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Harry Potter
Two weeks had passed since Hogsmeade, and Harry Potter had transformed them into a crucible.
The abandoned classroom on the fourth floor had become his monastery, where he spent hours drilling shield variations until his wand arm ached and his magical core felt scraped hollow.
Shield charms from Phineas Black's book had progressed from theoretical exercises to instinctive muscle memory. The combat transfiguration techniques Arcturus Black detailed—turning loose debris into barriers, weapons, distractions—felt as natural as breathing now. Harry could raise a stone wall from a flagstone floor without conscious thought.
The cutting curse from the Black Combat Grimoire remained his only failure. He'd practiced the wand movement, memorized the intent required, even cast it successfully three times. But something about the spell made his stomach turn. Sirius had visited three times over the fortnight, each time bringing more advanced reading material.
Andromeda had visited once with Ted. She seemed happy that Harry was no longer spending his entire time just training and studying, since his fun day with Luna in Hogsmeda, Harry had made sure to never tire himself like he did those days before he went out with Luna.
But he didn't just practice and study, since the Tonks were here, that meant that his favorite Tonk was also here.
The young Auror appeared every other day, her hair once again going through colors, once Harry had even suggested that she should keep her hair in a rainbow color, a little from every color, but Tonks had told him that her hair are her way of showing herself: electric blue when she was feeling particularly energetic, deep purple when thoughtful, and currently, as she stood across from Harry on the Room of Requirement's dueling platform, bright bubblegum pink.
"My battle color," she'd declared the first time. "Intimidation through absurdity."
The Room of Requirement had configured itself exactly to their needs, as it always did. The circular chamber stretched perhaps forty feet across, with a raised platform in the center that elevated duelists about three feet off the ground. Padded walls surrounded them—Tonks's insistence after a particularly nasty hex had sent Harry crashing into stone during their second session. The lighting was dim except for the bright illumination directly over the platform, creating the effect of a stage spotlight.
Medical supplies occupied one corner, a small table laden with potions and bandages that Tonks had assembled.
Harry's relationship with Ravenclaw House had improved marginally after the Roger Davies incident. Word of Roger's cowardice—attacking from behind, being disarmed by a visiting student, fleeing like a whipped dog—had spread through the castle faster than a Firebolt at full speed. Some of his housemates had reconsidered their judgment of Harry, though most still maintained a careful distance. Terry Boot nodded to him now in the Common Room. Anthony Goldstein had stopped openly sneering. It was progress, even if it felt glacially slow.
Fleur Delacour remained a complication Harry refused to examine too closely. They hadn't spoken since Hogsmeade—two weeks of pointed silence punctuated by occasional eye contact across the Great Hall. Their gazes would meet, then both would look away as if burned. Harry told himself he didn't care.
Now, standing on the platform with Tonks grinning at him from the opposite end, Harry pushed all thoughts of French witches and house politics out of his mind. This was what mattered: the duel, the training, the preparation for tomorrow's first round of the Duelling Race.
"Ready for another round, Harry?" Tonks called out, her voice echoing slightly in the circular chamber. "Or do you need a breather?"
Harry's robes were already singed in several places from their previous exchanges. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the Room's temperature control. His chest heaved from exertion, muscles burning from dodging and casting and dodging again. But he straightened, rolled his shoulders back, and fixed Tonks with a look that was pure competitive fire.
"I'm fine," he said, deliberately casual. "You're the one who's getting slow."
Tonks's pink eyebrows shot up. "Slow? I'm an Auror. We don't do slow."
"Could've fooled me." Harry shifted his weight, wand held loosely at his side. "That last shield was sluggish. I almost got through."
"Cheeky brat." But Tonks was grinning wider now, her entire posture shifting from casual to combat-ready. "I'm going to make you eat those words."
They bowed—proper dueling etiquette that Tonks insisted on, claiming that good habits in practice became reflexes in real combat.
They took positions at opposite ends of the platform, perhaps thirty feet separating them. The space felt both vast and claustrophobically small, depending on the spell being cast.
Harry struck first.
His wand arm snapped up, and he cast three Stunners in rapid succession. The red bolts screamed across the platform in a tight spread pattern, each one aimed slightly differently to make dodging harder.
Tonks deflected them with casual shields, her wand barely seeming to move as she sidestepped laterally. The Stunners hit her barriers and fizzled to nothing, sparks raining down harmlessly.
"Better," she called out, still moving. "But predictable!"
Her counter came fast: "Impedimenta!" followed immediately by "Petrificus Totalus!"
The one-two combination was textbook Auror tactics—slow them down, then lock them up. Harry rolled to his left, feeling the Impediment Jinx brush past him close enough to make his skin tingle. The Body-Bind Curse shot through the space he'd just occupied.
But Harry wasn't just dodging. Even as he rolled, his wand was moving, tracing the complex pattern for combat transfiguration. The platform floor beneath him responded, stone rippling like water before erupting upward in a solid barrier. The wall rose three feet high, crude but effective, partially blocking Tonks's line of sight.
"Clever!" Tonks acknowledged.
Harry didn't waste breath responding. He grabbed loose stones from the barrier—debris created by its rapid formation—and transfigured them mid-throw. The stones became birds, sharp-edged and vicious, their wings gleaming like knives as they wheeled through the air.
McGonagall had taught them this spell in third year as an example of combat transfiguration. She'd used it to create decorative birds that were more art than weapon. Harry had made them aggressive.
The flock dove at Tonks in a shrieking mass of transfigured fury.
"Bombarda!"
The explosion was deafening in the enclosed space. Tonks's Blasting Curse caught the leading bird and detonated with enough force to scatter the entire flock. Transfigured stone became stone again, shrapnel peppering the platform as a thick cloud of smoke billowed outward.
Perfect.
Harry used the smoke as cover, his wand already tracing the figure-eight pattern he'd drilled into muscle memory over two weeks of obsessive practice. Water materialized from the ambient moisture in the air—not much, Scotland in November wasn't exactly humid, but enough. The droplets coalesced into a sphere, then wind joined the equation, spiraling around the water in visible distortions.
The vortex formed in three seconds flat, spinning violently enough to pull at Harry's robes. He sent it through the smoke cloud toward where Tonks had been standing, the construct cutting through the haze like a miniature hurricane.
