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“Filius? Are you here?”
Pomona Sprout’s voice, usually so confident, was now hesitant as she called her companion’s name.
She and Filius had known each other too well, for such a long time, that she knew the Charms Master would be found in the far edge of the Trophy Room, on October 10th, staring at his own Duelling Championship trophy at exactly 8:19 p.m.
He didn’t answer her call; he just kept staring at the golden trophy with disdain, his usually cheerful face twisted into something angry and sorrowful.
Was he having regrets for the trophy, or for himself? Pomona couldn't say. What she could do, same as always, was approach him quietly and stand nearby as he went on with this eerie ritual.
Every year, on October 10th, at exactly 8:19 p.m, he was reliving the day he reached the top of the world and tumbled off it, too.
***
“Duelists, on your marks!”
The arbiter's voice, clear, carrying no room for nonsense, echoed through the hall, and young Filius Flitwick did as he was told.
He stood on his designated spot atop the duelling platform, taking in the scent of the torchlights used to illuminate the stage: burned wax and tallow, enhanced by the sheer number of additional torchlights and candles used for more light.
This was the last match of the championship. It was held in Hogwarts, and so the hall was packed with young students, professors, and other influential individuals seeking to learn from the event or just to admire the competitors' skill sets.
The young man pulled his pocket watch out and glanced at the time: 8:19 p.m. Just one minute before their match officially commenced.
He lifted his head and looked at his opponent. Ivan Dolohov: a few years younger than him. An overconfident Slytherin who thought that his status made him special.
This man had never given Filius a moment of respite since the day he set foot in Hogwarts. He always had a cutting remark about the Ravenclaw. Dolohov and his friends found it difficult to mock Filius for his intellectual capacity, so they usually aimed barbs at his stature, his roots, and everything else they thought he was lacking.
Pureblooded students hardly accepted those of lesser lineage, after all, and a student of partial goblin heritage like him was only at the brunt end of endless taunts.
And yet, here they stood, the last opponents vying for the same trophy of excellence.
“Bow to your opponent!”
The arbiter's second instruction; Filius knew well how to follow instructions. For seven years at Hogwarts, he had done so without fail.
He had been taught to obey: Keep your head down, his elders had told him whenever he complained about the injustice going on among the student body. Don’t cause trouble for yourself. Just follow the school’s established rules and you will be fine.
But a mind like his could never be bent just to meet expectations; a mind like his was destined to invent and thrive and prove itself to be creative. It was made to find beauty in the way magic unravelled and gave away its secrets whenever he sought them.
Filius was the kind of person who rearranged magic to please his curiosity; keeping his head down didn’t really suit him.
“As if I’d bow to a goblin,” Dolohov sneered, making Filius’s heritage sound like an insult. His friends, below the duelling platform, on his side, clapped and hollered.
On Filius’s side – almost empty of supporters, but for a few of his fellow Ravenclaws, some Gryffindors from the duelling lessons, and Pomona, who never failed to offer a loud, compassionate support during their time as students – silence reigned. A heavy, anticipatory silence. As if the world held its breath for his sake.
Filius still bowed gracefully, because that was the rule of duelling: Present yourself to your opponent with good grace, no matter what.
“Wands up!”
He inhaled deeply; his lungs filled with oxygen, and he willed his mind to clear from all the frantic thoughts in it. His mind drifted to spells that he had already mastered, spending countless nights practising on his own in the Room of Requirement, because who would openly place their faith in a half-goblin these days, and the frustration when his timing was less than impeccable–
“On the count of three! One–”
His right hand clenched at the base of his wand; his thumb felt the subtle engraving on the handle, so well-made it could pass as the wand’s inbuilt decoration.
We forge and we endure.
His mind felt less burdened as he thumbed the familiar words.
“Two–”
He looked at Dolohov, who seemed too confident, certain in his privilege.
Filius knew better than to rely on privilege to show his worth.
“Three-”
A red flash sailed immediately past the arbiter, who jumped out of the line of fire. A Stupefy; seemingly a harmless spell, but Dolohov’s strategy was to treat every spell he cast like a lethal weapon.
Filius barely made it into raising a shield with Protego; the spell ricocheted off before it hit him, and instead flew over the spectators, who lowered their heads. He had been anticipating that Dolohov wouldn’t follow the rules.
No one corrected him, anyway; commencing the duel before the instruction should result in a reprimand, but no one did so.
“Well done, goblin,” Dolohov sneered, moments before launching into a continuous flurry of Stupefy spells. To Filius, that felt unoriginal, but the attacks were swift and with intent, their magic singing over his head as if Dolohov meant to maim him instead of duelling fair and square.
Filius parried once, twice, his shield shifting subtly whenever his opponent wielded his wand this way or that. Under Protego’s silvery light, he could see how the man across him was starting to lose patience.
“Fight me, goblin!” Dolohov said with an air of confidence he hadn’t strived to earn. “Is this how you’ll win the championship? Pathetic–”
“Everte Statum!”
