Arthur Belmont-Prince and The Cursed Mirror: Harry Potter Fanfiction

If I thought I was going to get a quiet transition back into normal school life after the whole accidental-troll-slaying thing, I was horribly mistaken.

Because—and this was the part the professors didn't predict—ghosts? They have zero concept of keeping things quiet.

The Bloody Baron? Nearly headless with excitement.

Sir Nicholas? Telling everyone in the Great Hall about my "chivalrous bravery."

The Fat Friar? Praising Elias like he single-handedly saved Hogwarts from a troll invasion.

And Peeves?

Oh, Peeves was having a field day.

"BIG, BOLD BELMONT, SLICED THE TROLL! NORTHIE BOY WITH THE SPARKS SO BRIGHT—OH WHAT A HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE SIGHT!"

Which, thanks to Peeves' volume control issues, was now an unofficial Hogwarts anthem.

Needless to say, the professors were not pleased.

McGonagall looked like she wanted to banish all ghosts to another dimension.

Slughorn spent an entire Potions lesson muttering, "Oh dear, oh dear," every time he looked at me.

Lily Potter looked… well, she still looked mildly suspicious of me, but that was normal.

Dumbledore just twinkled knowingly over his goblet at dinner, which was somehow more unsettling than everything else combined.

Which brings us two days later to me sitting across from Aunt Iris in her dimly lit office was, without a doubt, worse than fighting a troll.

And considering said troll had tried to turn my head into a pancake, that was saying something.

See, I'd been in plenty of uncomfortable situations at Hogwarts already—

• Getting sorted into Slytherin as a half-blood? Weird.

• Flying lessons on a broom that definitely had a grudge against me? Unpleasant.

• Fighting a fully-grown mountain troll without a single useful spell? Horrifying.

But this?

This was worse.

Aunt Iris wasn't yelling.

She wasn't slamming her hands on the desk or dramatically threatening to disown me.

No.

She was just staring at me, her expression unreadable, her desk so clean it was practically glaring at me.

And that was terrifying.

I swallowed. "Sooo… Before we start, can I just say that, technically, I survived? Which means whatever I did wasn't that bad?"

Aunt Iris took a slow, measured breath. Not a sigh. No, this was the inhale of a woman who was actively restraining herself from murdering her own nephew.

"Arthur," she said, her voice smooth and unreadable. "I should have been here."

Okay. That was not what I was expecting.

"Wait… what?"

"I was away that day," she continued, folding her hands over her desk. "Meeting your uncle."

I blinked. "Wait. The uncle? The one who sends me all the cool stuff?"

A faint smirk tugged at her lips. "Yes. That one."

Alright. Now she had my attention.

Got it! Here's a reworked version that fits better with Arthur's situation:

The mysterious uncle I'd only heard about in passing, the one Aunt Iris mentioned once or twice but never in detail. I'd never met him, never even seen a picture, but somehow—somehow—he already knew exactly what I liked.

The guy had sent me top-tier Quidditch gloves before I even knew what position I'd play. A rare Romanian wizarding chess set when I casually mentioned to Aunt Iris that I liked strategy games. Even a leather-bound book on dueling techniques, which now seemed alarmingly relevant.

So, yeah. The man had taste. And resources.

I leaned forward. "Okay, so… what's the deal? Is he a secret agent? A treasure hunter? Some kind of wizarding arms dealer?"

Aunt Iris actually laughed.

"You'll find out this summer," she said smoothly.

I narrowed my eyes. "...So, I am still going?"

"Oh, absolutely." Then her voice dropped into something a little more dangerous. "Though after that little stunt with the troll, I did consider keeping you locked in the manor all summer."

Okay. That seemed a little dramatic.

"But," she continued, her tone shifting back to calm authority, "I've heard exactly what you did. Fighting a troll. Wielding a sword. Of all things."

"In my defense," I said quickly, "it worked."

She gave me The Look.

The one that could melt through solid steel.

