Hello, AMagicWord. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of Harry Potter and The Pink Auror
If you want to Read 6 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/AMagicWord' on Websearch
The following 6 chapters are already available to Patrons.
Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, and Chapter 17 are already available for Patrons.
Harry settled back into his seat, ignoring the throbbing line of fire across his ribs where Pucey's dark curse had grazed him. The wooden bench felt harder now, less like furniture and more like penance for his victory. Around him, Gryffindors were still buzzing about his win, but Harry's attention had already shifted to the platform where the next match was being announced.
"Viktor Krum versus Anthony Goldstein!" Lee Jordan's voice boomed with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for Quidditch finals.
The crowd's energy shifted immediately, conversations dying mid-sentence as everyone craned to watch the Durmstrang champion climb onto the platform. Krum moved like he was walking through water.
Anthony Goldstein, a Ravenclaw sixth-year Harry knew was brilliant at Arithmancy, looked like he'd rather be solving equations than facing down an international Quidditch star who moved like a predator.
Poor sod, Harry thought, watching Anthony's wand hand tremble slightly. At least Pucey wanted to hurt me. Krum looks like he's about to conduct a particularly boring execution.
"Begin!"
Anthony barely had time to raise his wand. Krum's movement was so economical it almost looked lazy.
"Stupefy!"
But this wasn't any Stunning Spell Harry had seen before. The red light that erupted from Krum's wand was darker, denser, moving with the inevitable force of a bludger. Anthony's hastily erected Shield Charm shattered like sugar glass. The spell caught him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the platform with enough force that the wood actually cracked.
Twenty-seven seconds. Harry had counted.
"MERLIN'S BEARD!" Lee shouted. "Did everyone see that? The platform actually—Professor, is Goldstein alive?"
Madam Pomfrey was already rushing onto the platform, her wand moving in complex diagnostic patterns over Anthony's motionless form. After a tense moment, she nodded and levitated him off.
Krum hadn't even waited to see if his opponent was conscious. He'd already turned and walked off the platform, his expression never changing from what Harry had mentally dubbed 'Eastern European Indifference.'
"Efficient," Neville whispered beside him, sounding both impressed and slightly ill.
"Terrifying," Harry corrected. The casual display of power made his creative victory over Pucey feel like a child's trick. "Did you see how he modified that Stunner? The color was all wrong."
"Darker magic," Neville agreed quietly. "Not quite dark, but... aggressive. Like it was designed to hurt, not just incapacitate."
The implications sat heavy in Harry's stomach. If that was Krum's idea of a casual duel, what would he bring to the Tournament tasks?
"Our next match features Beauxbatons' champion, the lovely Fleur Delacour!" Lee announced, and half the male population of Hogwarts suddenly developed much better posture.
Fleur ascended the platform like she was walking onto a stage she'd owned since birth. Her silver hair caught the afternoon light in a way that definitely wasn't natural, creating a halo effect that made several boys in the row below Harry actually sigh. Even from this distance, Harry could feel the edges of her allure pressing against his consciousness like fingers tapping on glass.
Weird, Harry thought, feeling the magic slide off him like water off a particularly disinterested duck. It's like watching everyone get drunk while you're sipping pumpkin juice.
Her opponent, a seventh-year Hufflepuff Harry recognized as their Keeper, Marcus Fleet, was already looking dazed, and the match hadn't even started.
"This is going to be embarrassing," Harry muttered.
He was right, but not in the way he'd expected.
Fleur didn't just duel—she performed. When Flitwick called for them to begin, she moved into something that looked more like a dance than combat. Her wand traced patterns in the air that left brief afterimages of silver light, beautiful and disorienting.
Marcus fired off a Stunning Spell that should have hit—Fleur hadn't even raised a shield. But at the last second, she spun, the spell passing through the space where she'd been, her robes flaring out in a perfect circle. In the same movement, her wand flicked almost casually.
"Métamorphose!"
The platform beneath Marcus's feet transformed into ice—not rough, frozen water like Harry had created, but smooth, perfect ice like a mirror. Marcus's feet shot out from under him immediately.
As he fell, Fleur's wand was already moving into the next spell. "Chaînes de Lumière!"
Chains of pure light erupted from her wand tip, wrapping around Marcus's wrists and ankles before he even hit the ice. He was bound and sliding across the platform before his brain had probably registered that he'd lost his footing.
"Expelliarmus," Fleur said, almost as an afterthought.
Marcus's wand sailed through the air. Fleur caught it without looking, her attention already elsewhere, probably planning what she'd wear to dinner.
