The antechamber was heavy with restrained tension. Sixteen of Europe's most promising young duelists stood scattered across the wide, circular hall. The enchanted glass wall gave them a view of the main arena, though at the moment it was clouded and opaque, muting the roar of thousands of spectators to a low, constant vibration under their feet. The air smelled faintly of ozone and polished stone. Beneath that, Harry could almost taste the sharp tang of nerves, the restless crackle of magical energy building as each participant prepared in silence.
No one spoke. Eyes lingered for moments too long before sliding away, cautious and appraising. Every breath felt measured.
Harry kept to himself, a quiet island in the storm of anticipation. He noted, without appearing to, the way Ivan Volkov stalked back and forth like a pacing bear. The Bulgarian's shoulders rolled with coiled muscle, his hands flexing rhythmically as if eager to crush something. His aura pushed against the air like pressure from a stormfront, heavy and oppressive. Across the chamber, Annelise Schmidt of Germany stood with her eyes closed, utterly still. The defensive specialist's magic radiated in a steady, solid pulse, like a fortress wall sunk deep into bedrock. She did not need to move to command presence.
Others betrayed their nerves more openly. Anastasia Petrov, a Hungarian witch, fidgeted with the carved handle of her wand, the motions sharp and rehearsed. Marco Rossi of Italy, by contrast, leaned with theatrical ease against a marble column, as if the entire competition were a stage prepared for his performance. But Harry caught the way the Italian's eyes never stopped moving, assessing everyone in the room.
A polite cough broke the silence.
"Monsieur Potter?"
Harry turned. Jacques Moreau, Beauxbatons' second participant, approached with an open, disarming smile that seemed incongruous in the tense atmosphere.
"It is an honor to compete with you," Jacques said warmly. "I have heard much about your exploits at Hogwarts."
"Most of it is probably exaggerated," Harry replied, his tone neutral but not unfriendly.
"Perhaps," Jacques shrugged. "But conjuring a corporeal Patronus at thirteen, that requires no exaggeration. Très impressionnant."
Before Harry could respond, another voice cut smoothly through the air.
"Do not distract the other duelists, Jacques. It lacks dignity."
Fleur Delacour materialized beside her schoolmate with liquid grace, each step soundless against the polished floor. Her silver-blue eyes fixed on Harry with calculating intensity.
The subtle pressure of her Veela allure washed over him, a warm, insistent whisper of beauty and desire that could muddle the thoughts of even experienced wizards. Harry registered it the way one might notice a change in barometric pressure. Occlumency reduced it to background noise, acknowledged and dismissed.
"I was merely being courteous," Jacques said, though he looked properly chastened.
"One's focus should be entirely on the duels," Fleur replied softly, never breaking eye contact with Harry. "Nothing else matters."
Harry studied her with detached appreciation. In another life, he might have been overwhelmed by her beauty: the way sunlight caught her silver-blonde hair, the aristocratic perfection of her features, the deliberate grace of every movement. But he regarded it as one might admire a masterful work of art: impressive, even extraordinary, but ultimately just another tool in an opponent's arsenal.
"Courtesy has its place, Mademoiselle Delacour," he said evenly. "Even distraction can serve a purpose, properly applied."
Something flickered behind her composed mask, surprise, quickly suppressed. She said nothing more, but Harry caught the subtle shift in her posture. He was no longer just another competitor to be dismissed.
Soft chimes filled the air, breaking the moment.
"Participants," a magically amplified voice announced, "the opening ceremony begins now."
The glass walls shimmered and cleared. Several participants gasped as the arena was revealed in its full glory. Tens of thousands of witches and wizards packed the sweeping stands, their collective voice rising like thunder beneath the enchanted sky overhead. At the arena's heart lay the dueling platform, a massive disc of polished obsidian that seemed to absorb light itself, stark against the brilliant afternoon conjured above.
They filed out in alphabetical order by school. Names rang across the arena, each introduction punctuated by fireworks painting school colors against the artificial sky. The crowd's roar was a physical force.
"And from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the youngest participant in tournament history: Harry Potter!"