"Nice try!"
Tonks's voice came from the wrong direction—she'd moved while Harry was casting, circling around the smoke rather than waiting for it to clear. Harry's vortex hit empty air and destabilized, water spraying everywhere as the spell collapsed.
Before Harry could redirect, Tonks struck.
"Locomotor Wibbly!"
The Jelly-Legs Jinx hit Harry square in the knees. His legs immediately went rubbery, wobbling beneath him like they'd been replaced with warm jelly. He pitched forward, arms windmilling for balance—
—and cast wandlessly while falling.
"Finite Incantatem."
The nonverbal finite was sloppy, nowhere near perfect, but it was enough. His legs solidified mid-collapse. Harry used the momentum of his fall, tucking into a roll that brought him up in a crouch, wand extended.
"Expelliarmus!"
Tonks shielded it casually, then countered with "Confringo!" aimed not at Harry but at the platform near his feet.
The Blasting Curse hit stone, and the platform cracked with a sound like thunder. Harry had a fraction of a second to recognize the danger before the section he was standing on gave way. He jumped, launching himself sideways off the crumbling surface—
—and cast while mid-air.
"Glacius!"
Ice erupted from his wand tip, hitting the platform where he'd land and spreading in a rapid crystalline sheet. The surface became a skating rink, treacherous and slick, coating a solid ten-foot radius in frozen condensation.
Harry landed on the ice, his boots immediately sliding. He went with the momentum, turning the slip into a controlled glide that carried him out of Tonks's immediate line of fire. As he slid, he cast three rapid Stunners, using the unpredictable movement to make himself a harder target.
Tonks dodged two, shielded the third, but the ice caught her too. Her boots hit the frozen surface and her eyes widened as her feet went out from under her.
She started to slip.
Harry pressed his advantage, firing off three more Stunners in quick succession. If he could just—
"Protego Maxima!"
The shield that erupted from Tonks's wand was powerful enough to make the air shimmer, a dome of solid magical force that absorbed Harry's Stunners without even flickering. Then, before Harry could adjust his strategy, Tonks did something unexpected.
She cast Finite Incantatem on her own shield.
The dispelling created a flash of light, a brief supernova as concentrated magical energy dispersed all at once. Harry's vision whited out, his eyes watering from the sudden brilliance. He threw up an instinctive shield and backpedaled, blinking frantically to clear his vision—
—but Tonks was already moving.
She closed the distance while Harry was still half-blind, her boots somehow finding purchase on the ice through Auror training or pure skill. By the time Harry's vision cleared, Tonks was right there, inside his guard, too close for most spells.
The exchange became close-quarters chaos. Harry dodged a hex that would have paralyzed his wand arm, countered with a Knockback Jinx that Tonks deflected with her forearm. They wove around each other, both casting constantly, neither able to land a clean hit.
Harry was being pushed back toward the platform's edge. He could feel it, the boundary getting closer with each step. Desperation made him reckless.
He cast the cutting curse.
His wand slashed through the air. The spell itself was invisible, just a distortion in space, but Tonks's reaction told Harry it had worked.
Her eyes went wide. "Bloody hell, Harry!"
She barely got her shield up in time. The cutting curse hit the barrier and stopped, but Harry saw the shield ripple violently, saw Tonks's arm shake from the impact of blocking something that could have sliced through flesh and bone if it were a fully powered curse.
"Stupefy!"
The Stunner hit with enough force that Harry's hastily erected shield cracked under the impact. He staggered backward, his heel hitting the edge of the platform—
—and Tonks wasn't done.
Harry thought he had an advantage, thought he could press forward with a combination of hexes that would force Tonks onto the defensive. He was thinking three moves ahead, planning which spells to chain together, already anticipating victory—
Then Tonks shrunk.
One moment she was her normal height, a woman in her early twenties with pink hair and Auror training. The next, she was child-sized, maybe eight years old, barely reaching Harry's waist.
His spells sailed harmlessly over her head.
Harry's brain stuttered, trying to adjust to the sudden change in target height. Metamorphmagus, right, she could do that, he should have remembered—
Before he could redirect, Tonks shifted back to normal height.
Right in front of him.
So close, Harry could have counted her eyelashes.
Except they weren't Tonks's eyelashes.
The face staring at him was Fleur Delacour's.
Those impossible blue eyes that were the clearest blue, like the most beautiful sea in the world. Silver, beautiful blonde hair, the kind of hair that puts every other woman to shame. Even Tonks's pink Auror robes had shifted to match Beauxbatons' powder blue.
Just for a second. Every thought in his head was replaced by static and shock and the visceral awareness that Fleur Delacour was right there, close enough to—
"What's wrong, 'Arry?" Tonks asked in Fleur's voice, the French accent perfect, the pronunciation identical. "Distracted?"
That moment of hesitation was all Tonks needed.
"Expelliarmus! Stupefy!"
The Disarming Charm hit first, Harry's wand flying from his suddenly nerveless fingers. The Stunner followed immediately, red light catching him square in the chest.
Harry's world tilted. His feet left the platform. He fell backward, the cushioning charms catching him like invisible hands, lowering him to the padded floor rather than letting him crack his skull open.
The Stunner wore off after a few seconds and Harry lay there staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving, his pride thoroughly demolished.
Tonks's face appeared in his field of vision, pink hair returning as she shifted back to her normal appearance. She was grinning like she'd just won the lottery.
"That," she announced, "was brilliant."
Harry groaned. "That was cheating."
"That was strategy." Tonks jumped down from the platform with easy grace and extended a hand. "Use every advantage you have. Isn't that what your Grimoire says?"
Harry took her hand and let her pull him upright, though he continued groaning for good measure. "You turned into Fleur Delacour."
"And you froze like a first-year seeing Veela for the first time." Tonks's grin turned absolutely wicked. "Thought you were immune to Veela allure?"
"I am," Harry said defensively, brushing dust off his singed robes. "I just—wasn't expecting it."
"Uh-huh. Sure." Tonks crossed her arms, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Nothing to do with a certain French girl you definitely don't think about."
"I don't think about her."
