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The roar of the crowd still echoed from Susan's duel as Harry descended the stands, but inside his chest, the fire that had been burning hot and furious was cooling rapidly into something flat and gray.
Roger Davies.
Of all the opponents the Sorting Hat could have chosen from dozens of competitors across three schools, it had paired him with Roger bloody Davies. Not a Durmstrang fighter with years of combat training. Not a Beauxbatons duelist with elegant technique. Not even a Slytherin with something to prove. Just Roger Davies, the boy who had tried to curse him in the back two weeks ago and had been publicly humiliated for it.
Harry glanced up at the Sorting Hat on its pedestal. The old, patched thing seemed to be watching him with what might have been amusement.
"You did this on purpose," Harry muttered under his breath.
The Hat said nothing, but Harry could have sworn it was smiling a little too much.
From the opposite side of the arena, Roger Davies was descending the Ravenclaw section stairs with the kind of swagger that suggested he'd just been handed a gift rather than a duel. His chin was lifted, his shoulders thrown back, and there was a manic gleam in his eyes that Harry recognized as desperation wearing a costume of confidence.
Halfway down, Roger actually stopped, turned, and winked at someone in the Beauxbatons section.
Harry followed his gaze. Several French girls looked confused. One of them whispered something to Fleur, who shrugged with an expression that clearly communicated she had no idea who this person was or why he was winking at her.
"You cannot be serious," Harry said to no one in particular.
"He's been telling everyone he'd destroy you if he got the chance," Cedric said with a smile, he was clearly amused by this. "Guess the Hat decided to call his bluff."
"Wonderful. I was hoping for a challenge, and instead I got a comedy sketch."
"Win fast," Cedric advised, gripping his shoulder. "Don't give him time to embarrass himself worse than he already has."
Harry nodded and continued toward the platform. The enchanted stairs materialized under his feet as he climbed, stone rising to meet each step. The surface of the platform looked clean and without any of the damage done to it during the fight between Susan and Daphne.
Roger reached the top from the opposite side at the same time, and immediately started talking.
"Potter." Roger planted himself at his starting mark, wand already drawn, he looked like a kid who had just been gifted their favorite toy. "You have no idea how long I've waited for this. I'm going to show everyone in this arena exactly what you are. A fraud. A cheat. A mediocre wizard riding on his name and his scar."
Harry said nothing. He walked to his own mark, rolled his shoulders once, and waited.
Roger wasn't finished. "I've been training for weeks, you know. Seventh-year curses. Advanced combat magic. Things you won't even learn for another three years, assuming you survive that long." He paced back and forth along his side of the platform as if trying to come up with something actually clever to say. "When I'm done with you, everyone will see that the great Harry Potter is nothing without his fame."
Harry regarded him with the same expression one might give a puppy that had just knocked over its own water bowl and was now barking at the puddle.
"Davies," Harry said calmly. "Are you planning to duel me, or did you climb up here to audition for a one-man show? Because if it's the second one, I should warn you, the material needs work."
Laughter rippled through the stands.
Roger's face darkened. "Laugh all you want, Potter. When this is over, no one will be laughing. Especially not you."
"Inspirational. Truly. You should write greeting cards."
"You think you're so clever," Roger snarled, stepping closer. "You think everything's a joke. But let me remind you of something. You're Ravenclaw's Seeker because of me. I'm the Quidditch captain. I put you on that team in your first year. Without me, you'd be nobody."
Harry's eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. He pressed a hand to his chest, his mouth falling open in theatrical shock.
"Wait. You're telling me my talent in Quidditch came from you?" Harry gasped. "All this time, I thought it was natural ability and years of practice, but no. It was Roger Davies all along. The secret architect of my success." He placed his hand over his heart and bowed slightly. "Thank you, Roger. Truly. From the bottom of my heart. I don't know how I'll ever repay you for the gift of my own reflexes."
The laughter from the stands was louder now. Even a few students in the Slytherin section were grinning. Fred Weasley's distinctive cackle carried across the arena like a foghorn.
Roger's jaw clenched so hard Harry could see the muscles bunch beneath his skin. His wand hand was shaking, not from fear but from pure, humiliated rage.
"I'm going to reveal to everyone what a fraud you are," Roger growled, his voice low and trembling. "I'm going to expose you, Potter. When I beat you in front of the entire school, in front of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, everyone will finally see the truth. That you're nothing. Nothing but hype and a lucky scar."