The shield dissipated, and the golden light that erupted from Filius’s wand hit his opponent squarely on the chest. Dolohov grunted as he was forcibly pushed backwards, landing on his rear.
His friends fell silent; the first offensive from Filius found its mark without fail.
“Damn you–”
“On your feet, Mister Dolohov,” Filius cut him off carefully, his voice even – but he couldn’t help the satisfaction he felt when his arrogant opponent hit the ground. “You will have time to insult me later.”
Filius waited patiently for his opponent to stand on his feet again; that was the right thing to do. But he noticed that Dolohov wasn’t sneering anymore; his lazy smile had vanished, replaced by a look of cold fury.
Their clash had just stopped being a game.
The next spells fired from both sides without preamble. Dolohov retaliated for the embarrassment with Impedimenta, which would have rendered Filius immobile, if he hadn’t had the idea to use Geminio. Dolohov hesitated, gripping onto his wand a moment longer than necessary as he tried to discern which one was the real opponent and which one was the illusion.
Then he decided that using fire –such an inelegant, devastating way to exchange blows in what should be like a choreographed sequence– would be a good idea.
The next hex coming out of Dolohov's wand wasn't quite an Incendio, even though the incantation was the same. Filius didn't recognise the wand motion, and the flame that came out was large-scale, erupting towards him and the illusion Geminio had created like an explosion. He smelled something burning, and he realised that a spark had singed his clothes.
Someone from the crowd murmured how using variations of spells was against the rules, but the cheers from Dolohov's side were much louder, drowning the protests of the few.
Filius looked at the arbiter; the arbiter remained silent.
So that was how this was: injustice wasn't always loud. Sometimes, injustice was all about remaining silent.
”What's the matter, midget?” Dolohov sneered, every trace of civility now gone. Filius felt his whole body tighten into something unpleasant; this word –he’d heard it hurled at him so many times during his time at school. For each bit of praise frugally given by his professors, there would always be this harsh word whispered at him in inconspicuous moments.
“Giving up already? Or do you think you can win a duel with shields and pretty illusions?”
Filius's hand gripped his wand so hard that he felt the skin over the knuckles ache.
He took a deep breath, willing himself not to respond to this taunt. He remembered his father.
Be precise, and be the best. That is how you will earn your place.
The light green of Diffindo cut his musing short; Dolohov wielded his wand again and again, casting the slicing charm in quick succession. He wasn't even careful about it; he just sliced, sliced, sliced, aiming at anything that could incapacitate Filius enough to render him unable to duel.
Filius responded with a combination of Confundo, to stop his opponent for a moment, and then a three-spell combination of Expelliarmus, Relashio and Accio. Dolohov evaded the first by stepping to the side, but the second spell hit at his knuckles, sending his wand dropping –and then flying straight into Filius's expecting hand.
A grave insult for any duelist, to have his wand taken from them; the Slytherins from Dolohov's side stared in silence with their favourite, who gritted his teeth.
From Filius's side, Pomona was heard cheering, and he tilted his head to give her the first tentative smile of the evening.
“You little bastard–” Dolohov hissed, his patience fully gone now that he was so thoroughly humiliated. “Goblin scum–”
At that moment, something crystallised in Filius's head, something hard, borne from years of being called names by people who tried half as hard as him and yet dared to flaunt their unearned privileges to his face. He needed to win this duel once and for all; he needed to prove that he was the best duellist, a man people would one day look up to.
This time, he didn't wait for Dolohov to get up with his usual civility.
His Diffindo was accurate like a scalpel, slicing three times cleanly across Dolohov's right arm. The man let out a grunt; the slicing was deep enough to tear through clothes and find muscle with precision.
Be precise.
The arbiter cleared his throat, but Filius didn't think this time, when he lifted his left hand –the one that held onto Dolohov's wand like precious loot– and used that wand for an Incendio.
The spell hit its mark, as expected, but something felt terribly wrong.
For one, the silence stretched, the lack of reaction from the audience eerily unfitting to the moment.
Then came the smell; burnt, like singed flesh.
Then Dolohov screamed bloody murder as his hand caught on fire. Filius, ever the precise one, made one miscalculation that almost burned his opponent down, and for one horrible moment, he didn't react at all. He let Dolohov shout.
Precision matters, Filius was always told, and he remembered that. What he failed to remember was that intention also matters, and for one regrettable moment, Filius had intended to cause harm.
Amidst the chaos that erupted –the professors who stepped up to help Dolohov, the arbiter who shakily handed the Duelling championship trophy to the victor, and the burnt smell that still filled his nostrils–, Filius found that this particular victory tasted like the loss of his innocence.
***
“You should stop punishing yourself.” Pomona's voice anchored Filius to the present, and he tore his eyes off the trophy.
“I am just reminding myself, Pomona,” he replied calmly.
He glanced at his pocket watch; it was 8:19 p.m on October 10th, and the smell of Dolohov's burnt hand still lingered in his memory, years later.
So he stood there, looking at the trophy.