"Your face when I shifted says otherwise, mate."
Harry desperately searched for a subject change. "How did you even know what she looks like? You've never met her."
"I'm observant." Tonks shrugged. "Also, Sirius mentioned her. A lot. In disturbingly specific detail."
"Sirius talks too much."
"He really does." Tonks's grin softened slightly. "It's endearing though. He's happy. I don't think I've ever seen Uncle Sirius properly happy before. Not before you."
Something warm settled in Harry's chest at that, but he pushed it away. "Can we not do the emotional heart-to-heart right now? I just got my arse handed to me. Let me wallow in defeat first."
"Fair enough." Tonks hopped back onto the platform and used Accio to make two water bottles shoot towards her hands. She tossed one to Harry. "Drink. Dehydration makes you stupid."
Harry caught the bottle and drank gratefully, the water cool and perfect against his parched throat. They sat on the edge of the platform, legs dangling, both of them catching their breath properly now that the adrenaline was fading.
"You're ready, you know," Tonks said quietly.
Harry lowered his water bottle. "For what?"
"The Duelling Race. Maybe even the Tournament, though we don't know what the first task is yet."
Harry snorted. "You just beat me."
"I'm an Auror, Harry." Tonks turned to face him, her expression more serious than he'd seen it all session. "I've been training for years. Actual combat training, not just school dueling. And you gave me trouble."
"I gave you trouble?" Harry raised his eyebrows. "You won easily."
"Because I cheated," Tonks countered. "Used my Metamorphmagus ability, which is something most people can't do and you definitely won't face in a proper duel. But before that?" She shook her head. "Real trouble. That cutting curse? If my shield had been half a second slower..."
She trailed off, and Harry saw something flicker in her eyes that might have been fear.
"Most seventh-years can't do what you just did," Tonks continued. "The spell combinations, the nonverbal casting, the environmental awareness. You're fourteen and you're already casting at N.E.W.T. level." She paused. "By the time you finish seventh year, you'll be better than me."
Harry frowned, something about her tone.
"You don't sound happy about that," he observed.
Tonks looked down at her water bottle, turning it in her hands. "I am happy. You're brilliant, Harry. You deserve to be brilliant."
She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer.
"But you're fourteen. You should be worried about homework and Quidditch and whether some girl likes you." Her eyes met his. "Not learning combat magic that could kill someone. Not preparing for a tournament that's killed champions before. Not... any of this."
Harry didn't know what to say to that.
"You're my friend," Tonks said finally. "And I'm proud of you. And I'm terrified for you. All at the same time."
Harry wanted to reassure her, to promise it would be fine, that he'd be careful. But they both knew those would be empty words.
Tonks shook herself, and her smile returned. "Anyway. You're going to destroy the competition tomorrow."
"Confident in me, are you?"
"Absolutely." The smile became more genuine. "Just remember: mostly everyone else will be nervous. Use that. Stay calm, trust your training." She paused, then added with a return to her earlier mischief: "And for Merlin's sake, don't freeze if you see a pretty girl."
Harry threw his towel at her.
Tonks caught it, laughing. "That happened once!"
"Once is enough," Tonks countered, still grinning. "Especially if Fleur Delacour is competing tomorrow."
"She won't be my opponent in the first round," Harry pointed out. "Too many competitors, there is a very small chance that we will fight in the first round."
"But she'll be watching." Tonks waggled her eyebrows. "And you'll know she's watching. Adds pressure, doesn't it?"
Harry stood and offered Tonks his hand to pull her up. "I hate you."
"No you don't." Tonks took his hand and hopped down from the platform. "You love me. I'm delightful."
They gathered their things—towels, water bottles, Harry's wand from where it had landed after being disarmed—and headed for the exit. The Room of Requirement's door materialized as they approached, ready to release them back into the normal castle.
As the door began to close behind them, Tonks caught Harry's shoulder.
"Seriously though," she said, all humor gone from her voice. "You're going to be amazing tomorrow."
"Thanks, Tonks."
"Just don't let anyone get in your head. Not the crowd, not your opponents." A pause. "Not certain French girls who may or may not be watching."
"I hate you," Harry repeated.
The Following Day
The Great Hall buzzed like a group of bees the next morning. Every student knew that today marked the first round of the Duelling Race, and the knowledge had transformed breakfast into something closer to a pre-match strategy session.
Students clustered at their house tables, voices rising and falling. Predictions flew like Snitches—who would face whom, which houses would dominate, whether the visiting schools would show Hogwarts students how duelling was really done. Bets were being placed, with the Weasley twins taking all the bets, and writing those bets on a large green board; no one knew where that green board came from.
At the Ravenclaw table, the Beauxbatons students looked genuinely excited for the first time since arriving. Their blue silk uniforms stood out like sapphires against the bronze and blue of their Hogwarts hosts. Sophie was gesturing enthusiastically about something, her hands painting pictures in the air. Margaret leaned forward, contributing to whatever debate they were having.
The Durmstrang contingent at the Slytherin table looked grimly satisfied, as if competition was their natural habitat and they'd finally been released back into it. Once again, they were like soldiers, the only one who seemed to show some kind of excitement was Ekaterina Sokolova. Harry still wasn't sure what to make of her. She was pretty, but Harry knew she was dangerous. He didn't know why. He had never seen her fight before, but his gut was telling him that Ekaterina was not like the other Drumstrangs.
The enchanted ceiling showed a clear autumn sky—startlingly rare for Scotland in November—with sunlight streaming through the tall windows and painting everything in shades of gold. It felt like an omen, though whether good or bad, Harry couldn't say.
Harry sat with Luna at the Ravenclaw table, his breakfast plate barely touched despite having loaded it with eggs, toast, and bacon twenty minutes ago. His fork moved food from one side of the plate to the other in what he recognized as a completely unconvincing attempt to look like he was eating.
Luna ate serenely beside him, her radish earrings swinging gently as she chewed. She'd been watching his plate-reorganization efforts for several minutes with that knowing expression she wore when she saw through people's facades.
"You should eat," she said finally, her dreamy voice cutting through his anxiety. "The Nargles say empty stomachs lead to poor decision-making."
Harry set down his fork. "I'm not hungry."