The whole thing had taken maybe forty-five seconds, and Marcus hadn't landed a single spell. Hell, Harry wasn't sure Marcus had even completed a single wand movement.
"Europe's best junior duelist last year," Neville said, sounding slightly awed. "I can see why."
Yeah, Harry thought, watching Fleur descend from the platform without a single hair out of place. And she didn't even look like she was trying.
The French students erupted in delighted cheers, their earlier snippy comments about "English dogs" apparently justified in their minds. Several Beauxbatons girls were actually crying with joy, like Fleur had just saved a basket of puppies rather than humiliated a seventeen-year-old boy on a public stage.
"Show off," someone muttered behind Harry. Hard to argue with that level of skill, even if it came wrapped in enough arrogance to choke a hippogriff.
"Cedric Diggory versus Marcus Flint!" Lee announced next.
Harry leaned forward slightly. After his confrontation with Cedric at Flitwick's office, he was curious to see if the Hufflepuff's dueling matched his nice-guy reputation or if there was something sharper underneath.
Cedric's approach was immediately different from both Krum's brutality and Fleur's artistry. He climbed onto the platform with the same easy confidence he brought to Quidditch—comfortable, prepared, but not cocky. Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch captain, wore his usual expression that suggested someone had permanently lodged a beater's bat somewhere uncomfortable.
"Begin!"
What followed was... competent. That was the word Harry kept coming back to. Cedric dueled like he did everything else—correctly. His Shield Charms were textbook perfect, his Stunning Spells properly aimed, his footwork careful and considered. He didn't try anything flashy or creative. He just... persisted.
Flint, for all his size and aggression, couldn't break through Cedric's defense. Every curse was blocked, every hex deflected, and slowly, patiently, Cedric wore him down. A Jelly-Legs Jinx here, a Tripping Hex there, nothing dramatic but consistently effective.
After nearly four minutes—an eternity compared to the previous matches—Flint was breathing hard, his spells getting wilder, sloppier. Cedric waited for an overextended Bludgeoning Hex, sidestepped it with minimal effort, and placed a perfectly aimed Disarming Charm that sent Flint's wand spinning away.
The Hufflepuffs cheered, but it felt obligatory rather than ecstatic. Cedric had won, but he'd done it in the most Hufflepuff way possible—through patient, unglamorous work.
Like watching paint dry, Harry thought, then immediately felt guilty. Effective paint, but still.
"Ronald Weasley versus Vincent Crabbe!" Lee announced, and Harry's stomach did something complicated.
Ron strutted onto the platform with the kind of confidence that suggested he'd been practicing in front of a mirror. His new cologne wafted all the way to Harry's seat, making his eyes water. Across from him, Crabbe looked confused by the entire concept of walking and thinking simultaneously.
"Shouldn't be hard," Neville muttered, but Harry wasn't so sure. Ron had always been decent at Chess because he could think strategically, but dueling required quick reactions and consistent spellwork—neither of which were Ron's strongest qualities.
"Begin!"
What followed was... well, 'duel' was generous. 'Magical flailing' might have been more accurate.
Ron immediately went on the offensive, firing spell after spell with no apparent strategy beyond 'throw everything and see what sticks.' His Stunning Spells went wide, his Disarming Charms hit the barriers, and one spectacular misfire nearly took off Lee Jordan's head in the commentary box.
"WATCH IT, WEASLEY! CRABBE IS DOWN THERE!"
Crabbe, meanwhile, seemed to have forgotten he was supposed to be casting spells back. He mostly stood there, occasionally raising a Shield Charm when something came too close, looking like he was trying to remember what he'd had for breakfast.
The turning point came when Ron, in his enthusiasm, tripped over his own feet while attempting what looked like a dramatic spin. As he fell, his wand hand flailed wildly, sending a Stunning Spell in completely the wrong direction—which happened to ricochet off the barrier and catch Crabbe in the back of the head.
Crabbe toppled forward like a felled tree.
"Er... RONALD WEASLEY WINS!" Lee announced, sounding as surprised as everyone else. "Through... creative use of angles? Professor, is that legal?"
"Technically within regulations," Flitwick squeaked, though he looked like he was fighting not to put his head in his hands.
Ron pumped his fist in victory, apparently choosing to ignore that he'd won through pure dumb luck. Dean and Seamus cheered from the Gryffindor section, though Harry noticed they looked more amused than impressed.