"…But it wasn't my smartest choice," I added hurriedly.

"That's an understatement," she muttered, rubbing her temples. Then, just as I was preparing for the Worst Lecture of My Life™, her expression softened.

"You are not your father, Arthur."

That one hit hard.

My stomach did a weird, unpleasant sort of twist.

Aunt Iris sighed, leaning back in her chair. "But you have his instincts. You act when others hesitate. That's why I'm proud of you."

Hold on.

"You're… proud?"

"Oh, I'm furious," she clarified. "But I understand why you did it. And I know you can do better."

I squinted at her. "That feels like a trap."

She smirked. "It is."

Then she casually dropped a bombshell.

"I called in a favor with Professor Flitwick."

My stomach dropped.

Oh, no.

I eyed her suspiciously pristine desk, half-expecting some terrifying tome titled Dueling for Disasters: A Beginner's Guide to Not Dying Horribly.

"Your 'detention' has been reassigned," she said smoothly. "To Flitwick's private dueling sessions."

I blinked.

"That's my punishment?"

She smiled—way too innocently.

"No, dear. That's your training. Your detention is for the rest of the school year."

I nearly choked, processing my imminent doom, trying to decide if dueling training with Flitwick counted as a reward or an elaborate plot to break my soul, when Aunt Iris casually leaned forward and dropped another bombshell.

"Oh, and before I forget," she said, opening a mahogany chest by her desk, "you'll need this."

With a flick of her wand, she levitated a sleek, glossy broomstick out of the chest and let it hover right in front of me.

I blinked.

My brain short-circuited.

This wasn't just any broom.

This was the Nimbus 2001—the latest, fastest, most expensive broom to hit the wizarding market. The kind of broom only seen in professional Quidditch matches or hoarded by rich kids who didn't deserve them.

I reached out, half-expecting it to vanish in a puff of smoke.

"You got me a Nimbus 2001?" I asked, voice dangerously close to reverence.

Aunt Iris smirked. "I need you to crush the enemy team in the upcoming match. Slytherin versus Hufflepuff. First game of the season."

I could barely hear her over the sound of every Quidditch-related neuron in my brain exploding at once.

I mean—holy Slughorn's cauldron.

The Nimbus 2001.

This thing had acceleration so sharp it could make your stomach drop. It had built-in stabilization charms. It had a grip enchanted to adjust to your hands.

It was like being handed Excalibur, except instead of slaying monsters, I was supposed to snatch a tiny golden ball out of the sky at breakneck speeds.

"Wait," I said, brain finally catching up. "You're just giving this to me?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Did you expect me to let you fly on that ancient Cleansweep Five? That thing belongs in a museum."

"I mean, I was gonna suffer through it," I said, still half-convinced this was a trick. "You didn't even yell at me properly for the whole troll incident, and now you're bribing me with high-end Quidditch gear?"

She gave me a sharp smile. "It's not a bribe. It's an investment."

That sent a very specific chill down my spine.

Because when Slytherins used the word investment, it usually meant: I expect results.

I gripped the Nimbus 2001, feeling the polished wood warm slightly under my fingertips, and tried to process everything at once.

I had detention for the rest of the year—which, in Hogwarts time, might as well be a life sentence.

I had mandatory dueling sessions with Professor Flitwick, which was… both terrifying and kind of awesome.

And now, apparently, I had a broomstick that cost more than my entire wardrobe combined back in romania.

This was a lot to take in before breakfast.

I exhaled slowly, turning the broom over in my hands. "Alright, let's assume for a second that I don't completely humiliate myself in front of the entire school during this match. Hypothetically. What happens if I do well? If I, I don't know… win?"

Aunt Iris's smirk widened. "Then you prove to everyone that a Prince isn't just a name. That you're more than the boy who survived a troll attack."

I frowned. "I didn't just survive it—I took it down."

