The hall was grand and ancient, its vaulted ceilings adorned with banners from every wizarding school across Europe, rippling as if stirred by an unseen breeze. Bright torches lined the stone walls, casting warm, golden light across the polished floor, which was marked with faded chalk lines — evidence of a hundred years of duels fought within these very walls. The crowd was buzzing with anticipation, a sea of colorful robes and eager whispers, their eyes fixed on the center of the chamber where the last duel was about to begin.

At one end of the dueling platform stood Fillius Flitwick, a tiny figure, barely reaching the shoulder of his opponent. His dark hair glistened under the torchlight, and his robes, though plain, were impeccably tailored. He held his wand, a slender piece of yew wood, delicately between his fingers, with the tip already crackling with faint blue sparks. Though diminutive in stature, Flitwick's eyes gleamed with fierce determination and a quiet confidence that could only come from years of mastering his craft.

Across from him was Antonin Dolohov, a towering figure with broad shoulders and a sharp, cruel face. He had a sharp face with dark eyes that glinted maliciously beneath his thick, dark brows, and his mouth twisted into a smirk, as if he already considered the duel won. Dolohov’s wand, made of a gnarled black wood, seemed to pulse with dark energy, and the air around him felt heavier, almost oppressive.

The duel was the final event of the European Duelling Championship, a competition that had tested the finest witches and wizards across the continent. This wasn’t just a matter of pride — it was a battle to claim the title of the greatest duelist in Europe, a title that carried immense honor and prestige. Flitwick had fought his way through duel after duel, relying on a blend of quick thinking, nimble reflexes, and an extraordinary knowledge of spells. His small size and seemingly gentle demeanor had often led his opponents to underestimate him — a mistake that had cost them dearly.

"Contestants, take your places," the announcer's voice echoed through the chamber, bouncing off the walls like a drumbeat.

Flitwick took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him. He looked across the platform at Dolohov, who gave him a sneer, and felt the familiar surge of magic within him rise to the surface. He’d been in countless duels before, but this—this was different. His entire career had led to this moment, this final duel, and he could feel the eyes of his former professors, his peers, and even his students upon him.

“Begin!”

Dolohov struck first. His wand moved in a blur, and a jet of fiery orange light shot across the platform like a whip. Flitwick was ready. He flicked his wand with a quick, graceful motion, summoning a shimmering blue shield just in time to deflect the spell. The orange flame curled harmlessly away, fizzling out against the stone floor.

Dolohov's smirk faltered, and he stepped forward, launching a barrage of spells in rapid succession. Bolts of fire, streams of ice, and sharp, cutting winds erupted from his wand, filling the air with crackling energy. The crowd gasped as the platform became a storm of magic, but Flitwick moved like a dancer, his feet light and quick, his wand flicking with precision. Flitwick swiftly countered each of Dolohov’s attacks, either deflecting or dodging them entirely, leaving the larger man visibly frustrated.

Then, in a surprising twist, Flitwick took the offensive. He jabbed his wand toward the ground, sending a ripple of energy through the stone floor. The platform trembled, and with a sharp crack, pillars of rock shot up around Dolohov, trapping him in a makeshift cage. Dolohov let out a growl of annoyance, slashing through the stone with a powerful cutting curse. But Flitwick didn’t stop. With a graceful wave of his wand, the air around Dolohov thickened, transforming into a swirling vortex of wind, lifting the larger man off his feet and tossing him about like a rag doll.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Dolohov, however, was no ordinary opponent. With a furious roar, he slashed his wand through the air, breaking free of the wind’s grasp, and retaliated with a dark, jagged curse that shot toward Flitwick like a spear. It was a deadly spell, one designed to cause maximum pain, and for a brief moment, the crowd held its breath.

But Flitwick was quicker. He sidestepped the curse with barely an inch to spare and countered with a flick of his wand. A flash of silver light burst from his wand, striking Dolohov square in the chest. Dolohov stumbled, his smirk now completely gone, replaced with a look of shock and fury.

“You think you can defeat me, little man?” Dolohov snarled, his voice low and menacing.

Flitwick’s face remained calm, his wand held steady. “Size does not determine strength,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd. “Skill does.”

Dolohov let out a guttural laugh, but there was an edge of desperation in his voice now. He raised his wand high, gathering a tremendous amount of dark energy, and with a bellow, sent a wave of black, crackling magic surging toward Flitwick, the force of it causing the very air to tremble.

But Flitwick was already moving. He darted forward, faster than anyone could have expected, his wand a blur of motion. In a single, fluid movement, he cast a complex series of spells, weaving them together with breathtaking speed and precision. A shimmering wall of light formed in front of him, absorbing the dark magic and dispersing it harmlessly into the air. Then, with a final, sharp flick of his wrist, Flitwick sent a burst of pure blue energy toward Dolohov.

The spell hit Dolohov with the force of a battering ram. The force of a battering ram hit Dolohov, throwing him backward and causing his wand to fly from his hand as he crashed into the ground with a thud. Dolohov, sprawled on the floor and defeated, left the crowd in awe.

For a moment, there was silence. The air was thick with disbelief—no one had expected the duel to end so quickly, nor with such a decisive victory. Slowly, Dolohov pushed himself up, his face a mask of fury and humiliation, but it was clear the duel was over. He had been bested.

Fillius Flitwick stood in the center of the platform, his wand still held at the ready, though his expression was calm. He looked down at Dolohov with a mixture of pity and quiet satisfaction. The crowd roared, the cheers echoing through the hall, growing louder with each passing second.

The announcer’s voice rang out over the noise. “The winner, and the new European Duelling Champion—Fillius Flitwick!”

Flitwick lowered his wand, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as the reality of his victory began to sink in. He had done it. He had won.

As the applause continued, Flitwick turned his gaze to the spectators. He caught sight of familiar faces—his old mentor, Professor Dumbledore, smiling warmly from the balcony, and a group of young students from Hogwarts, cheering and waving wildly. His heart swelled with pride, but not for the title he had just claimed. No, it was for the journey that had led him here—the years of study, the countless hours spent perfecting his craft, and the belief that, no matter how small or insignificant others might think him, he had the power to stand tall among the greatest witches and wizards of his time.

Dolohov, still seething with rage, stumbled to his feet and stormed off the platform without a word. The crowd barely noticed him leave. All eyes were on Flitwick, the champion who had proven that skill, wit, and determination were far more powerful than brute strength and size.

As the cheers finally died down, Flitwick allowed himself a small sigh of relief. He knew he would be remembered for this duel, certainly—but more importantly, he knew that he had stayed true to himself, and that was a victory far greater than any title.