"Fascinating theory," Harry replied. "But I have a question."
"What?"
"Are you here to duel or to yap? Because if it's the second one, I'd like to sit down. My legs are getting tired."
The crowd erupted. Even students who had been firmly anti-Harry were laughing now. In the Beauxbatons section, Sophie was covering her mouth. Margaret was shaking her head with something close to pity for Roger, while Fleur was giggling.
"COMPETITORS, TAKE YOUR POSITIONS!" Bagman's voice boomed across the arena.
Harry settled into a relaxed stance, wand held loosely at his side. Roger's grip on his own wand so hard, Harry for a moment thought the wand would snap in half.
"WANDS AT THE READY!"
Harry raised his wand calmly. Roger snapped his up like a man drawing a sword.
"BEGIN!"
Roger attacked instantly.
"Confringo!"
The Blasting Curse screamed across the platform in a bolt of orange light, powerful enough to crack stone. Harry sidestepped it. The curse hit the platform edge behind him and detonated with a thunderous boom, stone chips flying outward.
"Reducto!" Roger followed up immediately, then "Bombarda!" and "Stupefy!" in rapid succession. The spells came fast and hard, each one carrying significant magical force, the platform shuddering under the impacts of those that missed.
Harry moved.
He didn't run. Didn't scramble. He simply shifted, angled, and sidestepped. The Reductor Curse passed his left shoulder by inches. The Bombarda sailed over his head as he ducked. The Stunner he deflected with a casual "Protego"
He did not fire back.
"Incendio Maxima!" Roger roared, a torrent of flame erupting from his wand. Harry raised another "Protego" and the fire split around his shield like water around a stone. "Expulso!" A blinding white bolt. Harry pivoted, and it blasted a crater in the platform behind him. "Diffindo!" A cutting curse. Harry swayed sideways and it cut empty air.
Still, Harry did not attack.
The crowd was beginning to murmur. From the stands, it looked like a seventh-year was unloading his entire arsenal at a fourteen-year-old who simply refused to stand still. Every spell Roger threw was powerful, some of them genuinely impressive for a student, but he was burning through his magical reserves like a man throwing gold coins into the sea.
"Fight back, you coward!" Roger screamed, sweat already beading on his forehead. "Expelliarmus! Impedimenta! Petrificus Totalus!"
Harry shielded, dodged, sidestepped. Shield. Dodge. Sidestep.
Roger's breathing was getting heavier. His spells were coming slower, the time between casts was stretching, at first with half seconds, now with two or three seconds. The magical force behind each one was diminishing; bolts of light that had started blazing bright now flickered and sputtered.
"What's the matter, Potter?" Roger panted, desperately trying to goad him. "Too scared to fight? Or just too pathetic? Maybe that's why you had to cheat your way into the Tournament. You don't actually have any real power, do you? Just a famous name and a talent for running away!"
Harry tilted his head slightly, wondering why di the Sorting Hat put him in Ravenclaw. At the very least, he expected smartness from him, yet he wasn't smart enough to see what he was doing, or maybe his rage was stronger than his brain. Harry wondered if the Sorting Hat had placed him in Ravenclaw just to troll them; that seemed like something it might do.
"Your parents would be ashamed!" Roger spat, playing his final card. "A son who hides behind shields and dodges like a coward!"
A few gasps from the crowd. Bringing up dead parents twice in one day, the arena seemed to collectively hold its breath.
Harry's expression didn't change. He was used to such pathetic insults; Draco had tried them until he realised that talking shit means you get very bad luck for a whole month.
"Globus Ignis!" Roger screamed, putting everything he had left into the incantation. A massive fireball erupted from his wand, spinning and roaring as it crossed the platform, the size of a small boulder, trailing sparks and cinders that hissed against the stone. The heat rippled the air between them, turning the world above the platform into a shimmering haze.
Harry stood still.
He didn't sidestep. Didn't raise his wand. He simply watched the fireball scream toward him as it slammed against him.
Gasps tore through the stands. Luna sat forward. Cedric's hands gripped the railing.
The blast scorched a wide circle into the platform stone. Smoke billowed upward, thick and black, swallowing the spot where Harry had been standing.
Roger stood with his chest heaving, wand arm trembling, and then a wild grin split his face.