"Which is exactly why the entire castle won't stop talking about you," she pointed out, standing up and moving toward the window. The early morning light framed her figure as she looked down over the Hogwarts grounds. "Your father was a great wizard, Arthur. Respected. Feared. Admired. But the world doesn't just see you as his son. They see potential. Some are hoping you'll be the next great hero. Others are waiting for you to fall."

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. "No pressure or anything."

She turned back to me, expression unreadable. "Pressure makes diamonds, Arthur."

I let out a slow whistle. "Wow. That was good. Do you practice these lines in the mirror?"

She rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of amusement there. "You should go. Get some breakfast before your training starts. Flitwick expects you in the dueling hall by noon."

I stood, still holding the Nimbus 2001 like I was afraid it would vanish if I let go. Before I reached the door, though, Aunt Iris spoke again.

"Oh, and Arthur?"

I glanced back.

"Make sure you win."

I left her office, still feeling the weight of that final word ringing in my ears.

Win.

Right. Easy.

She'd made it sound so simple. So inevitable. Like she already expected me to dominate the pitch, outmaneuver a third-year Seeker and to outfly Hufflepuff, impress the entire school, and somehow live up to the impossible expectations set by my last name. No big deal.

As I stepped into the Great Hall, I was immediately hit with a wall of noise. Whispers. Murmurs. The kind of hushed, secretive talk that usually meant someone had seriously screwed up—You've either done something remarkably impressive or insanely reckless

It took me all of two seconds to realize which category I fell into.

I walked past a group of Ravenclaws, and one of them—not even bothering to be subtle—elbowed her friend and whispered, That's him.

A trio of older Gryffindors gawked as I passed, then immediately launched into a hushed argument.

"I heard he fought the troll alone."

"No, North was there! He used some insane spell—"

"But it was Prince who took it down!"

"I heard he used a real sword—"

"No way!"

"Then how do you explain the broken chandelier? The ghosts saw everything!"

I kept my expression neutral, head down, pace steady, but internally?

Oh, this was bad.

Nothing to see here, folks. Just your average first-year Slytherin who may or may not have traumatized half the school by going full medieval on a mountain troll.

Fantastic.

I pushed open the doors to the Great Hall, already bracing for whatever chaos awaited me inside.

And sure enough—

The moment I stepped in, the hush was deafening.

Heads whipped around. Conversations flatlined mid-sentence. I swear, I could hear forks clattering against plates as students openly gawked at me, their expressions ranging from awed to suspicious to downright scandalized.

Even the ghosts hovering near the ceiling halted mid-glide to stare. Sir Nicholas actually did a double-take, which, considering he didn't technically have a working neck, was impressive.

At the Slytherin table, a few older students smirked, sending approving glances my way—like I'd just passed some unspoken test. Over at the Gryffindor table, Elias was already mid-bite into a piece of toast, spotted me, and immediately started choking.

Classic.

I strode over, Nimbus 2001 still in hand, and dropped into the seat across from him.

Elias, after an aggressive coughing fit, gaped at me. "Mate. What did she do to you?"

Caitlyn, sitting a few seats away at the Hufflepuff table, lowered her book and raised an eyebrow. "Judging by that broom, I'd say she didn't punish him. She weaponized him."

Elias wiped at his mouth with his sleeve, eyes flicking between me and the very expensive, very illegal-for-first-years-to-own broomstick in my hands. "Okay, so either you just robbed Quality Quidditch Supplies, or your aunt has a really twisted definition of punishment."

"Neither," I said, shoving a piece of toast into my mouth. "She just expects me to single-handedly destroy Hufflepuff next match, no pressure or anything."

Elias let out a low whistle. "So, no actual yelling? No detention?"

"Oh, no, I still have detention," I said, swallowing. "For the rest of the school year."

Elias nearly choked again. "The rest of the year?! How are you not panicking?!"

"Because it's not really detention," Caitlyn said smoothly, turning another page in her book. "It's dueling lessons, isn't it?"

I sighed. "Yep. Private training with Flitwick. Starts today."

