The first full day began crisp and early. I rolled out of bed before dawn and spent the extra time reviewing my Transfiguration notes. My spellwork had sharpened over the summer, but I intended to push it to perfection this year. After breakfast, we had Charms and Arithmancy—a challenging pairing, but nothing I wasn't ready for. Professor Beery raised an eyebrow as I cast a flawless Fire-Making Spell before he even finished the incantation.
Arithmancy followed, Professor Soul Croaker giving us a knowing smirk before introducing recursive magical matrices. The classroom had changed somehow over the summer—warded, perhaps. The energy tingled. I sat beside Eleanor, who whispered, "He's gotten even stricter," before we launched into calculations that felt more like puzzle-solving than arithmetic.
After dinner, Edgar caught my sleeve on the way to the library. "Come on," he murmured. "I want to show you something. But you can't tell anyone. Not even Beery."
He led us through twisting corridors, past an empty armor gallery, and finally to a narrow passage hidden behind a tapestry of Emeric the Evil. With a password whispered in Latin—"Duellum Veritas"—the stones shifted and opened to reveal a steep, torch-lit stairwell.
At the bottom: a broad chamber, its walls carved with dueling lanes, and enchantments humming faintly in the air. A dozen or more students trained there already—fifth through seventh years mostly. Some were practicing hex deflections; others traded curses in swift, silent exchanges that crackled with precision. I recognized a few of them from classes—one of the older Slytherin prefects nodded curtly at Edgar.
"This," Edgar whispered with pride, "is the Club."
I didn't need to ask what kind. The air crackled with magical intensity. And I knew—this year, things were about to become far more interesting.
The torchlight flickered against the aged stone, casting warped shadows across the dueling lanes. Edgar introduced me briefly to the other members, who eyed me with a mix of skepticism and polite indifference. A fourth-year—especially one just returning from summer—hardly caused a stir among seventh-years accustomed to swift, brutal duels.
"Let him try," came a casual voice from the far end of the chamber. The speaker was a tall Gryffindor seventh-year named Percival Dawlish. I'd heard his name before in passing—competent, confident, and loud.
"Come on then, Starborn," he said, rolling his shoulders and stepping onto the nearest dueling platform. "Let's see what three years of formal schooling and two extra inches of height get you."
There were snickers, but Edgar just stepped back, arms folded, lips tight with anticipation. I ascended the dueling platform in silence, drawing my wand not with hesitation but with purpose. I didn't need theatrics. Dumbledore had taught me efficiency. Precision.
We bowed.
"Begin."
He opened with a textbook Disarming Charm, fast and forceful. I flicked my wand in a tight arc and batted it aside—not shielded, but redirected, just like Dumbledore had shown me. The spell struck the wall behind me with a dull spark.
Before he could adjust, I responded with a rapid sequence—**Expelliarmus**, **Incarcerous**, **Ventus**—tight, layered spellcasting. He blocked the first, got tangled momentarily by the second, and was pushed back by the third, robes snapping as wind roared up between us.
He looked surprised now. Not angry—impressed.
"Alright then," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
We went on for three minutes, our duel crackling with hexes, counters, and charmwork that blurred in speed. I used **Glacius** to freeze the floor under his feet, transfigured a stone into a buzzing distraction mid-air, and twisted his **Stupefy** into a crackling sphere of red energy that I hurled back at him with **Oppugno**. That particular maneuver brought gasps.
When it ended, he stood across from me, chest heaving, and nodded once. "You're trained. Dueling coach?"
"No," I said quietly. "Dumbledore."
That got a reaction.
Two sixth-years stepped forward next, clearly intrigued. One was a Ravenclaw girl named Mireille Selwyn a cousin of Edgar, quick with jinxes, and the other a broad-shouldered Slytherin named Corwin Travers. They wanted turns.
I gave them both what they asked for.
With Mireille, it was finesse—countering complex curse sequences with graceful flourishes, using **Protego Maxima** to absorb and twist a chain hex back toward her. She landed a minor sting on my shoulder, but I caught her with a well-placed **Langlock** followed by a conjured whip of rope that yanked her wand away.
Corwin was all brute force—bludgeoning spells and explosive hexes. I had to shift tactics, resorting to battlefield control. I turned the flagstones at his feet to jagged spikes with **Lapidera**, used **Arresto Momentum** on incoming attacks, and ended the duel with a nonverbal **Stupefy** while he was still untangling from the ground shift.
When I stepped down from the dueling platform at last, a hush had settled over the room. No one was smirking now. Eyes followed me as I rejoined Edgar at the edge, my wand humming with leftover magic.
"That," Edgar whispered, "was bloody brilliant."
I merely nodded, breath steady. This was the fruit of three years with Dumbledore—refinement, control, creativity. And even then, I knew I was only beginning to scratch the surface.
The walk back to the dormitory was a quiet one, our footsteps echoing softly against the flagstones of the castle corridors. None of us spoke until we passed through the library wing and into the Ravenclaw Tower stairwell.
Elizabeth broke the silence first. "You didn't just win those duels, Marcus. You dominated."
Henry, always skeptical of flattery, gave me a sidelong look. "Some of those spells… I've never even seen them in the curriculum."
I gave a small shrug. "They're there. Just… not where most people look. You'd be surprised what's buried in older texts, if you bother to read beyond what Flitwick assigns."
Eleanor was still watching me with a raised brow. "You used Lapidera. That's a modified terrain transfiguration. Who even *teaches* that?"
"They don't," I said. "Dumbledore hinted at it once. I figured it out over the summer."
Edgar just chuckled and clapped me on the back. "Well, congratulations. I think you've officially terrified half the upper years."
