Following him, Gilderoy soon found himself standing in a small, circular courtyard. Flitwick gestured for him to step onto the center, and as they did, black tendrils of magic erupted from the ground around them. They twisted together into a lift, which started moving in downward direction.
The lift slowed as it descended into a massive, dome-like structure, and Gilderoy forgot to blink as the sheer grandeur of the room unfolded before him.
The curved surface above didn't resemble glass, nor any projection in the normal sense; instead, the dome itself was enchanted like a living page, its surface divided into broad sections that slowly revolved along its curvature.
One segment displayed a formal photograph and the name of the current French Minister of Magic, Camille Rousseau, rendered in the crisp, animated style of a wizarding newspaper illustration. Beneath it, the letters "Incanté, Envouté, Conjuré" shimmered faintly. Another panel traced constellations, stars connected with pale lines, mapping the night sky with quiet precision.
Farther along, magical beasts appeared in still frames, their wings folding, eyes blinking, each movement minimal yet unmistakably alive
Between these sections, figures danced with ethereal grace, slender and almost otherworldly.
Veela, perhaps, he thought, noting their effortless motion as the sketches passed before him.
What Gilderoy realized was that everything was drifting onward with the dome's slow revolution, creating the impression that the dome itself was in motion.
Light filtered in from beyond the dome, a cool, pale white glow washing gently over the chamber. It wasn't harsh but mild and cool, leaving the space calming rather than imposing—the kind of design meant to impress without overwhelming.
It feels like standing inside one of those massive dome theatres back in my world. My mind settles strangely easy just looking at it. Guess J.K. wasn't exaggerating when she wrote that the French loved flair and beauty—their Ministry is undeniably easy on the eyes.
As they approached the reception desk, the receptionist looked up, dark hair neatly secured in a bun. "Bienvenue au Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France," she said smoothly, her voice lilting in French. "Monsieur, puis-je savoir votre raison de visite ??"
"Ehh… bonjour, madame," Gilderoy faltered, fumbling for words as he blurted out the only French he'd learned in his lifetime.
Seeing his struggle, the receptionist's expression softened.
"Ah—English?" she said, switching instantly. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magical Affairs of France."
"Thank you," Gilderoy said, relief evident as he inclined his head politely. "Could you please tell me where I can verify my registration for the dueling tournament?"
She nodded. "Follow the third corridor to the left from this main dome. It will take you to the Bureau des Jeux et des Sports Magiques. They handle all tournament registrations."
"Thank you," Gilderoy said, giving a polite nod.
She offered a small smile and a nod in return, and without another word, returned to her stack of parchment.
Gilderoy glanced at Flitwick. "Third left," he repeated, already heading that way, excitement twisting through him as the faintly filtered pale light of the dome washed over the polished floors.
Flitwick stayed outside in the corridor while Gilderoy stepped into the registration hall dome. The room was alive with movement—queues of wizards and witches from across the world, dressed in robes of every imaginable style, most in Muggle clothing, all around his age.
A Ministry employee glanced at the list for Britain, noting only a handful of names. When he found Gilderoy's, he looked up. "Do you use a wand?"
"Yes".
The employee ran the wand across a strange brass-and-glass device that hummed and vibrated faintly, its inner mechanisms shifting as it scanned the core and length with practiced precision. A thin slip of parchment slid out, which he affixed beside Gilderoy's name on the list.
"All set," the employee said, handing Gilderoy his wand along with a small metal badge. "Keep this pinned to your robes at all times. It grants access to the tournament, accommodations, and all associated events."
Gilderoy examined it—a tiny, ornamental piece with Britain etched neatly along its surface. Alongside the badge, the employee placed a single-page brochure and his schedule for the qualifying matches, starting in two days.
So this is it, officially representing Britain now. Not a whim, I've been living as one for months, after all.
He thanked the employee and stepped back into the corridor where Flitwick was waiting.
Reaching the dueling master, he lowered the brochure so Flitwick could see it too. As he opened it, moving images shimmered across the surface, each section independent from the others. One corner showed a miniature, animated map of Place Cachée; another depicted the hotel accommodations in tiny detail; a separate section outlined the tournament rules.
At the top, the logos and names of the various magical organizations overseeing the event were clearly displayed, along with the title: World Duelling Championship Paris 1979(Under 21): Bureau des Jeux et Sports Magiques, the Bureau de la Coopération Magique Internationale, and the ICW.
The two of them made their way to the hotel listed in the brochure to check in, the streets of Place Cachée slowly emptying as the Parisian sun dipped below the horizon, spilling amber light across the stone pavements.
By the time they arrived at Le Gobelet Noir, night had fallen, soft and cool, the lamps outside glowing warmly against the cobbled streets. The hotel itself looked inviting and grandiose.
The dining room was modest but cozy; a low hum of conversation floated from other tables, accompanied by the occasional clink of cutlery against china.
Their eyes darted over the tables as they were led to a small corner booth, noting the way the firelight flickered across the carved wooden panels. The room felt alive yet quiet, giving him space to focus, though his mind kept drifting to the upcoming tournament.
