon. They moved a bit awkwardly, casting some of the basic spells we had learned in class. The tempo was rather slow, nerves getting to the two kids. The blonde boy was covered in dust and the brow haired boy across from him was looking no better. They wer both using expelliarmus, the most popular spell used in duels. Red spells flew back and forth, slowly getting worse and worse as time went on, both of them wearing thin, panting from the exaggerated arm swinging. All that meant was the aim was worsening, thus a downward spiral of a duel was on display. Eventually, the blonde was a bit more tired, having lost grip a long time ago and a lucky strike hit, his wand flew from his hand beyond the ring. Finally! Daggum, I thought they'd run out of time before one of them won.
At 12:15, Ring B - Thomas versus Perkin. Thomas starts fast, feet moving the way he practiced this morning. Perkin throws a push charm straight at Thomas's chest. Thomas meets it with a short Impulsus Moderatus and the other boy stumbles. Thomas overreaches on a close pass and takes a grazing hit to the wrist; he hits the ground for a second, breath knocked out. He rolls, gets up, and uses a small charm on the turf to make Perkin's footing give by a fraction. He closes the distance and takes the wand. When the professor calls the result Thomas laughs and rubs his wrist like it's a prize. He runs over to the ropes and shouts, "Did you see that?" He sounds like he's telling a joke. Someone near me says, "Nice recovery," and Thomas grins and makes a face like he's proud of the fall.
At 12:30, Ring A - Margaret versus Halloway. Margaret goes in after I finish warming my hands. She looks nervous for a second, then sets her feet and breathes out. Halloway keeps a steady levitation and asks quick, sharp questions with his wand. Margaret holds her levitation and answers, but she hesitates when he speeds up. He finds the gap and lands a nick on her arm. She doesn't make a show of it; she rubs the spot, takes the bandage the assistant offers, and says, "Okay. I'll fix that." Later, when she joins us, she's talking fast and a little loud, the way she does when she's trying to shake off a mistake. "I lost the rhythm," she says. "I'll run timing drills." She sounds like someone who wants to get better right away, not like someone who's already figured everything out.
At 12:45, Ring C - Eleanor versus Merton. Eleanor waits until the exact moment the other student shifts his preparation and then moves. The charm slides off‑line. She breathes out and smiles like she's relieved. When she comes by later she's laughing at something Thomas said and tucks her notebook under her arm. "That felt clean," she tells me, and her voice is small and bright. She doesn't act like she's proving anything; she acts like she's glad it worked.
Between those scheduled matches I drift to the next ring over and watch other lower‑year duels. Most of them are the same basic things: Lumos variations to test sightlines, little push charms to test balance, slow disarming attempts where the caster aims to knock a wand loose. A few third‑ and fourth‑years are on the farther rings and they move faster. One fourth‑year chains a push into a levitation and then transfigures a bench leg into a short block; the professor at that ring writes something down and calls the assistant over to reset the bench. The assistant moves fast and the next pair steps in.
"Did you see that pull?" Thomas says, "You should've seen Perkin's face when I took his wand."
Eleanor laughs and points at a boy across the field. "Merton kept looking at his feet. He kept dropping his levitation when he answered."
"It was more fun than I had thought it'd be, but I think they'll match us against other winners, so it'll get harder over time."
Other students argue about what worked and what didn't. A fourth‑year says, "If you can keep your levitation steady while you answer, you can bait them into overreaching." A third‑year answers, "Only if your footwork is clean. One slip and the whole thing goes wrong."
We eat on the grass while the assistants set out trays and ladles. The stew is hot and the bread is thick. I stand with Thomas, Margaret, and Eleanor near Ring A so we can watch while we eat.
I check the board. Thomas is up at three‑fifteen in Ring B. My match is at three‑thirty in Ring A. Margaret is at three‑forty‑five in Ring A. Eleanor is at four‑o'clock in Ring C. I finish my stew and walk the field once to warm my legs.
At three‑fifteen I stand near Ring B and watch Thomas. He goes in with the same grin he always has. His opponent is bigger and steady. The professor calls the rules and starts the match.
The other boy opens hard. He plants his feet and meets Thomas when Thomas charges, like a true Gryffindor. Thomas tries to force the close fight again. The opponent times a short trip charm under Thomas's foot and clips his shoulder on a counter. Thomas hits the ground and scrambles. He rolls, gets up, and tries to push back, but the opponent keeps his guard and times a clean disarm. Thomas comes off the ring rubbing his shoulder and laughing to hide it.