Git, Harry thought, but there was less venom in it than there might have been a week ago. Watching Ron nearly knock himself out with his own feet had somehow made him seem less threatening and more... pathetic.
"Draco Malfoy versus Michael Corner!"
Harry settled in to watch, curious despite himself. Draco's boasting had been insufferable, but Harry had to admit the ferret could cast when he wanted to.
Draco's approach was immediately underhanded. Before Flitwick had even finished saying "Begin," Draco had cast a Tripping Jinx at Michael's feet. Not at Michael—at his feet, specifically, making it technically not a pre-emptive attack.
Michael stumbled but recovered, sending a Disarming Charm that Draco deflected with insulting ease.
"Serpensortia!" Draco called out, and a large black snake materialized on the platform.
"That's not a dueling spell!" someone shouted from the Ravenclaw section.
But technically, it wasn't prohibited either. The snake slithered toward Michael, who backpedaled frantically, his next spell going completely wild. Draco used the distraction to hit him with a Leg-Locker Curse followed by a Disarming Charm.
"Typical," Harry muttered. "Can't win fairly, so he cheats within the rules."
"Slytherin through and through," Neville agreed.
"Daphne Greengrass versus Katie Bell!"
Harry straightened slightly. Hermione had warned him about Greengrass, and he was curious to see if she lived up to the hype.
She did.
Where Draco had been underhanded and Fleur had been showy, Daphne was clinical. She walked onto the platform like she was walking into a classroom—calm, prepared, slightly bored. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and her expression suggested this was merely an item on her schedule to check off.
Katie Bell, one of the Gryffindor Chasers, looked determined but nervous. She'd seen what happened to the others.
"Begin!"
Daphne didn't move for a full two seconds. She just stood there, wand at her side, watching Katie with those cold blue eyes. When Katie finally couldn't stand it and fired off a Stunning Spell, Daphne stepped aside with minimal effort.
"Predictable," Harry heard her say, though he shouldn't have been able to hear it from this distance.
What followed was less a duel and more a dissection. Daphne cast perhaps six spells total, each one precisely aimed and timed. A Confundus Charm that made Katie's next three spells hit nothing but air. A modified Impediment Jinx that only affected Katie's wand arm, making her casting slow and clumsy. A Protego that didn't just block Katie's Bludgeoning Hex but reflected it back with interest.
Katie tried to rally, but it became clear to everyone that she would lose. Every move she made, Daphne had already anticipated and countered.
The end came almost gently. Daphne waited for Katie to overcommit to a Stunning Spell, stepped inside her guard, and placed her wand tip exactly at Katie's throat.
"Petrificus Totalus," she said conversationally.
Katie went rigid and toppled backward. Daphne caught her wand as it fell from frozen fingers, examined it briefly as if checking its quality, then set it down beside Katie's petrified form with surprising care.
"Bloody hell," Harry breathed. That had been scarier than Krum's brutality or Fleur's overwhelming skill. Daphne had taken Katie apart like she was solving a particularly simple puzzle.
"Ginny Weasley versus Amelie Beaumont!"
Harry watched with interest as Ginny climbed onto the platform. Ron's little sister had always been quiet around him, but he'd heard she had quite a temper when provoked.
Her opponent was a Beauxbatons student who looked like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine—perfect makeup, perfect hair, perfect sneer of disdain for the younger English girl.
That sneer lasted about ten seconds.
The moment Flitwick called begin, Ginny moved like she'd been shot from a cannon. No hesitation, no careful planning—just pure, aggressive action.
"REDUCTO!"
The Blasting Curse came so fast and hard that Amelie barely got her shield up in time. The impact still sent her sliding backward.
Ginny didn't let up. She pressed forward, casting spell after spell with a ferocity that seemed impossible from someone so small. Her face was set in an expression of absolute determination, her red hair whipping around her face as she moved.
"Mon Dieu!" Amelie gasped, trying to mount some kind of defense, but Ginny was relentless.
A Bat-Bogey Hex—of course Ginny knew that one—had Amelie flailing at the leathery wings attacking her face. A Stunning Spell to the knee buckled her leg. A final Expelliarmus sent her wand flying.
The whole thing had taken maybe thirty seconds, and Ginny wasn't even breathing hard.
"Remind me," Neville said faintly, "never to make Ginny angry."
"Noted," Harry agreed, genuinely impressed. Where had Ron's little sister learned to fight like that?
As the afternoon wore on, Harry watched match after match, cataloguing styles and strategies. Some students relied on power, others on speed, a few on creativity. But what struck him most was how the three other champions stood apart from everyone else.
