Gilderoy had made remarkable progress with his basic casting as well as silent casting. His Lumos no longer sputtered, his charms obeyed him without a word and his non-verbal casting had improved drastically.
Amelia finally declared that it was time to take the next step—duelling.
Lockhart stood opposite her in the Room of Requirement, chin lifted in confidence. His wand was steady, stance firm—just as Amelia had drilled into him.
"Ready?" she asked, lips curved into a sly grin that promised trouble.
"Always, my lady," he replied, puffing his chest slightly.
Her wand flicked almost faster than his eyes could follow. A jet of red light burst forth and struck him squarely in the chest before he could even open his mouth for Protego. His body went rigid, vision cut to black, and he felt himself topple like a rag doll.
When his eyes fluttered open, the first thing he saw was Amelia standing over him, wand still trained steadily on his chest, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
"Merlin's balls…" Gilderoy slightly embarrassed looked at Amelia," she stunned me before I could even cast. This is embarrassing being toppled like a wide-eyed first-year in his first duel.
Amelia arched a brow, lowering her wand only slightly. "Honestly, Gilderoy, if you don't want to spend the rest of the year drooling on the floor, you need to learn to react faster."
She offered her hand and pulled him up, still grinning like a cat with cream.
"Lesson one," she said, tugging him closer so he had no choice but to look her straight in the eye. "Don't wait for me to attack. Read my body, my wand, my intent. If you hesitate, you're already beaten."
Gilderoy nodded, determination flickering in his eyes.
The next week was brutal.
Amelia forced him to duel at a moment's notice—sometimes while he was mid-sentence, sometimes as he was reaching for a book, sometimes when he was eating toast.
"Protego!" he silently casted one evening, just in time to block her spell. The shield shimmered, thin but stable. Amelia lowered her wand, nodding approvingly.
"Better. But you're still too slow," she said. "You think before you act. You need to act first."
He sighed, brushing his damp hair back as sweat clung to his forehead. "I know she's training me to improve my reflexes, but does she have to do it like a slave driver?"
Noticing his exasperated look, Amelia gave him a small, guilty smile. "This is how my brother trained me, Gilderoy. It's exhausting, yes—but it works. And I fully intend to make you duel as well as me."
Gilderoy managed a grateful nod. He couldn't deny it—he'd improved a lot over the past week.
And so the drills continued. She made him duel until his arms ached, until sweat ran down his brow, until his hair clung to his forehead. Every time he managed to block her, she raised the stakes—two spells in succession, volleys that forced him to scramble, duck, and retaliate, until instinct and reflex replaced thought.
Through it all, he noticed something: Amelia enjoyed this. Her eyes sparkled with every clash, every counter, every time he nearly outpaced her. That light in her eyes—the challenge, the light blush on her face.
Weeks stretched into months.
Gilderoy's wand moved faster, smoother. He stopped thinking about incantations and started trusting his instincts and intent. Spells leapt from his wand silently now, shields rose without hesitation, counters came sharp and precise.
Amelia drilled him in every trick she knew. Quick disarms, blinding hexes, layered shields.
More than once, he staggered out of the Room of Requirement, robes scorched, and hair singed—but triumphant, and a little more sharper than before.
And Amelia, too, was changing. She no longer held back. When she underestimated him, she lost ground. She attacked harder, cast faster. Their duels grew louder, brighter, faster.
Despite the sweat, the aches, and the constant near-misses, there was an unspoken rhythm forming between them. Moves and countermoves, parries and strikes—it was almost a dance. And though neither admitted it aloud, each pushed the other higher, demanding perfection in a way that was exhilarating, exhausting, and thrillingly personal.
By the end of one particularly grueling session, Gilderoy collapsed against the wall, chest heaving. Amelia leaned on the wall besides him, smirking triumphantly.
"Not bad," she said, her voice teasing. "But remember Gilderoy, you still haven't defeated me yet"
He shot her a mock glare, wiped sweat from his brow, and grinned. "All right, all right… you win today. But next time, my lady, I will have the upper hand."
She shook her head, laughing softly, eyes glinting. "We'll see. One misstep, one hesitation, and it's all over. Are you ready to lose to me again next time?"
He groaned dramatically, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. "I accept your challenge, Bones. Bring it on."
By the time the session ended, he could feel it: the power in his spells, the certainty in his stance, the reflexes that no longer wavered. Amelia had pushed him to the edge—and he had emerged stronger, faster, more confident.