"NOT SO CLEVER NOW, ARE YOU, POTTER?!" Roger shouted at the smoke, his voice cracking with triumph. He pointed his wand at the blackened scorch mark and laughed again. "All that dodging, all that showing off, and you couldn't even move out of the way! THAT'S what happens when you face a REAL wizard! Everyone saw it! Everyone saw—"
"Did you get him?"
Roger's blood went cold.
The voice came from directly behind him.
He spun around so fast he nearly lost his footing on the scorched stone. Harry Potter stood three feet away, completely untouched. Not a single mark on his robes. Not a hair singed. His wand hung loosely at his side, and he wore the kind of mild, pleasant smile that made Roger's stomach drop through the floor.
"How—" Roger stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. "That's not—you were—I saw you—the fireball hit you—I SAW it hit you—"
"You saw what I wanted you to see," Harry said simply.
"But HOW?!" Roger shouted. "What did you do?!"
Harry's smile widened, and he tapped his forehead with the tip of his wand. "A wizard never reveals his secrets."
The muggleborns in the stands got it immediately. Laughter exploded from scattered pockets throughout the arena, Dean Thomas howling, several Ravenclaw mugglebonrs clutching their sides, a Beauxbatons girl was giggling, and her fellow students were asking what was so funny. Even Dumbledore, seated on the judges' platform, chuckled softly into his beard, his blue eyes twinkling with unmistakable delight. Hermione Granger covered her mouth with both hands, but her shoulders were shaking with barely suppressed giggles.
The purebloods and most of the magical-raised students exchanged bewildered looks.
"What?" Draco Malfoy demanded from the Slytherin section. "What's funny? What does that even mean?"
No one answered him.
Roger raised his wand with a trembling hand. "Depulso!"
Nothing happened.
The wand tip flickered weakly, a pathetic spark that fizzled and died like a damp match. Roger stared at his wand in horror.
"I tried to warn you," Harry said, slowly approaching. "You used everything you had in the first two minutes. Every spell you threw was at maximum power. No pacing, no conservation, no strategy. Just rage." He shook his head slowly. "You burned through your magical reserves so fast that right now, I'd be surprised if you could cast Lumos."
"Shut up!" Roger snarled, thrusting his wand forward again. "Stupefy!"
A feeble red spark dribbled from the tip and floated downward, landing on the platform like a dying ember. It winked out.
"Stupefy!" Roger tried again. Nothing. "Expelliarmus!" Nothing. "Incendio!" Not even a spark this time.
His arm was shaking violently. His face had gone from flushed to ashen. The wand slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the stone.
Roger's knees buckled. He collapsed like a stone, breathing heavily, and he was sweating as if he had run for miles. He landed on his face, and he seemed to have fallen asleep.
The arena was utterly silent.
Harry walked forward. He stopped beside Roger's crumpled form, looked down at the fallen wand lying on the stone, and bent to pick it up.
Roger's wand felt warm and slightly damp in Harry's grip. He straightened, holding both wands, one in each hand, and looked out at the silent arena.
"HARRY POTTER WINS!"
The applause echoed as he descended the platform stairs, his own wand back in his pocket.
The walk back up to the Ravenclaw section felt longer than it should have.
"Harry! Brilliant work, mate!"
"Potter, that was incredible!"
"How did you do that thing at the end? That was mental!"
Ravenclaws were reaching out from their seats, clapping his shoulders, grabbing his arm, calling his name with the kind of warmth and enthusiasm that had been conspicuously absent for the past three weeks. Faces that had looked through him like glass now beamed with pride. Voices that had whispered "cheater" and "fraud" now shouted congratulations.
Anthony Goldstein stood and extended his hand as Harry passed his row. "Seriously impressive, Harry. You made Ravenclaw proud."
Harry shook his hand because refusing would be petty, but something bitter settled behind his smile. Three weeks ago, Anthony had accused him of misdirection. Had refused to meet his eyes in the dormitory. Had moved his chair away from Harry in the common room.
Now they were pals again, apparently.
Padma Patil waved from two rows up. "Harry, that was amazing! The way you just stood there while he threw everything at you, I could never!"
Padma, who had told him she "expected better" from him. Who had looked at him with such profound disappointment that it had cut deeper than Roger's insults.
