"A duel is a conversation where the first person to stutter usually wakes up in the Hospital Wing." — Filius Flitwick
November 2, 1969
November swept into the castle on a gale of freezing rain that hammered the stone walls until they seemed to vibrate. The Halloween feast had come and gone—a blur of floating pumpkins and frantic sugar consumption—leaving behind a castle that felt darker, colder, and significantly more serious.
The novelty of the moving staircases had faded into a grudging acceptance of their treachery. The awe of the Great Hall ceiling had been replaced by the pragmatic habit of checking it to see if one needed an umbrella for the walk to Herbology. Hogwarts had stopped being a museum and started being a home, albeit a home where the drafty corridors occasionally whispered your name.
Vega stood in the Entrance Hall, reading the new parchment pinned to the notice board. The ink was still glistening, surrounded by a crowd of students jostling for position.
"Dueling Club," Cyrus Greengrass read over Vega's shoulder, his breath pluming in the chill air. "Finally. I was beginning to think we'd spend the entire year turning teacups into tortoises."
"It's open to all years?" Barty Crouch Jr. asked nervously, peering through the gap between two seventh-years. "That doesn't seem safe. What if a sixth year decides to practice a Blasting Curse on a first year?"
Vega turned away from the board. The Hum in his blood was rising again, that familiar, electric itch that always accompanied the prospect of kinetic magic. "Flitwick is running it. He won't let anyone get maimed. Bruised, perhaps, but not maimed."
"He was a World Champion," Cyrus reminded them as they headed toward the dungeons to drop off their books. "The man defeated Dolohov in forty-two seconds. I doubt he believes in safety rails."
"Good," Vega grinned, the Quetzalcoatl feather in his sleeve waking up with a hungry trill. "Safety rails are for people who plan on falling."
That evening, the Great Hall had been transformed. The long house tables were gone, vanished into the ether. In their place, a long, gilded stage ran down the center of the room, lit by thousands of floating candles that burned with a fierce, excited brightness.
The room was packed. Nearly the entire school had turned out, a sea of black robes buzzing with chatter. The air smelled of ozone, floor wax, and the distinct, metallic tang of adrenaline.
"Look at him," Rhea whispered, nudging Vega.
Professor Flitwick stood on the stage. He had shed his usual teaching robes for a fitted dueling vest of dragon-hide and silk. He didn't look like the cheerful, squeaky Charms master who stacked books to see over the lectern. He stood with his feet apart, his wand held loosely at his side, radiating a calm, terrifying competence.
"Welcome!" Flitwick's voice boomed, magically amplified to cut through the noise. "To the Dueling Club! Here, we do not brew. We do not transcribe. Here, we test the speed of thought in in battle.
He paced the stage, his movement fluid and predatory.
"Dueling is not about anger. It is about strategy. It is about vectors, timing, and the economy of motion. A wild caster is a dead caster. A precise caster is a champion."
He stopped, scanning the crowd.
"I need a volunteer. Someone to demonstrate the standard opening stance and the Disarming Charm."
A hand shot up from the Slytherin knot.
"Mr. Rosier," Flitwick nodded. "Come up."
Evan Rosier vaulted onto the stage. He was a stocky boy with a square jaw and the confident swagger of a pureblood. He drew his wand—blackthorn, likely—and bowed with a flourish that was a bit too theatrical.
"Scared, Rosier?" a Gryffindor shouted.
"Terrified," Rosier sneered back, taking his stance.
"Face me" Flitwick instructed. "Bow. Wands at the ready. On my count."
Vega watched intently. Rosier's stance was solid, but heavy. He planted his feet like he was bracing for a storm.
Static, Vega analyzed. He's rooting himself.
"One. Two. Three!"
"Expelliarmus!" Rosier shouted.
His cast was powerful—a jagged bolt of red light that roared across the stage.
Flitwick didn't block. He didn't cast a shield. He simply... wasn't there anymore.
With a movement too fast to track, the tiny professor sidestepped. He didn't jump; he flowed around the bolt of light like water moving around a rock. The spell splashed harmlessly against the back wall.
"Too slow!" Flitwick chirped, already behind Rosier. He flicked his wand. A jet of white light clipped Rosier's wrist.
The boy's wand flew into the air, spinning end over end, and Flitwick caught it with his free hand.
The hall erupted in cheers.
"Strategy!" Flitwick shouted, tossing the wand back to a flushed Rosier. "I didn't overpower him. I outmaneuvered him. Now! Pair up! Find a partner of similar size. Wands out!"
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The air in the Great Hall smelled of ozone and the sharp, coppery tang of adrenaline that always accompanied teenage boys trying to hurt each other.
Vega stood at the edge of the Slytherin cluster, watching the chaos. Beside him, Cyrus Greengrass was meticulously cleaning his glasses, refusing to look at the stage where a Hufflepuff sixth-year was currently trying to regrow his eyebrows after a botched Fire-Making Spell.
