[Third Person POV]
The following day, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were still visibly disheartened. Their expressions carried that unmistakable look of frustration that came from realizing all their late-night speculations, whispered theories, and hours spent poring over dusty books had been for nothing. After all that effort to uncover who Nicholas Flamel was, it turned out they could've simply asked Arthur and gotten an answer immediately. The thought made Ron groan every few minutes while Hermione muttered to herself about "misallocated research priorities," and Harry just sat there looking half-annoyed, half-defeated.
Everyone, including Arthur's group, had gathered inside the Room of Requirement. The space had reshaped itself into a mix of a lounge room and a training space. It was a large round room lit by hovering candlelight, the scent of parchment and tea lingering in the air. Soft armchairs and cushions were scattered about, books piled carelessly in the corners. Gwyneth sat cross-legged on a soft carpet, her head comfortably resting on Merlin's lap while she held a book open in front of her face. The soft rustle of turning pages mixed with the faint hum of whispered conversation from the Golden Trio nearby, who were still debating furiously about the Philosopher's Stone and their continued suspicion of Professor Snape.
Merlin's eyes drifted down toward the book Gwyneth was reading. The familiar cover caught her attention, and she recognized it almost instantly—it was the same fencing manual Arthur had given Gwyneth for Christmas. The corners of Merlin's lips curved upward in mild amusement.
"Did you actually enjoy that book?" Merlin asked, her tone carrying a mixture of curiosity and playfulness.
Gwyneth's eyes brightened as she sat up slightly, tilting the book toward her. "It's not much of a book, really—it's more like moving pictures and sketches. See?" she said, pointing at the pages where elegant figures seemed to glide across the paper, fencing with fluid grace.
Merlin leaned in to take a better look. The drawings were charmed, the duelists moving like dancers locked in rhythm. The illustrations shimmered faintly in the light, every movement deliberate, graceful, almost mesmerizing.
"It looks almost… beautiful," Gwyneth murmured, her voice quiet with awe. "It's like they're dancing."
"Do you like dancing, then?" Merlin asked softly, studying her expression.
"I'm not sure," Gwyneth admitted with a small laugh. "I've never really tried it before, not properly anyway. I just thought it looked pretty, so I tried following the steps once in my room. Nearly tripped and fell flat on my face." She gave a bashful smile, cheeks tinged pink. "Then my brother walked in and started laughing at me, so I gave up after that."
Merlin chuckled under her breath, brushing a lock of Gwyneth's hair behind her ear. "Why even bother, then?" she asked, though her tone carried no judgment—just genuine curiosity.
Gwyneth hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the corner of the page. "…For Arthur and Lance," she said at last, voice small and uncertain. "I just… I want to understand them better. They always seem happiest when they're talking about swords or sparring or training. I don't really get what's so exciting about it, but I thought maybe if I studied it—if I learned what they love—then maybe I'd finally understand. Maybe we could be closer friends."
Her words faded into a whisper, and her face turned red as she quickly added, "Don't laugh, alright?"
Merlin smiled, shaking her head gently. "I'm not laughing," she said, her tone sincere. "In fact, I think it's admirable that you'd go to such lengths just to connect with them. But…" Her gaze softened. "Even if you read that book front to back, unless you understand what a sword means to them, you'll never truly get it."
Gwyneth blinked, looking up at her with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. "What do you mean?"
Merlin sighed lightly and leaned back against the chair. "You're probably thinking that boys just like sharp, shiny objects and swinging them around for fun, right?"
"I mean…" Gwyneth's lips twitched into a guilty smile. "I won't deny it."
"But it means so much more than that to them." Merlin's tone changed—quieter now, deeper. "Take Arthur, for example. Training isn't just a hobby for him—it's an outlet. It's his way of dealing with grief, with the loss of his parents and sister he's been carrying for years."
Gwyneth's eyes widened in disbelief. "Arthur had a sister?" she asked, her tone hushed but full of shock.
Merlin closed her eyes briefly, realizing she'd said too much. "It's not my place to tell that story," she said quietly. "But just know this—when Arthur trains, he's not doing it to show off or because its simply cool. For him, every swing of his sword is a promise—a way to protect what little he has left. Swordsmanship isn't just technique or discipline. To him, it's purpose. It's protection. It's a way to make sure he never loses anyone again. It makes him feel secure so he loves it"
Gwyneth lowered her gaze, her fingers tracing the outline of the fencing figures on the page. The charmed duelists continued their graceful, endless battle—each thrust and parry now carrying a weight she hadn't noticed before.