Harry smiled and waved back, because that was what you did. You smiled. You were gracious. You didn't point out that loyalty shouldn't be conditional on whether someone was winning or losing.
But he noticed. And he wouldn't forget.
He reached his row and dropped into the seat beside Luna, exhaling slowly.
"You were wonderful," Luna said, offering him a piece of chocolate she'd apparently been keeping in her pocket. "The Nargles were very impressed. They don't often applaud, but several of them did."
Harry took the chocolate and bit into it. The sweetness made him smile. Luna always knew how to make him feel better. "Thanks, Luna."
Cedric leaned across from his other side, grinning broadly. "That was disgusting. In the best possible way. You didn't even throw a single spell."
"Didn't need to," Harry said with a shrug.
"But what did you do?" Cedric pressed, curiosity written on his handsome face. "At the end, with the fire. You were right there, and then you were behind him. Was it some kind of illusion? A disillusionment charm? Advanced apparition?"
Harry took another bite of chocolate and said nothing, the smile grew.
Terry Boot had turned around from the row ahead. "Come on, Harry. You've got to tell us. Was it a displacement charm? A magical echo? I've been reading about theoretical applications of—"
"A wizard never reveals his secrets," Harry repeated, grinning.
"That's not even a real saying!" Terry protested.
"It is now."
"Harry," Cedric said with exaggerated patience, "I'm supposed to be your friend. Friends share secrets."
"Friends also share chocolate," Harry replied, breaking off a piece and handing it to him. "Here. Consider us even."
"This is not the same thing."
"It's better. Chocolate doesn't expire the way secrets do."
Further down the row, a cluster of fourth-years Ravenclaws were debating his technique: "—obviously a modified Disillusionment—" "—no, it was some form of conjured duplicate—" "—could have been a switching spell, swapped himself with a transfigured decoy—"
Harry said nothing and let them speculate. The truth was often less interesting than the mystery, and besides, keeping people guessing had its own strategic value.
His gaze drifted down to the pitch, where medical assistants were floating Roger's unconscious form away on an invisible stretcher, his body horizontal in the air as "Wingardium Leviosa" kept him aloft. Roger's head lolled to one side, his mouth slightly open, looking less like a defeated duelist and more like someone who had fallen asleep during a particularly boring History of Magic lecture.
"He'll be fine," Luna observed, following Harry's gaze. "Magical exhaustion passes within a few hours. Though the embarrassment may take somewhat longer to recover from."
"Considerably longer," Cedric agreed.
"He deserved it." Harry said. Roger had used his dead parents to hurt him, he deserved even more than just a long sleep and embarrassment for the rest of his school year.
The arena buzzed with energy as Bagman took the center of the pitch again, his purple and gold robes catching the sunlight.
"WHAT A MATCH! WHAT A MATCH!" he bellowed. "NOW, WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY, LET'S KEEP THIS GOING! SORTING HAT, IF YOU PLEASE!"
The Hat's brim opened wide.
"THIRD DUEL OF THE RACE. EKATERINA SOKOLOVA. SEVEN YEAR. DURMSTRANG."
The Durmstrang section responded with their usual disciplined applause, though Harry noticed Krum watching Ekaterina with worry. She descended the stairs without saying a word, her long dark hair falling behind her like a dark curtain.
Several boys from all three schools let out appreciative whistles as she reached the pitch. Ekaterina was undeniably beautiful, with those striking green eyes and high cheekbones, and her fitted Durmstrang uniform did nothing to diminish the effect.
"AGAINST... JULIEN MOREAU. FIFTH YEAR. BEAUXBATONS."
A lean boy with golden-brown hair and warm dark eyes descended from the Beauxbatons section. When he reached the platform and saw Ekaterina, he smiled.
"Mademoiselle Sokolova," Julien said with a slight bow and a charming smile. "I must say, if I am to lose today, at least it will be to someone who makes defeat look like a privilege."
Ekaterina blinked, then a smile crossed her face. "Is flatterry standart Beauxbatons taktik, da?"
"Non. Honesty is." Julien drew his wand with a flourish. "Shall we?"
The duel began briskly. Julien was skilled, sending a volley of "Stupefy!" and "Impedimenta!" that showed genuine training. Ekaterina countered with sharp, efficient movements, her own "Protego!" barriers forming and dissolving at the right moments to use as little magic as possible. They exchanged spells for several minutes, the crowd appreciating the technical quality of both fighters.