"You're nervous. That's different."
"Maybe a bit," he admitted. He knew he could always be honest with her.
"You'll do wonderfully," Luna said with absolute certainty, returning to her own breakfast. "I've seen you practice."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You've never seen me practice."
"I've seen you walk." Luna gestured with her fork, a piece of egg balanced precariously on the tines. "You move like someone who knows how to fight, Lady Tonks walks the same way, so does the Russian girl, her name is Ekaterina, Fleur Delacour, Victor Krum. Cedric's been practicing. Marcus Thornfield, seventh-year Slytherin, moves like he's been dueling since he could hold a wand. Lyra Nott, sixth-year from Slytherin as well, has exceptional footwork. There's a Beauxbatons boy, Alexandre Rousseau, who has the same controlled movement. Daphne Greengrass from Slytherin. And surprisingly, that quiet Hufflepuff sixth-year, Owen Caldwell—most people don't notice him, but he moves like water, and Sophia of Beauxbatons, I heard she is very good with Air Magic,"
Harry wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that level of observation, so he just nodded and attempted another bite of toast. It tasted like cardboard, but he forced it down anyway.
At the far end of the Ravenclaw table, Roger Davies sat alone.
It was impossible not to notice, really. Roger had always been surrounded by friends, admirers, hangers-on who wanted proximity to the Quidditch captain and prefect. Now he sat in isolation, his usual crowd having quietly distanced themselves over the past two weeks. He pushed food around his plate with the same lack of appetite Harry was experiencing, though for very different reasons.
Word of Roger's humiliation in Hogsmeade had spread through the castle. The story had grown in the telling, as stories did. By some versions, Roger had tried to curse Harry in the back and been disarmed by Fleur Delacour, then broken down crying in the middle of the street. Harry knew the actual events had been bad enough without embellishment, but he hadn't corrected the rumors. Let Roger live with the consequences of his actions.
Many Ravenclaws had turned against their former Quidditch captain, the word "coward" following him through corridors and common rooms. His prefect badge still gleamed on his robes, but no one respected it anymore. Harry had overheard several seventh-years yesterday muttering about calling a vote to remove Roger as Quidditch captain, though nothing official had happened yet.
Harry felt a brief flash of pity looking at Roger's hunched shoulders and miserable expression. Then he remembered Roger's words—"glory-seeking fraud," "always chasing attention," "had to make it all about Harry Potter again"—and the pity faded like morning mist.
Some lessons had to be learned the hard way.
The rest of Ravenclaw's attitude toward Harry had improved, though calling it "warm" would be generous. Several students who'd been openly hostile now seemed uncertain about his guilt. Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein still acted awkward around him, but they no longer actively avoided eye contact or left rooms when he entered. Progress, of a sort.
Three fifth-years who'd sneered at Harry for weeks had actually nodded greetings when he'd entered the common room this morning. Two sixth-years had apologized yesterday, their expressions genuinely chagrined.
"As Ravenclaws," one of them had said, "we should have used our minds instead of following the crowd. We're supposed to value logic and evidence, not gossip and assumptions."
Harry had appreciated the apology, even if he hadn't forgotten their earlier hostility easily. Trust, once broken, didn't reassemble itself overnight. But he'd accepted their words with grace and moved on.
Still, there was distance between Harry and most of his house. A gap that hadn't existed before the Goblet spat out his name. He felt it in the common room conversations that paused when he approached, in the way people chose their words carefully around him, in the underlying current of "is he or isn't he guilty" that colored every interaction.
But it was better than outright hostility. Better than poisoned breakfasts and charmed chairs.
The younger Ravenclaws—second and third years—had become openly supportive, their opinions not yet calcified by peer pressure and social politics. They waved at Harry from down the table now, their faces bright with uncomplicated enthusiasm. Harry waved back.
His eyes drifted toward the Beauxbatons students, pulled by some magnetic force he refused to examine.
Fleur sat with Sophie, Margaret, and several other French students. She looked composed, elegant, completely focused on whatever conversation Sophie was having with animated hand gestures.
Everything about Fleur screamed "untouchable perfection," from her posture to the precise way she held her teacup to the slight tilt of her head as she listened to Margaret add something to the discussion.
As if sensing his gaze—and Harry was beginning to think she had some kind of sixth sense for when he was looking at her—Fleur glanced up.
Their eyes met across the Great Hall.
The moment stretched, elastic and uncomfortable. Neither smiled. Neither acknowledged the connection with so much as a nod. They just... looked at each other, held in some kind of suspended animation where the entire noisy Hall faded into background static.
Two weeks since Hogsmeade. Two weeks of pointed silence, of avoidance, of making sure they were never in the same space long enough to require actual interaction. They'd made eye contact dozens of times in passing—in corridors, in the entrance hall, across the Great Hall during meals—and it was always the same. Brief connection, immediate withdrawal, both looking away like they'd touched something hot.
No words exchanged since Fleur had called Roger a coward and walked away without looking back.
Both looked away simultaneously, Harry returning his attention to his untouched breakfast and Fleur to whatever Sophie was saying.
Luna said nothing, but Harry caught her smiling knowingly into her pumpkin juice.
"What?" he asked, more defensively than he'd intended.
"Nothing," Luna replied serenely. "Just thinking about how the Nargles enjoy watching people pretend they're not watching each other."
"I wasn't—"
"Of course not," Luna agreed, still smiling. "And she wasn't watching you either. The mutual not-watching was very convincing."
Before Harry could formulate a response to that, the bench beside him shifted as someone sat down.
Cedric Diggory slid onto the seat . Susan Bones appeared a moment later, settling beside Luna with a friendly smile.
"Big day," Cedric said, loading his plate with what looked like enough food to feed three people. "You ready?"
Harry shrugged. "As ready as I'll ever be."
"You'll do brilliantly," Susan assured him, pouring herself some pumpkin juice. "You're one of the best duelists in school."
"You've never seen me duel," Harry pointed out.
"Professor Flitwick talks about you constantly in Charms," Susan countered. "Says your spell work is exceptional. 'Natural affinity for charm work,' I believe were his exact words. Followed by twenty minutes of gushing about your technique."