He runs over to the ropes and says, "I went in too fast." He sounds annoyed at himself and already talking about drills. An older student calls, "Physical rush won't beat a planted stance." Thomas nods and says, "I'll work on feints." Does anyone want to tell him he is in fact a wizard?
At three‑thirty I go to Ring A and stand at the edge. The assistant checks my wand and tightens the rope. The professor calls our names. My opponent is a fourth‑year and looks like he plans to press.
I walk the field once to warm my legs. The rings are busier now, some practicing before the second flight begins. I watch a fourth‑year chain a push into a levitation and then a short transfiguration of a bench leg to block a line.
When my time comes I go to Ring A and stand at the edge. The assistant checks my wand and tightens the rope. The professor calls names. My opponent steps in; he's a fourth‑year and he looks like he expects to press the attack. He sets his feet and bounces once on his toes. He speaks to me before the professor says anything.
"You ready?" he asks.
"Ready," I say.
The stone drops once more and we both act at once. "Silencio" I mutter under my breath, moving to the right, staying on my toes like you would in a basketball game. Unfortunately for the older student, he chose the wrong spell to use, only halfway through five syllable charm before I finish my own. And like last time, he also doesn't know how to silently cast but unlike last time, he isn't done. While I chained into a disarming charm, he bum rushes me, dropping his shoulder down. In a panic, a shout a "Transfiguro!" transfiguring the ground in front of him into a six foot earthen wall. Bang! The fourth year, unable to avoid the conservation of momentum, slams into the wall face first.
"Round over! Opponent is incapacitated, Nicholas wins!"
Dispelling the wall, I could see my second victim sprawled on the ground, a bleeding, broken nose and tears in his eyes. Yikes! I can't believe he would hurt himself like that.
I walk over to help him up. Stretching my hand out, I smile and say "Good game."
My opponent breathes hard, blinking back the tears and struggling to stand up. "Fanks, 'twaf a good mafch." Oof, I see a gap in his teeth that hadn't been there before, a bit of blood trickling out of his mouth now.
"Uh, yeah. Well, good luck, I've got to go," I reply, hurriedly leaving the scene, not wanting to be there when he realises he may have a touch of skelegro in his future.
Thomas whoops from the ropes. Margaret runs up and claps once. Eleanor grins and excitedly word vomits, " 'Twas amazing! Thou were wonderful in thine transfiguration. Though, I hadn't expected your opponent to run at you in the way he did."
Cough, "Yeah, it was surprising to me but nothing I couldn't handle" I replied, not wanting them to admit I had nearly yelped in fright at the fifty pound advantage the guy had on me. He had at least a two year advantage on me in the puberty department, and two years of testosterone production from puberty is a huge difference.
At three‑forty‑five I watch Margaret go in. Her opponent keeps a faster cadence and presses the tempo from the start. Margaret holds a levitation and answers with a shield, but the other student keeps speeding up. Margaret hesitates for a beat when the tempo changes. The opponent finds the gap and lands a nick on her arm. She takes the bandage the assistant offers and breathes out.
At four o'clock I watch Eleanor. Her opponent opens aggressive and keeps the pressure high. Eleanor holds a levitation and waits for the right moment, but the opponent keeps changing the line and lands a solid hit to her wrist. He follows with a clean disarm.
Eleanor comes off the ring and rubs her wrist. She says, "He didn't give me a second to breathe." She sits down and folds her notebook closed. .
Between matches the assistants reset rings fast. Benches slide, straw is fluffed (why though?), and wands are checked.
I get the rest of the afternoon free. The steward pins the final sheet to the board and calls the winners. People break into small groups and move off the field. I walk back to the dorm with Thomas, Margaret, and Eleanor.
"Training yard?" Thomas asks, already swinging his cloak.
"Library for tempo drills, then the game," Margaret says, grinning. "I'll be back."
"I'll check my wrist at the infirmary," Eleanor says.
"I'll go with you," I respond, walking alongside her.
We walked through the halls, making our way to the infirmary. Once there, a quick healing charm was cast and a small bandage was wrapped around her wrist, something about how the charm takes time to settle. We left there just in time for dinner, having waited in a rather long line of lower years who had similar injuries from the day.