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Night had fallen, and the Great Hall of Hogwarts glowed brightly with candlelight, yet the mood within was far subdued than usual.
The long tables were still laden with a feast as lavish as ever, but the students' voices had dropped to a hush. Conversations were muted, weighed down with tension, and every so often, eyes drifted toward the delegations of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, gazes carrying a mix of unease, calculation, and something harder to name.
"Only three left…" Hermione bit her lip, her fingers tapping the wooden tabletop without realizing it. Her voice trembled with worry. "Durmstrang has almost twice as many as we do."
"At least we're not wiped out completely," Ron muttered, stabbing at a meat pie with his fork. "Percy's win was cutting it too close. If it hadn't been for that last move…"
"He made use of the terrain," Harry said in a low voice. "Professor Greengrass taught us that dueling isn't just about trading spells. You have to use the terrain as well."
For once, Fred and George were not cracking jokes. The twins exchanged a look, silent for a moment, before George let out a long sigh. "So tomorrow's matches… I suppose we'll be counting on Cedric and Orris to pull through."
Percy sat at the Gryffindor table with his back ramrod straight, the prefect's badge on his chest catching the flicker of candlelight. His expression remained stern, composed, almost severe. Whenever someone passed by to offer congratulations, he answered only with the briefest of nods, never breaking that rigid composure.
Meanwhile, at the Ravenclaw table, Orris Alcott was surrounded by a small crowd of classmates. The seventh-year looked calm, answering the occasional question, but most of the time he quietly ate his dinner, unfazed by the attention.
Cedric Diggory, on the other hand, seemed far more at ease. The Hufflepuff students clustered warmly around him, voices tumbling over one another as they dissected his victory with excitement.
He returned every word with a smile, patient and gracious, even as his fingers kept flipping through the thick volume resting on his knees: A Comprehensive Record of Medieval Spell Alterations. The tome, taken from the Restricted Section, bore a yellowing spine and worn edges that spoke of centuries of use, every page carrying the weight and trace of time itself.
He remembered clearly how it had come into his hands. Last year, in Professor Greengrass's theory class, he had only been allowed to attend as an auditor. He was not permitted to raise his hand or ask questions, and the restriction had embarrassed him deeply. He recalled sitting there, burning with curiosity yet forced into silence, feeling like an intruder among his peers. What he never expected was that later that very day, after the lesson had ended, Professor Greengrass would stop him and recommend this very book.
Even now, he could see the moment with clarity: the professor had filled out the borrowing slip himself, signed it with deliberate strokes, and handed it over with that quiet formality so uniquely his own. In that instant, Cedric thought he glimpsed something rare in the professor's gray eyes, a faint approving light that seemed to break through the usual reserve. At least, Cedric chose to believe it was approval, and that belief had stayed with him ever since.
This was the very first time Cedric had touched a book from the Restricted Section. Between its fading pages, he discovered not only a detailed record of how spells had shifted and evolved through the centuries but also fragments of magic that carried a sharper and more dangerous edge. It was a blend of scholarship and peril, knowledge both fascinating and quietly unsettling, the kind that left him turning each page with a mix of wonder and unease.
Once, while he was poring over material in the library, Cedric had seen Professor Greengrass there as well. The man, who in class always seemed distant and unyielding, was quietly seated with a book of his own, absorbed in study. Cedric had gathered his courage and approached with a question. To his surprise, the stern professor he knew from lessons was far less forbidding in private.
Not only did Professor Greengrass answer him with patience and precision, he even took Cedric's book in hand, turned its pages, and filled the margins with careful annotations. Explanations, clarifications, and insights that shed light on passages Cedric had long struggled to understand were all set down in the professor's firm and elegant script.
That, in truth, was the reason Cedric had never returned the volume. If Madam Pince, the librarian, ever discovered those annotations, she would surely brandish her feather duster like a weapon and accuse him of "defiling school property."
Time passed quickly, and before long, the next day arrived.
The dueling venue thrummed with energy, even more charged than the day before. The stands were packed with eager students, voices bubbling with anticipation as they craned their necks for a better view. Excitement, nerves, and impatience all mingled into a restless roar that filled the air.
Once again, Percy Weasley was the first to step onto the platform. This time, however, fortune did not favor him, for the opponent drawn by lot was none other than Fleur Delacour.
She ascended the stage with unhurried grace, each step light yet deliberate, as though she were floating rather than walking. Her long silver-gray hair caught the sunlight and shimmered like liquid moonlight cascading over her shoulders.
Her beauty was breathtaking, her figure poised with effortless grace, and every subtle movement seemed to carry a natural, almost spellbinding charm. She radiated an aura that drew every gaze toward her, quieting even the loudest corners of the crowd.
Yet anyone who dismissed her as a fragile ornament, relying only on her appearance, would pay dearly for such arrogance. Baffelus had already served as a painful warning to those careless enough.