Cedric swallowed a mouthful of eggs. "Also, the rumor mill says you've been practicing in the Room of Requirement with an Auror."
Harry shot him a look. "The rumor mill talks too much."
"But it's true?" Cedric pressed, grinning.
"Tonks is my godfather's cousin," Harry said, resigned to this conversation. "She's been helping me prepare."
Susan's eyebrows rose. "An Auror. That's serious training."
"While the rest of us have been practicing on each other," Cedric said with mock-wounded dignity, "you've been dueling a professional. I'm offended you didn't ask me to practice."
"You've been preparing for the Tournament," Harry replied dryly. "Don't pretend otherwise. I've seen you sneaking off to that empty classroom on the third floor."
Cedric had the grace to look sheepish. "Fair point."
The conversation shifted to predictions about first-round matchups, each of them throwing out possibilities. Susan thought the Headmaster would pair people strategically to create the most interesting matches. Cedric argued it would be completely random. Luna suggested Dumbledore would troll everyone and decide Harry is the winner before the duelling even starts.
A crystalline chime cut through the Hall's noise as Dumbledore tapped his goblet with his spoon. Conversations died in ripples spreading outward from the staff table, hundreds of faces turning toward the Headmaster with varying degrees of attention and interest.
Dumbledore rose from his seat in a way as if he were in a theater. His robes today were deep purple with silver stars that actually twinkled, because subtlety had never been Dumbledore's strong suit.
"Good morning, students," Dumbledore's voice carried effortlessly across the Hall, warm and grandfatherly. "I trust you are all well-rested and well-fed."
He paused, his blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles as students exchanged glances.
"Today marks the beginning of our Duelling Race," Dumbledore continued, "a tradition that, while not as ancient as the Triwizard Tournament, carries its own distinguished history."
Harry settled in for what he knew would be a lengthy speech. Dumbledore liked long speeches.
"Competition, when conducted with honor and respect, brings out the best in us," Dumbledore said, his voice taking on that particular cadence he used when dispensing wisdom. "It challenges us to grow, to improve, to discover capabilities we did not know we possessed."
Harry glanced at Luna, who was barely suppressing a smile.
"The Nargles say he could make 'good morning' sound profound," she whispered.
Harry chuckled slightly.
"However," Dumbledore's expression grew more serious, "competition can also bring out our worst impulses. The desire to win at any cost. The temptation to view our opponents as enemies rather than fellow students. The belief that victory justifies any means, no matter how dishonorable."
His eyes swept across the Hall, seeming to linger on the Slytherin table.
"I remind you all that this Duelling Race, like the Triwizard Tournament, is meant to foster friendship and understanding between schools," Dumbledore continued. "Not to create division or animosity. When you face your opponent on that platform, remember: they are not your enemy. They are your classmate, your peer, someone who shares your love of magic and your desire to test yourself."
Harry thought: Dumbledore definitely knows about the Roger incident.
Dumbledore finally reached practical matters. "The first round of the Duelling Race will take place today."
"The venue will be our Quidditch arena, which has been specially modified for the occasion." Dumbledore paused for effect. "All classes for today have been cancelled."
Cheers erupted, loudest from the younger students who hadn't yet learned to be suspicious of good news.
Dumbledore raised his hand for silence, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. "Do not celebrate too quickly. Those classes will be made up this Saturday."
The collective groan that followed was heard everywhere.
"He giveth and he taketh away," Harry observed.
Dumbledore's expression became more serious.
"Now, regarding the rules and conduct of these duels. The judges will provide comprehensive explanation before matches begin. However, I wish to make several points absolutely clear."
"First: The Unforgivable Curses remain unforgivable." His voice dropped, becoming cold as winter stone, a very rare tone to hear from Dumbledore. "Any student who attempts to use Crucio, Imperio, or Avada Kedavra will be immediately expelled and turned over to the Ministry."
Dead silence fell over the Great Hall.
"Second," Dumbledore continued, his voice warming slightly, "while dangerous curses are not strictly forbidden—this is, after all, a duelling competition—there is no need to permanently harm your opponent. Judges will intervene the moment a duel becomes too dangerous. We are testing skill, not creating casualties."
Harry noticed Professor Moody nodding approvingly from the staff table, his magical eye whirling in its socket as it tracked students' reactions. Snape looked faintly disappointed, as if he'd been hoping for more carnage. Typical.
"Third: Respect your opponent. Respect the judges. Respect the sport." Dumbledore's eyes swept the Hall again. "Duelling is an ancient art with proud traditions. Do not dishonor it with unsportsmanlike conduct."
"Students will gather at the Quidditch arena at ten o'clock," Dumbledore announced, moving into logistics. "The Sorting Hat will determine matchups."
Brief surprised murmurs spread through the Hall. Using the Sorting Hat for this was unusual—creative, but unusual.
"To ensure fairness and impartiality, the Hat will randomly select competitors," Dumbledore explained. "There is no seeding, no preferential treatment. You may face an opponent from your own house, your own year, or from our visiting schools."
A small smile played at the corners of Dumbledore's mouth. "The Hat assures me it will create interesting matchups."
Harry suspected the Sorting Hat had a sense of humor about these things. It probably paired people for maximum drama. A thousand years of sorting students had to get boring eventually; this was entertainment.
"The first round will continue throughout the day until all matches are complete," Dumbledore continued. "Those not competing are encouraged to attend and support their classmates. Madam Pomfrey will be present with full medical staff."
Brief nervous laughter rippled through the younger students.
"As a precaution only, I assure you," Dumbledore added, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely convinced of his own reassurance.
"I have every confidence this will be a splendid display of magical talent." Dumbledore raised his goblet, the gesture grand and ceremonial. "May the best duelists prevail, and may everyone conduct themselves with honor. To competition, friendship, and the pursuit of excellence!"
Students raised their own cups in response.
The Headmaster sat down, and immediately the Great Hall exploded into conversation. Everyone talking at once about matchups, strategies, who they wanted to face and who they wanted to avoid.
"Well," Cedric said, reaching for more toast despite his earlier claim about not eating too much, "that was... Dumbledore."
"He means well," Susan offered diplomatically.
"He also took twenty minutes to say 'don't be jerks to each other,'" Harry pointed out.
