Harry closed the folder and set it aside, his expression thoughtful. The weight of information settled in his mind like pieces on a chessboard, each opponent a variable to be calculated and countered.
"Well?" Sirius asked, dropping into the chair across from him. "What's the damage?"
"Sixteen duelists," Harry said quietly. "Each one dangerous in their own way."
He reopened the folder, his finger tracing the first entry. "Ivan Volkov. Age nineteen, Durmstrang's heavy curse champion for three consecutive years." Harry's voice took on the clinical detachment he used when analyzing complex spellwork. "He's a battering ram. Everything about his style screams overwhelming force—bone-breakers, organ-rupturing curses, probably some nastier pieces of Dark Arts that aren't listed in polite company."
"Charming," Sirius muttered.
"His shield work will be designed like a fortress wall," Harry continued, already mapping the duel in his mind. "Built to stop other battering rams, not to deflect precision strikes. The counter is mobility. Don't be where his curses are going. Use the arena's space, force him to constantly pivot and adjust. Fast hexes to pressure points and joints while staying in motion. Let his frustration build until he overextends."
Harry turned the page, his eyes scanning Marco Rossi's profile. "Marco Rossi, eighteen. The Italian is more interesting. An illusionist. He doesn't fight duels, he creates psychological battlefields and lets his opponents exhaust themselves fighting phantoms."
"How do you counter something you can't see?" Sirius asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.
"By not trusting what you see," Harry replied. "Occlumency is the foundation—his illusions exploit emotional reactions and expectations. But beyond that..." His eyes sharpened. "Wide-area destruction. Fill the arena with fire, use detection charms to reveal constructs, force him to abandon his canvas and fight in the open. Artists hate it when you burn their masterpiece."
Flitwick looked up from his papers, nodding approvingly. "Continue."
Harry flipped several pages, settling on the German entry. "Annelise Schmidt, nineteen. A defensive specialist." He studied Flitwick's cramped notes. "She's built to outlast opponents, let them exhaust their magic against her shields while she waits for openings. Patience and precision over spectacle."
"That doesn't sound particularly threatening," Sirius said.
"It's the most dangerous style there is," Harry corrected. "Defensive specialists don't win through brilliant displays of power. They win because their opponents make one mistake and die for it." He paused, considering. "The counter is erosion over breakthrough. Sustained pressure that degrades her defenses over time—acid curses, thermal stress spells, anything that compounds. Force her to constantly repair and reinforce until her magical reserves run dry."
He continued methodically through the folder:
"Elena Vasquez from Spain, eighteen. Battle-transfiguration specialist." Harry paused, his eyes unfocusing slightly as he imagined the arena floor suddenly sprouting stone spikes, walls reshaping themselves into mazes, the very ground becoming her weapon. "She'll reshape the arena itself, create terrain advantages. I'll need to counter with untransfiguration spells, reset her modifications faster than she can make them."
"That sounds exhausting," Sirius interjected. "Like trying to have a conversation while someone keeps rearranging the furniture."
Harry's lips quirked upward. "Something like that. Stay mobile, don't get trapped by her alterations."
The next profile made his expression grow serious. "Dmitri Petrov from Russia, nineteen. Another curse specialist, but..." Harry trailed off, reading Flitwick's cramped notes more carefully. "This one's different. Surgical where Volkov is blunt. He targets specific body systems—nervous system disruption, circulatory blockages, gradual organ failure."
"Lovely," Sirius said dryly. "Remind me never to visit Russia."
"The counter is not letting it become a war of attrition. Strong shields, medical counter-curses, but most importantly—end it quickly before his spells can take hold."
Harry flipped to the next page and immediately brightened. "Now this is interesting. Lars Andersen from Norway, eighteen. Ice and water specialist with natural environment training." He glanced up at the ornate ceiling, already visualizing the duel. "He's probably trained in fjords and frozen lakes. Fire magic is the obvious counter, but..." Harry's finger traced the margin notes. "Earth transfiguration to alter the battlefield conditions. Ice needs moisture—create dry, sandy conditions and neutralize half his arsenal."
"Wait," Sirius interrupted, studying Harry's expression. "You're actually looking forward to some of these fights, aren't you?"
Harry turned another page, not quite meeting his godfather's eyes. "Mikael Johansson from Sweden, eighteen. Runic combat specialist—he pre-carves runes into his gear and activates them mid-fight for enhanced effects." His smile was genuinely appreciative now. "It's clever magic. Ancient techniques adapted for modern dueling."
"And the counter?"
"Disruption of his prepared materials, fast-paced combat. Don't give him time to activate complex sequences." Harry paused, then added more thoughtfully, "Though I admit, part of me wants to see what he's come up with first."
"Katarina Volkov, eighteen," Harry read, noting the surname with interest. "Ivan's sister, I assume?"
"Indeed," Flitwick confirmed. "Quite different in approach though."
"Lightning specialist. Fast, erratic movement, electrical magic." Harry nodded slowly. "Grounding charms and metal conjuration to redirect her attacks. But the real counter is patience—lightning magic is spectacular and draining. Let her burn through her reserves."