"Tonight," Flitwick turned towards Gilderoy, "Is my treat. Order anything you like—no restrictions. Consider it a pre-tournament reward."
A spark of excitement lit Gilderoy's expression as he grinned. "Since my mentor is offering, I'd be foolish not to take advantage."
Eegh, what am I saying? That sounded like something straight out of a Chinese novel. I mean... I did read countless novels before I got transmigrated here, didn't I?
Flitwick, however, couldn't hide a small chuckle, clearly amused at hearing such a line from Gilderoy.
As the waiter approached, Gilderoy leaned forward, glancing at the menu. "What would you recommend tonight?"
The waiter's lips curved slightly. "For tonight's special: to start, potage de légumes. For the main course, coq au vin, slow-braised in rich wine, accompanied by roasted vegetables. And to drink, a choice of Gillywater, Elf-made wine—or butterbeer, if you prefer something lighter."
"Excellent," Gilderoy replied. "I'll have those, please. And a glass of butterbeer."
Flitwick nodded, his small frame straightening. "I'll take the same dishes, with a glass of Elf-made wine,"
The waiter gave a brief nod and moved away. First, bowls of potage de légumes arrived, steaming gently and sending a comforting aroma of root vegetables and subtle herbs through the air.
Flitwick's Elf-made wine and Gilderoy's butterbeer were placed carefully beside them, completing the table. He dipped his spoon into the potage, savoring the warmth and the delicate balance of flavors. A sip of the butterbeer followed—sweet, slightly fizzy, with a gentle butterscotch taste. He savored it slowly, letting the flavor linger, fully appreciating the drink.
Flitwick lifted his glass of wine, enjoying it with measured sips, a thoughtful expression on his face.
Gilderoy dipped his spoon, savoring the warmth and the subtle flavors.
"Sir… may I ask you a personal question?" His voice was low, hesitant, cautious.
Flitwick looked up, brow raised.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, but it softened quickly. "Depends on the question,"
Gilderoy took a breath. "Could you tell me more about your family. Your Parents."
Flitwick's gaze drifted toward the ceiling for a moment, thoughtful. "Ah… well, I suppose since we've grown closer in these past weeks, I can answer. My father is a goblin, my mother is a human. Both curse breakers by trade. I learned a great deal from them, though I suspect much of it went over my head until years later."
Gilderoy leaned in slightly, fascinated. "The British Ministry treats goblins terribly, right? Calling them 'creatures,' banning them from wands… But you—" He paused briefly, then continued, "You're mixed, you can use wands, you see it from both sides. What is the real situation?"
Flitwick chuckled softly, shaking his head. "The Ministry… well, the British Ministry has long forgotten that not all magic depends on wands. Goblins are capable of wandless magic by nature. While rebellions occurred across the world, Britain remains one of the few countries that punished goblins more harshly—by labeling them creatures and denying them the right to use wands."
He paused, taking a measured sip of his wine. "So British goblins learned instead from their foreign cousins, those who understood both wandless and wand-based magic. They learned quietly, secretly. And because of that long-standing resentment, they do not differentiate between Muggleborns, half-bloods, or purebloods. The bitterness lingers. Left out and dismissed for generations, they have grown cautious—sometimes hostile."
Gilderoy raised an eyebrow, intrigued yet slightly taken aback. "And you're speaking openly about this," he said. "You're… badmouthing goblins to me?"
Flitwick smiled, playful but earnest. "Oh, I assure you, I choose my words carefully. But yes… sometimes, context matters. You see, you cannot train for this world—its magic, its prejudices, its absurdities—without understanding the history behind it"
Gilderoy nodded, taking a slow sip of his butterbeer. His mind wandered briefly, imagining the silent resentment they must carry. Yet purebloods, sitting in the Wizengamot, stripped them of wand rights, called them 'creatures,' and now, holding the vaults, they wield quiet dominion.
How could British wizards be this dumb? Lmao. Every witch and wizard in Britain keep their gold in goblin vaults. If the goblins ever restricted access, the entire country would be reduced to begging within days.
Waiter interjected their conversation bringing their main course: coq au vin, tender chicken braised in rich wine sauce, glistening under the soft candlelight, accompanied by neatly arranged roasted vegetables that carried an earthy, satisfying aroma.
"Enough of this serious conversation," Flitwick said suddenly, snapping him back from his spiraling thoughts.
"The tournament will be tough. You must believe in yourself, understand your own capabilities. Knowledge of the world is useful, but in dueling… it is your skill, your mind, and your endurance that will decide your matches."
---
I will release one additional chapter this week if Stones surpass 100.
Also if stones reach goal, expect 2 chapters per week from now on.
Read Advanced Chapters on Patreon. You can join at any time during the month. I always make sure that Patreon readers stay 4–5 chapters ahead of Webnovel, so you won't miss anything even if you subscribe later in the month.
https://patreon.com/A_Peverel