"Important message though," Luna said serenely. "People often need reminding. Especially the ones who think they already know."
Cedric checked his watch. "We have an hour before we need to head to the arena."
"I should probably review some shield charms," Susan said, though she made no move to leave. "Freshen up the theory."
"I should probably stop eating," Cedric said, taking another bite of toast. "Duelling on a full stomach seems unwise."
He continued eating anyway.
Harry stood, suddenly needing space, needing air, needing to not be surrounded by the anticipatory energy crackling through the Hall. "I'm going to walk around. Clear my head."
Luna looked up at him. "Want company?"
"No, I think I need to be alone for a bit."
Luna understood immediately. "The Nargles say solitude before competition sharpens focus. Clears away the excess noise so you can hear what's important."
"We'll meet you at the arena," Cedric said, waving with his toast.
Harry nodded, gathering his bag and heading for the doors.
Once he left the hall, he eventually reached the Hogwarts grounds and sat behind the twisted tree near the lake. He wanted to think, to clear his head before the competition. His thoughts drifted to blue eyes and silver-gold hair, to two weeks of pointed silence and glances.
When he heard footsteps approaching, he turned his head. Pretty dark green eyes stared back at him, slightly obscured by long dark hair.
"How can I help you?" Harry asked, standing up and brushing grass from his robes.
Ekaterina Sokolova smiled softly at him, though there was uncertainty in her expression. "Izvините—sorry," she said, her accent thick and musical. "I did not mean to chase you like this. You vanted to be alone, da?"
Harry shook his head. "It's fine. Did you need something?"
Ekaterina hesitated, then spoke in a rush. "You told me veeks ago, in my first day here, that you can do Patronus charm. Real, corporeal Patronus." She paused, then added quickly, "I am being too forward, da? Izvините—"
"It's fine," Harry interrupted, pulling out his wand. "You want to see it?"
Her eyes lit up. "Da! Yes, if you vould not mind."
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, reaching for the memory he always used—Sirius's laughter in the Room of Requirement, the warmth of having family, of being wanted. He opened his eyes and cast.
"Expecto Patronum."
The silver stag erupted from his wand tip, galloping in a wide circle around them both before cantering back to stand beside Harry. Its form was solid, powerful, every detail perfectly rendered in silver light. It turned its magnificent head to regard Ekaterina with liquid silver eyes.
Ekaterina's mouth fell open, her eyes wide with wonder. "Bozhe moy," she breathed. "Is... is beautiful. So strong, so bright." She stared at the Patronus like it was the most incredible thing she'd ever seen, which Harry found oddly touching.
The stag faded after a moment, its light dissolving into wisps of silver mist.
Harry lowered his wand, curious now. "Why did you want to see it?"
Ekaterina's cheeks flushed slightly pink. "I have never seen someone use it before. Real one, I mean. I vas very curious, and you said you could do it, so I thought..." She trailed off, looking embarrassed.
Harry frowned. "Never? Surely your professor at Durmstrang showed it at least once? It's pretty important defensive magic."
Ekaterina's expression became wry, almost bitter. "I only became a Drumstrang last year, my old school was too cold for happy memories, I think. Ve learn vhat dark creatures are, how to fight them, but Patronus?" She shook her head. "Professor Volkov says is advanced magic, not for students. Most people there cannot do it." Her smile returned, bright and genuine. "But you can. At fourteen. Is very impressive."
"Thanks," Harry said, feeling awkward under her praise.
"Spasibo—thank you—for the show," Ekaterina said with a big smile. She hesitated, then added quietly, "For vhat is vorth, I never believed you put your name in Goblet of Fire."
Harry blinked, surprised, "You didn't?" He then quickly added. "Why?"
"Net. No." Ekaterina shook her head firmly. "You have more than enough fame already, da? Vhy vould you vant more?" She paused, her expression becoming more thoughtful, sadder. "Is easy for others to think you put name in Goblet when all they focus on is you being famous. But most of them never bother to think vhat that fame costed you."
Anger flooded his chest like venom. His parents' faces flashed through his mind, photographs moving in albums because the real thing had been ripped away before he could remember them. Fame built on corpses and a scar.
"I think I need to—"
"Net, net, I am sorry," Ekaterina said quickly, her eyes widening with distress. "I should not have said—vas not my place. Izvините." She took a step back. "I vish you luck in duel today. You vill do vonderfully, I am sure of it."
She started to walk away, then paused and looked back over her shoulder.
"I hope the two of us can fight in the finally," she said with a small smile. "Vould be good match, da?"
Then she was gone, her long dark hair swaying as she walked back toward the castle, leaving Harry alone again with his thoughts and the ghost of silver light still dancing behind his eyelids.
He couldn't help but wonder about the sadness in her eyes; it felt familiar. Almost like looking at a mirror.
⚯ ͛
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Harry arrived at the Quidditch arena at quarter to ten, and even then, he was far from the first.
The stands were already crowded with students finding seats, their voices echoing louder than the Main Hall ever did. The arena had been transformed overnight, new seating sections added to accommodate three schools' worth of spectators. The additions were divided by school colors—Hogwarts in gold and crimson, Beauxbatons in blue and silver, Durmstrang in red and black—though many students were already mixing between sections, house and school loyalties temporarily forgotten in the excitement of the competition.
The pitch itself had been cleared of Quidditch goals and equipment. In the center, a large circular marking stretched roughly thirty feet in diameter, the boundary lines glowing faintly with magical energy. The circle was currently flush with the ground, but even from the entrance, Harry could see the enchantments layered over it.
Harry scanned the stands, searching for familiar faces in the sea of students. He found Luna's distinctive blonde hair in the Hogwarts section, her radish earrings visible even from this distance. She'd saved seats—himself, Cedric, Susan, and space for Harry—in what looked like an excellent viewing position.
He climbed the stands, weaving between groups of excited students.
"About time," Cedric said as Harry dropped into the seat beside him. "Thought you'd gotten lost."
"Just taking the long way," Harry replied, settling his bag under the bench. "Needed to think."
Susan leaned forward from Cedric's other side. "Nervous?"
"I'm ready."