More pages turned, but Harry's pace had slowed, his analysis becoming more detailed:
"Jacques Moreau. Beauxbatons' second champion." Harry read from Flitwick's notes with growing interest. "Advanced Transfiguration specialist—he conjures and animates constructs mid-duel. Multiple animated opponents while he directs from a defensive position."
Sirius leaned back in his chair. "So instead of one-on-one, you'd be facing him plus however many magical puppets he can create?"
"Exactly. Turn a duel into a siege." Harry was quiet for a moment, clearly running through scenarios. "The counter is dispelling his creations faster than he can make them. Finite Incantatem cast wide and repeatedly, force him into direct confrontation." He paused, frowning. "Though that assumes I can identify which one is actually him..."
The next profile made both of them wince. "Gabriella Romano from the Italy. 'Preparatory dueling'—she pre-casts multiple spells with delayed activation triggers." Harry's frown deepened. "She essentially turns herself into a walking magical minefield."
"How in Merlin's name do you train for that?" Sirius muttered.
"Very carefully, I imagine. The counter is either hitting fast before she can set up, or using detection charms to identify her triggers while forcing her to activate everything at once." Harry looked up from the page. "Messy either way."
Another page. "Viktor Kozlov from Bulgaria. Dark Arts specialist, but his focus is on Legilimency and mental attacks during combat." Harry's expression hardened. "He tries to disorient opponents by flooding their minds with false sensory information."
"Nasty piece of work," Sirius muttered.
"Occlumency will block most of his attacks. But I could also try turning it back on him—Legilimency of my own to disrupt his concentration."
Harry continued through the remaining profiles. "Nicolae Popescu from Romania. He's a curse-breaker by training, but he's adapted those skills for dueling. His specialty is dismantling his opponent's defensive spells and turning protective magic against them."
"How's that work?"
"He studies how shields and wards function, then uses counter-spells to collapse them or redirect their energy. Brilliant, actually." Harry paused, considering. "The counter is keeping things simple. Basic spells he can't easily unravel, direct attacks that don't give him complex magical structures to manipulate."
The final entry caught his attention. "Anastasia Petrov from the Athens Institute. She's trained in what they call 'classical elemental magic'—fire, water, earth, and air spells used in precise combinations." Harry traced Flitwick's notes. "Each element reinforces the others in her casting. Fire heats air for expansion, water and earth combine for binding spells, that sort of thing."
"Sounds complicated," Sirius observed.
"It is. Which means disrupting one element should throw off her entire sequence. Focus attacks on whatever element she's building toward and force her to start over."
Finally, he reached the page he'd been unconsciously avoiding. Fleur Delacour's profile lay before him, elegant script detailing her achievements.
"French National Junior Champion," Harry read quietly. "Great at Charms and fluid Transfiguration. Exceptionally graceful, technically brilliant." He was quiet for a long moment. "Her Veela heritage will be irrelevant—Occlumency handles that. It's her technical perfection that's dangerous. She's probably never made a wand movement error in her life."
"So how do you beat perfection?" Sirius asked.
Harry was quiet, his analytical mind working through possibilities. "You make it imperfect," he said finally. "She's trained for elegant duels against skilled opponents who play by the rules. The counter is to fight ugly. Crude but effective magic. Make the battlefield chaotic and messy, break her rhythm, force her to adapt when her perfect technique becomes a liability."
He closed the folder with deliberate finality. "But the real advantage isn't in any specific counter-strategy."
"What do you mean?" Flitwick asked, his expression curious.
Harry reopened to his own profile, his finger tracing the sparse details. "Look at this. 'Youngest Quidditch Seeker in a century. Special Award for Services to the School. Corporeal Patronus.' It reads like a school record, not a combat assessment."
Understanding dawned in Sirius's eyes. "They don't know what you actually are."
"Precisely." Harry's expression grew more serious. "They know I have 'immense raw power' and 'natural instincts,' but they think my weakness is inexperience. Most of them probably see me as a famous sixteen-year-old who got selected because of his name rather than his skill."
He stood and moved to the tall windows overlooking the glittering lights of magical Paris. "They're expecting a celebrity who relies on luck. They're not expecting someone who's been preparing to fight a Dark Lord."
"They think they're dueling the Boy Who Lived," Sirius said, his voice filled with understanding.
"But they might be in for a surprise," Harry said quietly, his reflection thoughtful in the darkened glass. "I've learned that surviving means being prepared. Really prepared."
Flitwick shifted slightly. "Harry, remember this is still a tournament. These aren't you enemies-"
"I know," Harry said, turning back to face them. "I'm not planning to hurt anyone more than necessary. But that doesn't mean I won't do my best to win."
The silence that followed was comfortable rather than ominous. Finally, Sirius smiled.
"Well then," he said. "To surprising people and doing your best. Tomorrow should be interesting."
Harry nodded, his expression genuine rather than predatory. Tomorrow, the real fun would begin.