"…I see…" Gwyneth murmured softly, her voice almost reverent. "I had no idea… That's so beautiful." Her fingers brushed lightly over the illustrated figures fencing on the open page. "I never realized that swinging a stick around could hold such meaning—such emotion. I always thought it was just a silly boy thing."
Before Merlin could respond, a sharp whistle cut through the air. Both girls turned toward the sound to see Ron, hand still at his mouth, motioning wildly at them.
"Oi! What in Merlin's name are those two doughnuts doing?" Ron asked, pointing toward the center of the room where Arthur and Lance stood locked in complete stillness. The two boys faced each other with silent intensity, their wooden practice swords raised but unmoving. "They've been standing like that for—what—two minutes now?"
Everyone's attention shifted toward them. The tension between Arthur and Lance was almost tangible1. Lance held his sword close to eye level, his posture sharp and calculated. Arthur, by contrast, held two—one angled high above his head, the other low and defensive. Their stances mirrored their personalities perfectly: Lance measured and technical, Arthur fierce and unpredictable.
"Oh, that," Gwyneth replied casually, though her tone carried a spark of excitement. "Lance got a bit upset that Arthur held back during their first duel. So now he wants to face Arthur at full strength—to see how big the gap really is between them."
Ron blinked. Before he could say anything, the air between the two shattered with movement.
Arthur lunged first, his twin blades flashing as they cut through the space with terrifying speed.
Lance's eyes widened—he barely had time to bring his sword up in defense. The wooden weapons clashed in a rapid staccato rhythm—
CLAK–CLAK–CLAK!
Each impact reverberated through the room, sharp and clean, like steel striking steel despite their training blades being wood.
Lance stumbled back under the sheer pressure of Arthur's assault. Arthur moved like a storm—each strike flowed into the next, relentless and precise. Lance's footing faltered as he tried to counter, his movements growing more frantic with every swing.
The Golden Trio watched in stunned silence. Hermione's jaw had gone slack; Harry and Ron leaned forward instinctively, eyes wide.
"Blimey…" Ron breathed. "Is he even human?"
Arthur closed in again, feinting left before spinning on his heel and striking from the opposite side. Lance barely managed to block—and even then, the impact sent tremors up his arm. Arthur didn't stop; he pressed forward with a sudden burst of power, then leapt.
Both his feet shot forward, landing a spinning double kick right into Lance's chest. The hit sent Lance flying backward, tumbling across the mat before sliding to a stop.
"Whoa…" Harry and Ron said at the same time, voices full of awe. They'd heard about their sparring matches before, but seeing it in person was something else entirely.
Lance coughed and pushed himself up to one knee, leaning on his sword for balance. Despite the blow, his eyes were shining. "Cool…" he muttered under his breath, a grin creeping onto his face.
Arthur stood tall, spinning his wooden blades once before settling back into his stance.
Lance smirked, rolling his shoulders. He charged. But before he could close the distance, Arthur suddenly tossed one of his swords straight at him. The move caught Lance off guard; his eyes widened as the spinning weapon hurtled toward his face.
"Oi—!" Lance reacted on instinct, deflecting the blade with a swift parry. When he looked back—Arthur was gone.
A split second later, a shadow loomed overhead.
Arthur had leapt high into the air, catching his falling sword mid-spin. His entire body rotated downward like a blur, spiraling with both swords extended. The movement was dazzling—a perfect combination of grace and raw strength, like a living cyclone descending from above.
Lance barely managed to dive backward, sliding across the floor as Arthur's spinning strike cut through the space where he'd just been. The impact sent a burst of air rolling through the room.
When the dust settled, Arthur was crouched low, both blades crossed before him, his breathing steady but intense.
Lance stared at him for a long moment, chest heaving. Then, slowly, he grinned. "Okay… that was insane."
Arthur rose to his feet, turning toward him triumphantly—only for his balance to falter.
"Whoa—"
He stumbled forward and hit the ground face-first with a loud thud.
"…"
The room went silent for a beat. Then Arthur lifted his hand weakly, holding up one finger. "Hold on—give me a second. I made myself dizzy doing that."
The students burst into laughter. Gwyneth covered her mouth, trying not to snort; Hermione's giggle escaped before she could stop it.
Lance planted his sword in the floor and sighed in disbelief, though his grin never faded. "You're unbelievable."
Arthur lifted his head just enough to glare at him. "What? It looked cool."
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