The view was excellent. They could see the entire pitch clearly, the circular marking in the center positioned perfectly for optimal spectating. The judges' platform had been erected on the opposite side, elevated enough to oversee the dueling without obstructing anyone's view.
A large group of Ravenclaw students occupied the adjacent rows—a mix of years from third through seventh, many of whom Harry recognized from the common room and various classes. Several noticed Harry's arrival and waved or nodded, the tentative friendliness that had emerged after the Roger incident still feeling fragile and new.
A small cluster of fourth-years shifted their seats closer, clearly wanting to be near someone actually competing.
Terry Boot leaned over the seat back. "Harry, who do you think you'll face first round?"
Harry shrugged. "No idea. The Sorting Hat picks randomly."
"What if you face someone from Beauxbatons?" Anthony Goldstein asked with a teasing smile. "Like Delacour?"
"Unlikely. Too many competitors. The odds are against it."
Padma Patil moved over from a group of girls, inserting herself into the conversation. "But possible. What would you do if you had to duel her?"
"Same thing I'd do against anyone else," Harry said, meeting her eyes. "Try to Win."
The conversation shifted to other potential matchups, predictions, and speculation flowing freely.
More students arrived constantly, the stands filling up rapidly. The Beauxbatons section hosted French students chattering excitedly in their native language, their blue silk uniforms creating a striking visual block. The Durmstrang section showcased Karkaroff's students sitting in organized rows—even spectating was regimented for them, apparently—their dark red uniforms and fur-lined cloaks making them look like a military unit. The Hogwarts section was typical chaos, houses mixing freely, friends shouting across rows, younger students hanging over railings to get better views.
Teachers began arriving at the special elevated platform. Dumbledore led the procession. McGonagall followed. Flitwick practically bounced with excitement. Snape arrived looking bored already, as if the entire event was a waste of his valuable time.
Madame Maxime towered over everyone even sitting down, her massive form draped in what looked like several yards of black satin. Karkaroff scanned the crowd with sharp eyes, probably cataloging potential threats to his school's reputation.
Ludo Bagman arrived last, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a dog with a bone. His robes were violent purple and gold—an eye-watering combination that made Harry squint—and his grin suggested he thought this was the most exciting thing to happen since his own playing days.
At precisely ten o'clock, Ludo Bagman strode to the center of the pitch. An amplification charm on his voice made it boom across the arena with enough volume to make several first-years jump.
"GOOD MORNING, EVERYONE!"
Cedric muttered, "Does he have volume control?"
"I don't think so," Susan replied, wincing.
"WHAT A MAGNIFICENT DAY FOR DUELLING!" Bagman continued, gesturing broadly at the clear sky above. "I'M LUDO BAGMAN, HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL GAMES AND SPORTS, AND LET ME TELL YOU, I HAVEN'T BEEN THIS EXCITED SINCE—"
Dumbledore coughed pointedly from the judges' platform.
Bagman caught himself. "RIGHT, YES, THE RULES."
But before he could actually address the rules, Bagman apparently couldn't resist talking about himself first.
"NOW, I HAVEN'T SEEN A PROPER DUELLING RACE IN DECADES," he announced. "BACK IN MY DAY, I COMPETED IN THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH RUNNING. MADE IT TO THE QUARTER-FINALS BEFORE FACING A PARTICULARLY NASTY OPPONENT FROM BULGARIA—"
"GET ON WITH IT!" someone shouted from the crowd. It sounded suspiciously like Fred or George Weasley.
Scattered laughter rippled through the stands.
Bagman looked slightly wounded but continued. "AS I WAS SAYING, DUELLING RACES ARE A PROUD TRADITION—"
More restless murmuring from the crowd. Clearly no one cared about Bagman's glory days. They wanted to see actual dueling, not listen to a middle-aged former athlete reminisce.
Dumbledore coughed again, more pointedly.
"RIGHT. THE RULES. YES." Bagman pulled out a piece of parchment, reading from it in a way that suggested someone—probably Dumbledore—had insisted he stick to the script.
"RULE ONE: DUELS WILL PROCEED ONE AT A TIME. WE WANT EVERYONE TO WITNESS EACH MATCH, NOT SPLIT ATTENTION BETWEEN MULTIPLE PLATFORMS."
Made sense, Harry thought, though it meant the first round would take forever with this many competitors.
"RULE TWO: COMPETITORS WILL BE SELECTED RANDOMLY BY THE SORTING HAT."
Bagman gestured to where the Hat sat on an ornate pedestal near the judges' platform. The old, patched hat looked thoroughly unimpressed by the proceedings.
"NO SEEDING, NO PREFERENTIAL TREATMENT," Bagman continued. "YOU MIGHT FACE SOMEONE FROM BEAUXBATONS, DURMSTRANG, OR YOUR OWN SCHOOL. HOGWARTS STUDENTS MIGHT DUEL EACH OTHER. THAT'S PART OF THE COMPETITION."
"RULE THREE: A DUEL ENDS IN ONE OF FOUR WAYS."
Bagman held up fingers, counting off like he was addressing particularly slow children.
"FIRST: ONE DUELIST SURRENDERS BY DROPPING THEIR WAND AND RAISING THEIR HANDS IN CLEAR SUBMISSION."
Fair enough, Harry thought.
"SECOND: ONE DUELIST FALLS FROM THE PLATFORM."
Murmurs spread through the crowd at that, many asking where the platform was.
"THIRD: ONE DUELIST BECOMES UNABLE TO CONTINUE DUE TO INJURY OR INCAPACITATION. Judges will determine this. If you're stunned, petrified, or otherwise magically disabled, you lose."
"FOURTH: ONE DUELIST LOSES POSSESSION OF THEIR WAND. If your opponent takes hold of your wand, that's an instant loss. NO WANDLESS MAGIC ALLOWED ONCE YOUR WAND IS IN THE HANDS OF THE OPPONENT. IF IT'S NOT IN YOUR HANDS, BUT ON THE FLOOR WITHIN THE PLATFORM, then you haven't lost, if you are able to retrieve it, then you are still in the duel."
Harry made a mental note: protect his wand at all costs. Disarming spells would be a popular strategy, probably the most common victory condition besides stunning.
"RULE FOUR: CERTAIN MAGICS ARE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN."