"This is barbaric," Cyrus muttered. "We have wands capable of rewriting the laws of nature, and we use them to shove each other around like Muggles in a pub brawl."
"It's not a brawl, Cyrus," Vega said, his eyes scanning the crowd. "It's a stress test."
The Hum in his blood was awake. It wasn't the contented purr of the classroom; it was a low, jagged vibration that started at the base of his spine and prickled along his arms. His Quetzalcoatl wand, tucked into his sleeve, felt warm against his skin, vibrating with a hungry, restless energy.
The hall dissolved into chaos. Students scrambled to find partners, wands drawn, shouting challenges.
"Greengrass," Vega said, turning to Cyrus.
"Not a chance," Cyrus said, backing away. "I saw you blow up that feather in Charms. I value my eyebrows.
"Black."
The voice cut through the noise like a serrated blade.
Vega turned.
Evan Rosier stood there. He was big for a third-year—broad-shouldered, heavy-set, with a jaw that looked like it had been chiseled out of granite. He was flanked by Mulciber and Avery.
Rosier was a third-year. He was two years older, six inches taller, and about thirty pounds heavier than Vega. In the magical world, age wasn't just a number; it was metabolic maturity. A third-year's core had settled. Their channels were wider. They could push more power without burning out.
Rosier saw Vega looking and his eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, the crowd parting around him.
"I hear you've been busy," Rosier said, stepping into Vega's personal space. He smelled of expensive cologne and smoke. "Top of Transfiguration. Flitwick's pet in Charms. Slughorn's little investment project."
"I like to keep busy, Evan," Vega replied evenly. He didn't step back. To step back was to show weakness. "Idle hands do the devil's work, after all."
"My father says Arcturus is keeping you on a short leash," Rosier sneered, his wand twirling lazily in his fingers. "Says you're soft. Raised in libraries, not the real world."
He gestured to the dueling stage with his chin.
"Let's see if the Heir Ring actually does anything, or if it's just jewelry."
The crowd around them went quiet. The chatter died down, replaced by the heavy, expectant silence of a circle forming. Even the Gryffindors nearby stopped talking to watch.
Vega looked at the stage. Then he looked at Rosier.
He could refuse. He could cite the age difference—a first-year against a third-year was objectively stupid odds. A third-year had a stabilized core, wider magical channels, and two years of muscle memory on him.
But the Black family motto wasn't Toujours Prudent.
"It keeps my finger warm," Vega replied smoothly, stepping into the space cleared by the terrified first years. "But if you want a lesson, Evan, I charge by the hour."
Rosier's face darkened. "Get up there."
They climbed onto the stage. The wood creaked under Rosier's boots. Under Vega's, it was silent.
They squared off. The noise of the hall faded into a dull roar. Vega felt the Hum in his blood sharpen.
As he looked at Rosier, Vega realized the disadvantage. Rosier was planted like an oak tree. His magical signature was dense, heavy, and aggressive. If Vega tried to block a direct hit from a third-year, his shield would shatter, and probably his arm with it.
Professor Flitwick hurried over, looking tiny between them. He glanced from the hulking Rosier to the slender Vega, his brow furrowed.
"Mr. Rosier, Mr. Black," Flitwick squeaked. "There is a significant age gap here. I expect a clean spar. Disarming only. No contact spells. No breaking bones."
"Of course, Professor," Rosier smiled. It was a shark's smile. "Just a friendly demonstration."
"Bow," Flitwick ordered, backing away to the edge of the platform.
Rosier offered a stiff, mocking inclination of his head.
Vega bowed properly. He bent at the waist, his eyes never leaving Rosier's wand hand.
"On three," Flitwick called. "One. Two..."
"Flipendo!" Rosier roared.
He cast on two.
The spell didn't look like the light pushes they practiced in class. It looked like a cannonball made of distorted air. It tore across the stage with a shriek, aimed directly at Vega's chest.
Vega didn't think. The Hum took over.
He didn't shield—a first-year Protego would shatter like glass against that kind of mass.
He moved.
Subconsciously, his Metamorphmagus physiology shifted. His bones lightened, his joints loosened. He dropped his center of gravity and threw himself to the left in a slide that was unnaturally fast.
The spell missed him by inches. It slammed into the air where his ribs had been a second ago, the shockwave ruffling his hair. It hit the stage floor behind him, gouging a furrow in the gilded wood.
"Stand still, you little rat!" Rosier shouted, pivoting.
"Everte Statum!"
Another blast of orange light. Rosier wasn't aiming; he was suppressing. He was filling the air with violence.
Vega rolled, coming up on one knee. He snapped his wand forward.
"Rictusempra!"
His silver spell shot out, fast and sharp. It hit Rosier—and bounced.