Krum was a hammer. Fleur was a rapier. Cedric was a shield.
And what was he? The thought nagged at Harry as he shifted on the uncomfortable bench. He'd won through trickery and environmental manipulation, but that wouldn't work forever. People would expect it now, prepare for it.
I need to be unpredictable, Harry realized. Not just creative, but impossible to pin down. Be the thing they can't plan for.
It was either a brilliant strategy or a recipe for disaster. Given his luck, probably both.
The last match concluded with a whimpering Beauxbatons third-year being helped off the platform after discovering that challenging a Durmstrang student twice his size was, in fact, a terrible idea. The crowd's energy had shifted from electric excitement to the drowsy satisfaction of people who'd gorged themselves on too much spectacle. Harry's backside had gone numb from sitting on the wooden bench for nearly four hours, and the cut across his ribs had settled into a steady, ignorable throb.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Professor Flitwick's magnified voice squeaked across the arena, "that concludes the first round of matches. Please remain seated for an important announcement from Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation."
The crowd's tired murmur took on a questioning edge. Harry watched as Barty Crouch Sr. emerged from the judges' platform. His pencil-thin mustache didn't so much as twitch as he surveyed the assembled students with the warmth of a particularly disapproving statue.
Percy Weasley materialized behind him like an overeager shadow, carrying what looked like enough parchment to document the entire history of magical Britain. His chest was puffed out so far Harry wondered if he'd cast an Engorgement Charm on his own ego.
Crouch stepped up to the magical amplification point, cleared his throat with the delicacy of someone announcing a death.
"Your attention, please." The unnecessary request somehow made everyone pay more attention. "The first round of the Grand Duelling Race has now concluded. The statistics are as follows."
He paused, and Percy stepped forward to hand him a specific piece of parchment.
"Five hundred and twelve students from all three schools chose to participate in this exhibition. Two hundred and fifty-six have successfully advanced to the second round, having achieved victory in their respective matches."
Those who had won seemed all pleased with themselves, Harry was too, he would be a liar if he said he wasn't happy to have passed the first round, especially since his enemy was a seventh year Slytherin.
"The second round," Crouch continued, "will commence exactly one week after the conclusion of the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament. This will provide adequate recovery time for our champions while maintaining the competitive momentum of the race."
Harry felt his stomach clench. The First Task was in less than two weeks, and he still had no idea what it would involve beyond Moody's cryptic hints about "playing to your strengths." Now he'd have to worry about the duelling competition immediately after whatever death trap awaited him.
"The specific format of the second round will be announced closer to the date," Crouch said. "Participants will be notified by official owl no less than three days prior to the commencement of matches."
Percy nodded along so vigorously Harry thought his head might detach and go bouncing across the platform.
Crouch's expression, already stern, somehow managed to become even more severe.
"I must take this opportunity to address certain... irregularities observed in today's matches." His gaze lingered pointedly on the Slytherin section, though Harry noticed it also paused at Durmstrang. "While the regulations of this competition are necessarily broad to accommodate different magical traditions, let me be absolutely clear: this is meant to be a sporting exhibition of magical skill, not an excuse for wanton violence or the demonstration of questionable spellwork."
Harry remembered Pucey's dark cutting curse and the way Krum's modified Stunner had actually cracked the platform.
"Any participant found to be employing magic designed to cause permanent harm, utilizing spells classified as Dark Arts under British magical law, or otherwise conducting themselves in a manner unbefitting an academic competition will be immediately disqualified and face potential criminal charges."
That's definitely aimed at Pucey, Harry thought with grim satisfaction. The seventh-year was probably still in the hospital wing, hopefully being lectured by Madam Pomfrey about the dangers of hypothermia.
"Furthermore," Crouch continued, his voice taking on an edge sharp enough to cut glass, "let me remind all participants that this competition is being observed by representatives of three magical governments. Your conduct reflects not merely upon yourselves, but upon your schools and nations. Comport yourselves accordingly."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the crowd like a particularly oppressive blanket.
"That will be all. You are dismissed."
The crowd began to disperse, hundreds of conversations erupting simultaneously as students discussed the announcement. Harry stood, his legs protesting after hours of sitting, and caught sight of the champions from the other schools gathering with their respective groups. None of them looked particularly concerned about Crouch's warnings—if anything, Krum looked bored, while Fleur was already holding court with her Beauxbatons admirers.