Fleur carried within her the blood of the Veela, though only a quarter flowed in her veins. Even so, that inheritance granted her a magical talent far beyond that of ordinary witches.
Though still only in her sixth year, she had already been awarded the Tricolour Ribbon Medal of Beauxbatons, the school's highest honor and a distinction granted solely to its most exceptional students. She bore that title as naturally as she carried herself, standing as the undisputed top of her class.
The duel began with a deep rumble as the stone stele sank into the ground. Without hesitation, Percy swung his wand, seizing the opening and casting a sharp Impedimenta in hopes of gaining the initiative.
But Fleur was quicker. With a graceful sidestep, her body seemed to flow like water, slipping out of the spell's path. Her wrist flicked in the same motion, and from the tip of her wand burst a flare of dazzling crimson light.
"Stupefy!"
The spell tore through the air like a lightning strike. Percy raised a Shield Charm in haste, the barrier shimmering into existence before him. Yet Fleur's magic was stronger, heavier, and sharper; the shield shuddered, cracked, and shattered in less than a heartbeat.
The force of the impact drove Percy back several steps, his shoes scraping against the stone platform. He barely managed to regain balance before Fleur's second spell was already flashing toward him.
"Expelliarmus!"
Percy dropped low, rolling across the ground in a desperate attempt to avoid the red jet of light. Without pausing to aim, he lashed out over his shoulder with a quick counterstrike, sending a Petrificus Totalus crackling through the air.
The curse grazed Fleur's cheek, close enough that a lesser duelist might have flinched. She did not so much as blink. Her wand cut the air with smooth precision, unleashing three silent spells in swift succession.
The first, an Incarcerous, struck the floor beneath Percy's feet and threw his balance off at once. Before he could recover, twin ropes sprang from thin air, coiling tightly around his limbs with unyielding strength. Then came the finale: a roaring fireball that burst forward and slammed into his chest, searing the air with blinding heat.
White light flashed across the platform. The duel was over. Percy had been defeated.
For one stunned heartbeat, the entire hall fell silent. Then applause erupted like thunder, rolling across the stands. Cheers and gasps mingled, awe flooding the crowd.
The match had ended far more swiftly than anyone expected. Fleur Delacour had needed only a handful of spells to overwhelm her opponent. She tilted her chin ever so slightly, the corners of her lips curving into a confident smile, and with a poised elegance she dipped into a courteous bow toward the judges' table.
From the stands, Cedric slowly closed the heavy book in his hands. His long fingers lingered over the spine, tracing it absently while his eyes followed Fleur's departing figure. His brow furrowed slightly, thoughtful and intent.
"So strong… and only in sixth year?" he murmured to himself.
The power Fleur displayed was startling, a level of magical strength already approaching that of a fully trained adult witch. What was even more astonishing, however, was not just her raw magic but the discipline behind it. Her dueling skill revealed itself in the seamless way she chained her spells together, the flawless precision with which she seized every opening. Her timing had been impeccable. Nothing about her performance resembled that of a mere student still in school.
Cedric recalled the whispers about her possessing Veela blood, and inevitably his mind turned to Professor Nixia, who bore the same lineage.
The resemblance was impossible to ignore: both had long silver hair that shimmered like moonlight and carried themselves with an elegance that seemed innate, every gesture touched by an almost otherworldly grace.
It made Cedric wonder… could there be a blood relation between them? Or perhaps, more likely, had the formidable Potions professor secretly taken her under her wing and offered personal guidance?
He shook his head, brushing aside the speculation. The duel was over, and now another had begun. His eyes returned to the center of the arena, where Viktor Krum and Orris Alcott were already stepping forward to choose the setting for their match.
Like Fleur, Krum was only in his sixth year. Yet just the same, his reputation and strength made him impossible to underestimate.
Though young, Krum had already shown a potential that marked him out as a future duelist of the highest order. From the angle at which he gripped his wand to the grounded stance of his feet, every detail of his posture seemed as precise as a textbook illustration, honed and practiced until it was second nature.
What struck people most, however, was the explosive power behind his casting. Every spell he unleashed was clean, direct, and frighteningly accurate, its force carrying a weight that left no room for doubt.
As a fellow Seeker, Cedric knew better than most how remarkable Krum's physicality was. Not only did he possess agility to match his role on the Quidditch pitch, but his broad, powerful frame and composed temperament gave him a foundation few could rival.
Beside him, Orris Alcott seemed far slighter in comparison.
The Ravenclaw seventh-year was undoubtedly a prodigy in his own right. Cedric remembered well that Orris had once published a paper on Transfiguration theory that earned him a place in Today's Transfiguration. His brilliance in academics was undeniable.
Yet his body told a different story. His thin frame, the hesitant way he shifted his weight, and the awkward rhythm of his evasive movements all revealed the truth. Orris was the very image of a scholar's wizard, a man steeped in intellect and theory but unpracticed in the art of battle.
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[Chapter End's]
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