Then Ekaterina stepped back. Her wand traced a pattern Harry had never seen before, slow circles overlapping into a shape that looked almost like a rune drawn in the air.
"Krasnyy Dozhd!" she spoke.
The sky above the platform darkened. Crimson droplets began to fall, not water but something thicker, heavier, the color of old blood. The rain was contained within the platform's boundaries, a curtain of red that pattered against the stone surface and against Julien's upturned face.
Julien glanced up, frowning, but didn't seem alarmed. The drops didn't burn or sting. They simply fell, warm and strange, pooling on the stone in dark puddles.
"Is this supposed to frighten me?" Julien called out, wiping a crimson streak from his cheek. "I've seen worse at French dinner parties."
Ekaterina said nothing. She simply waited.
Thirty seconds passed. Julien's next spell, a well-aimed "Flipendo!" flew straight but with noticeably less force than his earlier casts. He frowned, shook his wand, tried again. "Stupefy!" The red bolt came out dim, flickering.
His shoulders drooped. His wand arm lowered. His eyelids fluttered.
Julien Moreau collapsed face-first onto the wet stone, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Ekaterina walked forward, her boots leaving prints in the crimson puddles, and picked up his wand from where it had fallen beside his limp hand.
"EKATERINA SOKOLOVA WINS!"
Harry sat very still, he watched as the spell finally ended, and the platform turned back to normal. "What did she do?" he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He had never read about that spell, not in any textbook, not in the Grimoire, not in anything Sirius had given him. The red rain had looked harmless, but it had drained Julien's magic and consciousness in under a minute.
"I have no idea," Cedric admitted, looking equally unsettled. "But I'm very glad she's not my opponent."
The duels continued at a steady pace, the Sorting Hat clearly enjoying its role as matchmaker.
Viktor Krum faced a seventh-year Hogwarts student named Malcolm Preece from Gryffindor. Preece was brave and reasonably skilled, opening with a string of well-practiced hexes, "Stupefy! Impedimenta! Locomotor Mortis!" But Krum was very strong. His "Stupefy!" hit Preece in the chest before the Gryffindor had finished his fourth incantation. The entire duel lasted forty-five seconds. Krum descended the platform, looking bored.
Cedric's match was called shortly after. His Durmstrang opponent, a broad-shouldered sixth-year named Dmitri Volkov, fought with the heavy, forceful style that seemed standard for the school. But Cedric managed to win, but with quite a few close scrapes. Harry winced many times when Cedric tried to fight by the book, so to speak, using rules that should not be followed in such a duel. Thankfully, the Drumstrang student made a mistake that Cedric managed to exploit and win the duel. The Hufflepuff section exploded with pride. Harry made a mental note to talk with Cedric later and to make him understand that he should try to be more unpredictable in a fight and not follow the rules so much.
Marcus Thornfield of Slytherin fought like someone born with a wand in his hand. His fifth-year Hufflepuff opponent, a boy named Evan Whitby, was competent but outmatched from the first exchange. Thornfield's "Expelliarmus!" ripped the wand from Whitby's grip after barely two minutes. He caught it one-handed and walked off the platform without a word.
Lyra Nott, also Slytherin, proved Luna's assessment of her footwork entirely correct. She faced a Durmstrang girl named Katya Petrov and spent the first minute simply evading everything thrown at her, her body flowing between spells. For a moment, Harry was sure the spell should have hit her body, but somehow, she managed to move, almost like a cat, and the spell passed her like she was a ghost. When she finally attacked, it was a single "Stupefy!" so precisely aimed that Petrov never saw it coming. The Slytherin section cheered.
Alexandre Rousseau of Beauxbatons was pure theater. His opponent, a seventh-year Slytherin named Cassius Warrington, had barely raised his wand before Alexandre cast "Illusion des Anges!" The platform erupted with shimmering golden figures, winged angels carrying gleaming swords that swooped and dove at Warrington from every direction. The Slytherin panicked, swinging his wand wildly at phantoms, casting "Protego! Protego! Reducto!" at things that weren't real. While Warrington fought angels that couldn't hurt him, Alexandre calmly walked up behind him and cast "Expelliarmus." The wand flew from Warrington's hand before he realized the real threat had been standing in plain sight the entire time.