256 people, Harry thought as he made his way toward the exit. Half of us just got eliminated, and we're only going to get cut down more. Wonder how many will be left by the end.
The thought should have worried him more than it did. But after facing Pucey's dark magic and surviving, after watching the other champions and cataloging their strengths, Harry found himself looking forward to the challenge.
The crowd moved like thick molasses through the exit tunnels, hundreds of bodies trying to squeeze through spaces meant for maybe half that number. Harry let himself be carried along by the current of students, his ribs protesting every time someone's elbow found them.
"Potter."
The voice cut through the crowd's chatter. Harry turned to find Cedric Diggory working his way against the flow of students, his Hufflepuff tie slightly askew—probably the most disheveled Harry had ever seen him outside of Quidditch.
Great, Harry thought. Come to lecture me about inter-house unity again?
But Cedric's expression wasn't the constipated superiority from Flitwick's office. If anything, he looked... uncomfortable? His jaw worked like he was chewing on words that tasted particularly unpleasant.
"That was clever," Cedric said when he finally reached Harry, and the words seemed to physically pain him. "The ice thing. With Pucey."
Harry waited for the 'but.' There was always a 'but' with Cedric.
"Look," Cedric continued, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair in a way that somehow made it more perfectly styled. "About what I said in Flitwick's office. That was..." He paused, seemingly wrestling with his own vocal cords. "That was out of line."
Harry blinked. He'd expected many things from Cedric Diggory—condescension, maybe another lecture about sportsmanship—but not an apology.
"My house has been treating you unfairly," Cedric continued. "We pride ourselves on loyalty and fair play, but we've been..." Another pause. "Hypocritical."
"Pucey's in the hospital wing," Cedric added, lowering his voice. "Hypothermia and something Pomfrey's calling 'magical frost damage.' She had to use warming charms on his internal organs."
Harry tried to feel guilty about that. He really did. But the memory of Pucey's slur about his mother made sympathy remarkably elusive.
"He shouldn't have used that cutting curse," Harry said flatly.
"No," Cedric agreed, surprising Harry again. "He shouldn't have. But that's not why I wanted to talk to you." His expression shifted to something more serious, and Harry recognized the look—it was the same one Oliver Wood got when discussing Quidditch strategy. "You've made yourself a target."
"I've been a target since Voldemort killed my parents," Harry pointed out.
"Different kind of target." Cedric glanced around, noting the thinning crowd. "Before, the older students saw you as an annoyance. A fourth-year who got lucky, or cheated, or whatever story they told themselves. But now?" He shook his head. "Now you're the fourth-year who took down a seventh-year using advanced tactical magic. They won't underestimate you again."
Before Harry could respond, everything seemed a little warmer, and Harry noticed many boy and a few girl students looking at one specific direction, even Cedric glaced at that same direction. Fleur Delacour was gliding past. Her blue eyes found his, and for a moment, she actually stopped.
The look she gave him wasn't her usual disdain or dismissive superiority. It was... calculating. Like she was reevaluating a chess piece she'd previously ignored. Her gaze lingered on the tear in his robes where Pucey's curse had hit, and something flickered in her expression—not concern, exactly, but perhaps a recognition of competence.
Then she was gone, continuing toward the Beauxbatons carriage without a word.
"See?" Cedric said quietly. "Even Delacour's noticed you now."
As if to emphasize the point, Viktor Krum chose that moment to lumber past with a pack of Durmstrang students. His dark eyes found Harry's for barely a second, and he gave what might generously be called a nod but looked more like someone had poked him in the neck. Then he grunted—actually grunted, like words were a currency he was too rich to spend—and continued on.
"Was that acknowledgment or indigestion?" Harry asked, watching Krum's retreating back.
Despite himself, Cedric's mouth twitched toward what might have been a smile. "With Krum, could be both."
They stood there for a moment in the emptying tunnel, two champions who weren't quite enemies anymore but definitely weren't friends.
"Just... be careful," Cedric said finally. "The tournament's dangerous enough without adding grudges to it."
He turned to leave, then paused. "For what it's worth, Potter, I don't think you put your name in that Goblet. Anyone watching you today could see you're not looking for glory. You're just trying to survive."
And with that unexpectedly perceptive observation, Cedric walked away, leaving Harry alone in the tunnel with the uncomfortable realization that maybe, just maybe, not all Hufflepuffs were thick after all.
Don't get soft, Harry told himself. Just because one of them grew a brain and common sense doesn't mean the rest will follow.
If you want to Read 6 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/AMagicWord' on Websearch