Rosier hadn't even dodged. He had lazily flicked up a Protego, a shimmering blue wall of force. Vega's hex splashed against it like water against a stone.
Too heavy, Vega realized, his heart hammering against his ribs. His core is too dense. I can't punch through.
"Is that it?" Rosier laughed. He advanced down the stage, stepping heavy. Thud. Thud.
"Incarcerous!"
Thick, black ropes shot from his wand tip, writhing like vipers.
Vega danced back. He slashed his wand in a tight arc.
"Diffindo!"
The Cutting Charm severed the lead rope, the fibers snapping with a sound like a whip crack, but two more lashed past his ear.
He was running out of stage. Rosier was herding him. The older boy was a turret—planted, stable, firing heavy artillery. Vega was a leaf in a storm.
"Expulso!"
The Explosive Curse hit the floor by Vega's feet.
BOOM.
Wood splinters sprayed upward. The force of the blast lifted Vega off his feet and threw him backward. He landed hard on his shoulder, rolling instinctively to absorb the impact, but the breath was knocked out of him.
The crowd gasped.
"Yield, Black!" Rosier shouted, aiming his wand at Vega's prone form. "Admit you're out of your depth!"
Vega scrambled up, wheezing. His shoulder throbbed. The dust from the explosion coated his tongue.
He looked at Rosier. The boy was confident. He was winding up for a finisher, his arm drawn back, his chest exposed. He was relying on his shield, relying on his power, relying on the fact that Vega couldn't hurt him.
He's playing checkers, Vega thought, spitting out a woodchip. He thinks this is about force.
Vega felt the Quetzalcoatl feather in his sleeve. It was screaming. It hated being pinned. It wanted to move.
Wind, it urged. Not a wall. A current.
Vega narrowed his eyes. He didn't look at Rosier's face. He looked at his feet.
Rosier stepped forward, planting his right boot heavily to brace for the recoil of his next spell.
There.
Vega didn't cast a hex. He didn't cast a jinx.
He cast a vector.
"Ventus!" Vega whispered.
He didn't spray the air. He used the aperture Flitwick had taught him. He focused the magic down to a needle-point, aiming precisely at the floorboards directly beneath Rosier's lead foot.
The blast of compressed air hit the wood like a landmine.
It didn't hurt Rosier, but it removed the friction under his boot.
Rosier's boot slid out as if he had stepped on a patch of invisible ice.
His leg went wide. His center of gravity collapsed instantly. The heavy Banishing Charm he was casting went wild, firing straight up into the rafters and blowing a shower of dust down onto the crowd.
Rosier flailed, his arms pinwheeling as he tried to find purchase on the suddenly frictionless floor.
Vega stopped moving. He planted his feet. The Hum settled into a cold, hard focus.
Now.
He pointed his wand at Rosier's chest.
"Felixempra"
The Cheering Charm. But he didn't cast it to make Rosier happy. He poured his intent into it.
Laugh, Vega commanded silently. Laugh until you choke.
The pink light hit Rosier square in the solar plexus while his shield was down.
Rosier collapsed onto his back, gasping. He tried to shout in anger, but the sound strangled in his throat.
"Get—hah!—off—hahaha!"
Rosier curled into a ball, clutching his ribs. He wasn't giggling. He was spasming. Massive, heaving gales of laughter ripped through him, seizing his diaphragm, watering his eyes, robbing him of oxygen. He tried to raise his wand, but his arm was shaking so hard with mirth that he couldn't aim.
"Stop!" Rosier wheezed, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. "I can't—breathe—hahaha!"
The hall was dead silent, watching the big third-year writhe on the floor in a fit of aggressive joy.
Vega walked over. He moved calmly, stepping past the flailing legs. He stopped over Rosier, looking down.
"Expelliarmus."
It was a casual flick.
Rosier's blackthorn wand hopped out of his trembling hand and slapped into Vega's palm.
Vega stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his nose. He held both wands up.
"Finite Incantatem," Flitwick's voice squeaked from the sidelines.
The spell lifted instantly.
Rosier lay on the floor, panting. He sounded like a bellows that had been pumped too hard. He wiped tears from his eyes, coughing as his lungs remembered how to work properly.
He looked up at Vega.
For a long, tense moment, Rosier's face was a mask of fury. The humiliation was palpable—beaten by a first-year, laid out laughing in front of the whole school. His hand twitched toward his empty holster.
Then, Rosier let out a long, ragged exhale. The tension broke.
"You..." Rosier wheezed, sitting up and rubbing his ribs. "You little bastard. You made me laugh? In a duel?"
"It disrupted your breathing," Vega said, offering the blackthorn wand back handle-first. "Can't shout incantations if you can't inhale, Evan."