The deafening cheer made the floor vibrate. Enchanted cameras flashed like lightning. Harry inclined his head politely, projecting neither arrogance nor false modesty, then focused forward.
After the ceremony, they were ushered into a smaller chamber dominated by an ornate silver urn that pulsed with faint blue light.
"The rules are simple," the Head Judge intoned. "Each duelist will draw a ballot. Numbers determine pairings, one faces two, three faces four, and so forth."
They approached one by one. Volkov scowled at his result. Fleur's hand remained steady as she drew hers.
Harry reached into the urn and withdrew his ballot. The number 1 glowed against the silver surface. He immediately scanned the room.
Across the chamber, Marco Rossi raised his own disc. Number 2 gleamed in response. The Italian pressed a hand to his chest in theatrical dismay, as if lamenting fate's cruelty in pitting them against each other so early. Harry simply nodded acknowledgment, his mind already narrowing to analyze this single opponent.
"The first match," the announcer's voice boomed, "Viktor Kozlov of Durmstrang Institute versus Nicolae Popescu of the Athens Institute!"
The participants returned to the viewing chamber. Harry moved close to the glass, studying the two figures taking positions on the obsidian platform below. Fleur drifted over to stand beside him.
"This will end quickly," she said coolly. "The Bulgarian is a brute who overwhelms through raw power. The curse-breaker looks ready to flee."
"It will end quickly," Harry agreed, never taking his eyes from the platform. "But not as you think."
Fleur's gaze sharpened. "You believe the curse-breaker can defeat a Dark Arts specialist?"
"I believe Kozlov has already lost," Harry said quietly. "His reputation precedes him, overwhelming magical force applied without subtlety. It works against opponents who meet him head-on. Popescu won't."
Below, Kozlov stalked forward, dark curses snapping from his wand like whip-cracks. Popescu darted aside, always a fraction too quick, never engaging directly. The crowd began to murmur uneasily at what appeared to be cowardice.
"He's doing nothing but running," Fleur said with disdain.
"No," Harry murmured, watching Popescu's seemingly erratic movements. "He's learning the spell structures, mapping the wards. Curse-breakers don't fight magic: they understand it, then dismantle it."
Kozlov's frustration mounted. With a roar of rage, he poured massive power into his wand, conjuring a writhing serpent of black energy that filled half the platform. The crowd roared in anticipation of the decisive blow.
Popescu didn't dodge. His foot struck the obsidian with sharp precision, channeling the serpent's momentum upward into the arena's containment wards. The magical barriers resonated, power ricocheting through the protective matrix. Popescu's wand slashed downward like an executioner's blade.
The serpent collapsed into a cascade of silver energy that crashed down on its own creator. Kozlov, blinded and staggered, faltered for the first time. Popescu struck.
"Expelliarmus. Incarcerous."
Kozlov's wand spun away. Conjured ropes erupted from the platform, binding his limbs and dragging him down. The obsidian swallowed the sound of his fall.
The arena exploded. Shocked laughter rippled through thousands of voices as the upset sank in.
The viewing chamber fell silent. Many participants stared wide-eyed, struggling to reconcile the curse-breaker's apparent flight with his sudden, clinical victory.
Fleur wasn't watching the platform. Her gaze remained fixed on Harry, her expression transformed from cool superiority to sharp calculation.
"Your analysis was perfect," she said quietly, pitched for his ears alone. "Few would have predicted that outcome. Fewer still could have explained it so precisely."
"It was the logical conclusion," Harry replied calmly, already studying the platform as attendants prepared for the next match. "Popescu simply used Kozlov's strength against him. In dueling, as in war, the most dangerous opponent is often the one who refuses to fight on your terms."
Fleur studied him for a long moment, and Harry could practically see her reassessing him. Whatever dismissive categorization she'd initially placed him in had just been thoroughly discarded.
"You are not what I expected, Harry Potter," she said finally.
Harry turned to meet her eyes directly, and for a moment his mask slipped enough to reveal the calculating intelligence beneath.
"No," he agreed softly. "I don't imagine I am."