Bagman's voice became more serious, the jovial tone dropping into something harder.
"UNFORGIVABLE CURSES WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE EXPULSION AND ARREST. PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE WAS QUITE CLEAR ON THIS."
He glanced at the Headmaster, who nodded gravely.
"JUDGES WILL INTERVENE IF A DUEL BECOMES TOO DANGEROUS," Bagman announced. "WE'RE TESTING SKILL, NOT CREATING WIDOWS AND WIDOWERS."
Nervous laughter from some of the younger students.
"AND NOW, FOR THE DUELLING PLATFORM ITSELF!"
Bagman gestured dramatically toward the circular marking in the pitch's center.
Dumbledore, Madame Maxime, and Karkaroff stood from the judges' platform. All three raised their wands in unison. They spoke an incantation as one.
The circle in the center of the pitch began to glow, runes around its perimeter flaring to life with golden light.
The ground within the circle trembled.
Then it rose.
The entire circular section lifted smoothly upward like an elevator made of earth and magic. It rose one meter off the ground—about three feet—before stopping. The top was perfectly flat and smooth, transformed from grass and dirt into what appeared to be solid beautiful stone. The edges were clearly defined, sharp boundaries between the platform's surface and the empty air around it.
Runes were etched around the platform's perimeter, probably for magical reinforcement and safety wards. The craftsmanship was impressive. Harry wondered who had done this, but he was sure it was Dumbledore with the help of Professor Bathsheda.
Many students around Harry were shouting about the platform now. "Oh, so that's where it was! Cool!!" "Isn't the platform too big! How can you even fall down, unless you jump yourself?" "It would be a very quick duel if the platform was too small, better that it's big, a lot more place for movement."
"THE PLATFORM HAS SEVERAL ENCHANTMENTS," Bagman announced proudly, as if he'd personally cast them all.
"FIRST: IT'S REINFORCED TO WITHSTAND SIGNIFICANT MAGICAL DAMAGE. WON'T CRACK OR CRUMBLE UNDER NORMAL DUELLING SPELLS."
Good to know. Harry wouldn't have to worry about his own spells destroying the ground beneath his feet.
"SECOND: THE EDGES HAVE DETECTION WARDS. THE MOMENT SOMEONE TOUCHES THE GROUND BELOW, THE DUEL ENDS. YOU LOSE, YOUR OPPONENT WINS."
Clear and unambiguous. No arguments about whether someone was technically still on the platform.
"THIRD: CUSHIONING CHARMS SURROUND THE PLATFORM. IF YOU FALL, YOU WON'T BREAK ANYTHING. PROBABLY."
"Probably?" Susan squeaked.
"MADAM POMFREY INSISTED ON THAT ONE," Bagman added.
From the medical section adjacent to the judges' platform, Madam Pomfrey nodded approvingly. Several students looked relieved at this confirmation that the school nurse had been involved in the safety measures.
"NOW FOR THE EXCITING PART!" Bagman's enthusiasm returned in full force. "THE SORTING HAT WILL DETERMINE OUR MATCHUPS!"
He gestured to where the Hat sat on its ornate pedestal, looking old and grumpy.
"THE HAT WILL CALL TWO NAMES AT A TIME," Bagman explained. "THOSE STUDENTS WILL COME TO THE PLATFORM AND DUEL. SIMPLE AS THAT."
"How does the hat know all our names?" Susan asked, looking at Harry a little puzzled. "I understand how it knows us, from Hogwarts, it sorted all of us, but what about Beauxbatons and Drumstrang? It never sorted them, and I don't think it was ever placed in any of their heads."
Harry realised that Susan had a good point. "I...I don't know...but knowing Dumbledore, I think he had a private meeting with the Hat, Kakaroff, and Maxime, the two gave the needed information to the Sorting Hat about how many students they have, their names and maybe even their personalities."
Dumbledore stood and approached the Hat, placing one hand on its brim with obvious respect.
"Old friend," he said, his voice carrying across the arena without need for amplification charms, "if you would be so kind."
The Hat's brim opened; it counted as a mouth, Harry supposed, and a voice rang out across the arena.
"FIRST DUEL OF THE RACE."
The Hat paused for dramatic effect. Luna had been right—it definitely had a flair for theater.
"SUSAN BONES. FOURTH YEAR, HUFFLEPUFF, HOGWARTS."
Susan gasped beside Harry, her hand flying to her mouth.
Cedric immediately turned to her. "You've got this." As long as your opponent is not the Grenngrass girl, Cedric muttered under his breath, and Harry raised an eyebrow in confusion.
Susan stood on shaky legs, her face pale.
"AGAINST..."
Another dramatic pause.
"DAPHNE GREENGRASS. FOURTH YEAR, SLYTHERIN, HOGWARTS"
The Slytherin section erupted in cheers, green and silver banners waving.
From the Slytherin section, a blonde girl stood. Daphne Greengrass—pureblood, wealthy family, known for being skilled with magic but not particularly cruel by Slytherin standards. She looked confident, the opposite of Susan.
She walked toward the platform without second thoughts.
Susan took a deep breath, visibly steeling herself, then started down from the stands.
"You've got this, Susan!" Harry called after her.
She glanced back, managing a small smile, then kept walking toward the platform.
The Hufflepuff section began chanting: "SUSAN! SUSAN! SUSAN!"
The Slytherin section countered with: "GREENGRASS! GREENGRASS!"
The other houses watched with varying degrees of interest. Beauxbatons students leaned forward, curious about Hogwarts dueling standards. Durmstrang students watched like soldiers as usual.
Susan and Daphne reached opposite ends of the platform. Enchanted stairs appeared on each side, rising to meet the elevated surface. They climbed and reached the top.
They stood at opposite edges, facing each other across the smooth stone surface.
"COMPETITORS, TAKE YOUR POSITIONS!" Bagman commanded.
Susan and Daphne moved to marked circles at each end of the platform, roughly twenty-five feet separating them.
"WANDS AT THE READY!"
Both drew their wands. Susan's hand trembled slightly. Daphne's grip was perfect.
Bagman raised his own wand high above his head. He was acting like he was performing before an audience, and he was the main character.
"BEGIN!!"
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