Flashback, October 28, 1969, The Slytherin Common Room
Vega sat in his usual high-backed chair, legs crossed, a heavy, leather-bound tome resting on his knee. The book, Psychosomatic Charms of the 18th Century—was not on the first-year reading list. In fact, it wasn't on the reading list at all; Vega had found it in the 5th year Section for Charm. Madam Pince had only allowed him to borrow it after he convinced her that he needed to research "historical treatments for melancholia" for a History essay.
He was reading about the Charm of Elation, the precursor to the modern Cheering Charm. The text was dry, full of warnings about "hysteria" and "diaphragmatic spasms,"
The spell does not create happiness, the author noted. The subject does not smile because they are amused; they smile because their mind has lost the ability to regulate the impulse.
Vega looked at Barty. The boy was miserable, curled into a ball of anxiety over Transfiguration homework.
"Barty," Vega said softly.
"What?" Barty mumbled into his sleeves.
"Sit up. I want to try something."
Barty lifted his head warily. "Is it going to hurt?"
"Define hurt," Cyrus interjected helpfully.
"It's a mood regulator," Vega lied smoothly, pulling his wand. "I've been reading about it. It should help with the anxiety. Clear the mental fog so you can write about the Moonstone."
Barty hesitated, eyeing the wand. "You promise it won't turn me purple?"
"Scout's honor," Vega grinned.
He didn't use the standard wand movement—a lazy swish. He used the modification he'd found in the footnotes. A sharp, upward jab, like conducting a staccato note.
He focused on the Hum in his blood. He didn't want a gentle lift; he wanted a surge.
"Felixempra."
The spell hit Barty square in the chest. It wasn't a beam of light; it was a ripple of pink warmth that seemed to soak into his robes.
Barty blinked.
The tension in his shoulders dropped instantly. The leg stopped bouncing. His mouth hung open slightly, his eyes widening as the chemical flood hit his brain.
"Oh," Barty whispered.
Then, a giggle escaped him. It was a high, wet sound, like a bubble popping.
"Oh, that's... that's funny," Barty gasped.
"What is?" Cyrus asked, leaning forward.
Barty Crouch Jr., the most neurotic student in Slytherin, slid out of his chair and onto the rug, howling with laughter. He clutched his stomach, tears streaming down his face. He rolled over, kicking his legs, making sounds that were half-scream, half-joy.
"Look at the breathing," Vega murmured to Cyrus. "He can't inhale fully. The diaphragm is locked in a spasm of mirth. If I sustained this for five minutes, he'd pass out from hypoxia."
Cyrus looked at Barty, who was now pounding the floor with his fist, turning a concerning shade of beet-red.
"You weaponized a Cheering Charm," Cyrus said, looking at Vega with a mix of horror and admiration. "You actually looked at a spell designed to make people happy and thought, 'How can I use this to asphyxiate my enemies?'"
"I didn't say asphyxiate," Vega corrected, watching Barty try to crawl back to his chair. "I said incapacitate. It's a non-lethal takedown. Highly efficient."
Flashback End
Rosier looked at the wand. Then he looked at Vega's hand.
He took the wand. His grip was firm.
"That floor trick," Rosier grunted, hauling himself to his feet. He towered over Vega again, but the looming threat was gone. "That wasn't in the textbook."
"Balance" Vega said, holstering his own wand. "You plant your feet too hard. You're a boulder, Rosier."
Rosier snorted. He dusted off his robes, regaining some of his swagger.
"Don't get cocky, Black," Rosier muttered, though there was a glint of respect in his eyes. "Next time, I'll glue my boots to the floor."
"Next time," Vega promised, "I'll just turn the floor into quicksand."
"Mr. Black! Mr. Rosier!" Flitwick was beaming, bouncing on his toes. "Excellent! A tactical application of the Cheering Charm! Ten points to Slytherin for creativity! Though perhaps next time, Mr. Black, aim for a Stunner. Hysteria is a messy way to win."
Vega stepped down from the stage. His legs felt like jelly. The adrenaline crash was hitting him hard now, making his hands shake.
Cyrus and Barty were waiting for him. Barty looked terrified. Cyrus looked delighted.
"You are insane," Cyrus whispered, steering Vega toward a bench. "You actually fought him. I thought he was going to turn you into paste."
"He almost did," Vega admitted, wincing as he touched his bruised shoulder. "He hits like a troll."
"But you won," Barty said, staring at Vega with wide eyes. "You beat a third-year."
"I survived a third-year," Vega corrected, taking a deep breath of the ozone-scented air. "There's a difference."
He looked across the hall.
Bellatrix was standing in the shadows near the entrance. She wasn't cheering. She was watching him with her head tilted to the side, her heavy-lidded eyes unreadable. She tapped her wand against her lips, then turned and slipped out of the hall.
Vega touched the Ring.
He had passed the stress test. But as he watched his cousin disappear into the dark, he could feel much more was to come.