Elias looked torn between jealousy and horror. "Wait, so your punishment is learning how to win fights? That's not a punishment, that's a reward!"

"Yeah, try telling that to my future bruises," I muttered.

Caitlyn glanced at the broom, then at me. "So let me get this straight. You took down a troll, survived, got rewarded with elite combat training, and now you've got one of the best brooms in the world."

I shrugged. "Basically."

She shut her book. "I hate you."

Before I could reply, a shadow loomed over us.

Cedric Diggory.

Now, let me just clarify something—Cedric wasn't a bad guy. In fact, he was infuriatingly nice. But today, he looked less like Hogwarts' golden boy and more like a guy who just realized his team was about to have a very bad day.

He nodded at the broom. "Heard you got a Nimbus 2001."

I tilted my head. "Heard you're my competition."

His mouth twitched. "Seems that way."

Elias nudged me. "You do realize Cedric's been playing for Hufflepuff since last year, right?"

"Oh, I know," I said, turning back to Cedric. "And you do realize I just got handed a broom that can break the sound barrier?"

His grin widened. "Then this should be fun."

Oh, I was going to make this personal.

As Cedric walked off, Elias gave me a look. "Mate. You just challenged Cedric Diggory."

"Yeah," I said, shoving another piece of toast in my mouth. "Because I'm going to win."

Caitlyn sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Slytherins."

By the time I made it down to the Dueling Hall, I'd already gone through the five stages of grief.

Denial: There's no way Aunt Iris is making me duel as punishment. Maybe this is all just a misunderstanding.

Anger: She actually set me up! I knew Slytherins played the long game, but this is ridiculous.

Bargaining: Maybe if I grovel, Flitwick will go easy on me? Maybe if I pretend to faint, I can get out of this?

Depression: I am going to die, and Elias is going to inherit my Romanian chess set.

Acceptance: Welp. Might as well go down dramatically.

The Dueling Hall was massive—tall stone walls, banners swaying lightly with the occasional gust of magic, and a polished floor that had probably seen centuries of wizards blasting each other across the room.

Flitwick was already waiting for me at the center, beaming up at me like this was going to be the highlight of his week.

"Ah, Mr. Belmont! Right on time!"

I tried not to let my voice crack. "Professor, be honest with me. What are my actual odds of survival?"

Flitwick chuckled, adjusting his sleeves. "Oh, I'd say fair—if you're quick on your feet and smarter than your opponent."

"Fantastic," I muttered. "That means I'm doomed."

He was about to respond when the heavy wooden doors at the far end of the hall creaked open.

A voice rang out, sing-song sweet—and way too cheerful.

"Surprise, Baby Snake."

There stood Caitlyn Ollivander—fifth-year Hufflepuff, wand-wielding terror, and apparently a proud owner of mischievous eyes that practically sparkled under the torchlight. She gave me a smirk so smug, I could feel my shoulders tense in self-defense.

"You've got to be kidding me," I groaned. "Ollivander—how in Merlin's name did you end up here?"

She stepped forward, wand idly twisting between her long fingers. "I volunteered, obviously." She paused just long enough to grin even wider, raising one eyebrow. "Professor Black wrote me an owl this morning, said you needed some advanced correction to go along with your new… self-defense regimen."

I spread my arms in outrage. "I'm a first-year! This is supposed to be training, not murder by upperclassman."

Caitlyn flicked a stray bit of lint off her sleeve. "Murder? No, no, dear Prince." She gave me that wide-eyed, faux-innocent look. "I'm just here to 'knock some sense into your thick skull,' as your aunt put it."

I let out a low groan, glancing at Flitwick. "Professor, is this really necessary?"

Flitwick, still far too amused, spread his hands in a placating gesture. "Now, now, Mr. Prince. Miss Ollivander is one of the best duelers in her year. What better way to learn than from a more experienced opponent?"

Caitlyn bowed dramatically, her long hair swinging around her shoulders. "I even canceled a perfectly good hour of doing nothing to be here."