Sophia Laurent of Beauxbatons demonstrated exactly why Luna had flagged her air magic. Her opponent, a Gryffindor sixth-year named Kenneth Towler, was decent enough, but Sophia used "Ventus Magnus!" to create a concentrated blast of wind that slammed into his shield and sent him skidding across the platform. When he tried to advance, she cast "Cyclone Ascendante!" and a spiraling column of compressed air lifted him bodily off the stone surface and deposited him on the ground below the platform's edge.
Between matches, Harry and Luna sat side by side, sharing observations and chocolate. The afternoon sun had shifted, casting long shadows across the arena, and the crowd's energy showed no signs of diminishing.
"I wish I could choose who to fight," Luna said suddenly, her voice carrying that particular quality of dreamy wistfulness that meant she was being completely serious about something that sounded absurd.
Harry glanced at her. "Who would you fight?"
"Astoria."
Harry blinked. Then blinked again. "Astoria? Daphne's little sister? The third-year?"
"Mm-hmm." Luna nodded serenely.
"Why on earth would you want to fight her? Take revenge on Susan somehow? Because that's not how that works."
Luna giggled. "We have a bet. If we fight in the Duelling Race and I win, Astoria has to stand up during dinner in the Great Hall and announce to everyone that Wrackspurts are real."
Harry stared at her. "You and Astoria Greengrass have a bet."
"A very important bet."
"I didn't even know you two knew each other."
Luna's smile turned soft and mysterious. "Astoria walks in her sleep," she said dreamily. "So do I, sometimes. You meet the most interesting people in the corridors at three in the morning. You should know that."
Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I'm not going to ask any more questions," he decided.
"Probably wise," Luna agreed.
Luna's own duel came shortly after. The Hat called her against a third-year Hufflepuff boy named Angus Fletcher, who looked thrilled to be competing until he realized his opponent was Luna Lovegood, at which point his expression shifted to pure confusion.
The duel was perhaps the strangest of the day. Angus opened with a respectable "Flipendo!" that Luna simply walked around, as if she'd known exactly where the spell would go before he cast it. He tried "Impedimenta!" and Luna stepped to her right at the precise moment it would have hit her. He attempted "Expelliarmus!" and Luna tilted her head two inches, the red bolt passing close enough to rustle her blonde hair.
Then Luna raised her wand, and with the gentleness of someone tucking in a child, she cast "Morpheus Somnus."
A soft golden light drifted from her wand tip like a dandelion seed on the wind. It floated across the platform and settled over Angus like a blanket.
The boy yawned. His eyes drooped. His wand arm lowered.
Angus Fletcher sat down on the platform, curled up on his side, and fell deeply, peacefully asleep.
Luna walked over, bent down, and gently removed the wand from his relaxed fingers.
"LUNA LOVEGOOD WINS!"
The crowd's reaction was a mixture of applause and bewildered laughter. Luna descended the platform looking as though she'd just returned from a particularly pleasant stroll.
"He looked tired," she explained to Harry as she sat back down. "I thought he could use a nap."
Before Harry could respond, the Sorting Hat's voice boomed across the arena with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested it had been saving its energy for this moment.
"NEXT DUEL OF THE RACE."
"FLEUR DELACOUR. SEVENTH YEAR. BEAUXBATONS."
The Beauxbatons section erupted. Blue silk banners waved, French voices rose in a unified cheer, and every head in the arena turned toward the silver-blonde figure rising from her seat.
Harry felt that familiar tightening in his chest that he absolutely refused to acknowledge.
Fleur descended the stairs with perfect composure, her chin raised, her blue eyes focused entirely on the platform ahead. Her eyes briefly glanced right at Harry's direction, and the two looked away from one another...again!
"AGAINST..."
The pause stretched. Harry could have sworn the Hat was enjoying itself.
"ANGELINA JOHNSON. SIXTH YEAR. GRYFFINDOR. HOGWARTS."
The Gryffindor section roared to life. Angelina Johnson stood from her seat, tall and athletic, and quite beautiful, Harry thought. She was one of the best duelers in Gryffindor, a talented Chaser with quick reflexes and genuine magical skill. This would not be an easy fight for either of them.
Harry leaned forward in his seat.
Beside him, Luna unwrapped another piece of chocolate.
"This one," Luna said quietly, "is going to be interesting."
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