We separated not long after—Henry and Edgar off to Gryffindor Tower, Eleanor and Elizabeth to the girls' wing of Ravenclaw. I returned to my dorm alone, letting the quiet of the castle settle around me.
The glow from the enchanted window lit my desk as I sat down, wand resting on the tabletop. I replayed the duels in my mind—not for pride, but for refinement. Every movement, every cast. The way Dawlish adjusted his footing after my second barrage. The fraction of a second Mireille hesitated before countering. The way Travers's power dropped the moment he had to shift footing.
I made notes. Improvements. Adjustments.
And then I let the wand lie still and leaned back in my chair.
There was a growing clarity in my magic now—a sense of internal rhythm and timing that I hadn't had before. Not just reflexes, but instinct, honed through repetition and creativity.
Dumbledore had once said that great duellists were not defined by their repertoire, but by how fluidly they adapted mid-conflict. I was beginning to understand that. I was no longer casting spells. I was weaving intent.
And still, I knew—I was far from done.
I had no illusions that I was invincible. But I had walked into a room full of seventh-years and left with their respect. That meant something. Not just to them—but to me.
I extinguished the light with a soft wave of my hand and climbed into bed, letting the darkness of the dorm wrap around me like a familiar cloak.
The torches flickered lazily in the dim stillness of the Chamber, casting long shadows on ancient, snake-carved pillars. The silence was heavy, reverent, broken only by the soft echo of my boots as I crossed the stone floor toward the far wall—where the portrait of Salazar Slytherin awaited me.
He had stirred as I entered, his serpentine eyes gleaming in the dark, his hands folded neatly over the silver serpent inlaid on the green velvet of his robes. There was no need for words of greeting between us anymore.
«You return with intent in your step, heir,» he hissed in Parseltongue, voice silken and coiled like a serpent at rest. «Speak. What progress have you made?»
I straightened my spine. I had waited for this moment—almost a year of relentless effort had finally come to this quiet report. «I have done as you advised. I've taken the last months and focused on mastery—true mastery—of Transfiguration, Charms, and Runes.»
He gave a nod so faint I might've imagined it, but the interest in his eyes sharpened. «Begin.»
I took a breath. «Transfiguration first. I pushed myself through all material taught up to the fifth year—animating inanimate objects, vanishing spells, conjurations, partial transfigurations, human transfiguration theory—everything. I even practiced dual-casting transformations under pressure. I won't say I'm a master, but I've moved past textbook boundaries.»
A soft hiss of approval. «Transfiguration is one of the higher disciplines of modern magic. And charms?»
«I took February and focused only on Charms. Summoning, Banishing, environmental manipulations, enhancement charms, duplication spells, area-effect charms... I've trained enough to wield most with ease. Including the Patronus.»
His eyes glinted with something between amusement and pride. «You cast a Patronus? At your age?»
«A corporeal one,» I nodded. «A phoenix.» He was silent for a moment at that. I added quietly, «I know what that means. I've looked into it.»
«Indeed you have,» he said finally, leaning back. «And the runes?»
«I began in June. Celtic runes came first—Ogham. I learned how to bind intention into rune scripts and manipulate ambient magical fields through traditional methods. I studied the oldest rune-lore treatises in the Hogwarts library and translated them myself using your books. Then Egyptian—hieroglyphic runes used in wardcraft, enchantments, and sigil arrays. I experimented with inked spell-scripts and etched matrices. Norse was last—Elder Futhark, Galdrastafir. I combined rune circles with practical spells and even tried to etch a stability glyph onto my wand for better resonance.»
Salazar gave a long, thoughtful hum. «Then you've gone far beyond the average fourth-year. Even beyond most adults in these fields. You've done well, Marcus.»
I felt the warmth of those words settle low in my chest. Coming from anyone else, they might've been just praise. From him, they were recognition.
«What now?» I asked, eyes narrowing slightly. «I've done what you suggested. I've kept the obscure magicks to a minimum—just four hours a week, as agreed. But you've watched me. You've seen what I've been reading—parselmagic, pre-Roman wandless magicks, essence-bound wards, and elemental bindings. I want to delve deeper.»
His smile was subtle, unreadable. «And you shall. But this discipline, the modern forms, must serve as your foundation. To walk without stumbling in the darkness of what was forgotten, you must have full command of what is known.»
I nodded slowly. I had suspected he'd say something like that. «Then you agree I've met the requirement?»
«You've met the minimum I demanded. The rest is practice, refinement, adaptation. But you are ready to begin integrating the obscure teachings—slowly. Intelligently. Now that you understand the limits of modern magic, you can break them properly.»
«What of my role?» I asked, more softly. «In the wizarding world. In the Wizengamot. As a Starborn. As your heir.»
That silenced the chamber. Salazar's expression shifted—something colder, more ancient in his face.
«That path is not written, Marcus,» he said finally. «But it will be forged in your name. The House of Starborn stood beside mine before the founding of this school. You bear more than one legacy—your family, your name, and the magic in your blood. You are no mere student of Hogwarts. You are one of the few still capable of reshaping the world.»
I swallowed. It wasn't pride or ambition I felt. It was the weight of inevitability.
«But your choices,» he added, leaning forward again, «must be your own. Make them with wisdom, not pride. Let your magic be a tool, not your master. Learn from others—yes, even those who disagree with you. It is not power that will elevate you. It is how you wield it.»
I breathed out slowly. «I understand.»
He nodded once. «Then go. Continue your studies. And return to me when you are ready to test the edges of the old ways. The deeper parselmagicks. The soulwork. The ancient bindings. I will not stop you.»
I turned to leave then, my footsteps echoing lightly as I made my way back through the quiet, slumbering bones of the Chamber. The torches behind me dimmed with distance, until all I could hear was the soft rustling of stone snakes and the whispers of old magic humming in the walls.