"That's so considerate," I muttered. "Next time, remind me to fake an illness."

She tsked, eyeing me from head to toe. "Oh, Prince, I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Flitwick insisted on explaining "the basics of safe dueling," which Caitlyn and I both pretended to listen to. Let's be honest, though: she looked bored, and I was too busy panicking about being totally outmatched.

But after five minutes of cheerful instruction, Flitwick clapped his hands, guiding us to the center of the hall.

"Now!" he squeaked, positively delighted. "Wands at the ready. We'll keep it simple: disarming, mild knockbacks—no advanced spells, please." He shot a pointed look at Caitlyn, who shrugged casually. "We don't want our new pupil in the infirmary on day one!"

She rolled her eyes. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Try not to kill me, okay?" I asked under my breath.

Her grin sharpened. "I make no promises, Prince."

We faced each other, wands raised. Flitwick stepped back, clasping his own wand behind him like a referee in a championship match.

"All right, then," he said brightly. "Three… two… one… Begin!"

Arthur had exactly one second to realize this was a bad idea.

The moment Flitwick dropped his hand, Caitlyn's wand flicked up, and a jet of red light came streaking toward him—fast, bright, and way too direct for comfort.

"Expelliarmus!"

Arthur barely had time to think.

His legs tensed, and before he even understood why, his body moved—low, fast, twisting sideways.

The spell sizzled past his shoulder, so close that he felt the heat of it in his ribs.

His foot hit the stone floor, steadying him, breath shallow—

What was that?

He wasn't dodging like a trained duelist. He had never trained.

But he had moved—before he knew he was going to move.

Caitlyn hesitated just long enough to confirm she had not expected him to avoid that.

And then, her wand snapped forward again.

"Flipendo!"

Blue light.

It was coming fast. No time to dodge.

A sharp jolt ran through his chest—something like pressure—like his whole body was being pushed forward by something invisible.

And then—

A whisper.

Rough. Low. Almost… familiar.

"Remember."

Arthur's grip tightened around his wand.

The spell hit him—but not fully.

He had already moved before it struck, stepping into the attack instead of away from it. The impact sent him into a rough roll, tumbling across the stone, but instead of sprawling uselessly, he let it carry him back onto his feet.

Breathing hard. Wand still in his grip.

There was a long silence.

Caitlyn had stopped moving.

Flitwick was watching him very closely.

"Interesting," the professor murmured.

"Interesting?" Arthur thought, trying to catch his breath. I nearly got launched across the room.

Caitlyn gave him a strange look—not quite annoyed, not quite impressed. "Alright, Baby Snake. Let's see how far that luck goes."

Arthur barely had time to think before Caitlyn attacked again.

This time, he moved first.

Close the gap.

His instincts screamed at him—don't let her cast freely.

His wand snapped up, aiming for her feet—

But Caitlyn was too quick.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Arthur's chest seized. That was bad.

No dodging this one.

Another jolt—like something deep inside was yanking his body forward.

"Use it."

His grip locked around his wand.

It felt different. Solid. Like he'd held it a thousand times before.

Caitlyn's wand swung down—too fast—

"Flipendo!"

Her spell landed first.

A full knockback jinx right to the chest.

The world tilted—then slammed.

Arthur hit the stone floor, sliding backward, wand slipping from his fingers. His vision spun, his ribs ached, and for a long, dizzy moment, he just lay there.

The whispers were gone.

But something had changed.

"What was that?"

Caitlyn stepped over, hands on her hips, panting slightly now.

"Yeah," she muttered. "You're weird."

Arthur groaned. "Thanks."

Flitwick approached, eyes bright with curiosity.

"That," he said, almost to himself, "was… remarkable."

Caitlyn squinted at Arthur. "So, do I win?"

Flitwick chuckled. "I would say yes."

Arthur sighed, dragging a hand over his face.

"Great. First duel ever, and I still lost."

But somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that the real fight had only just begun.