The sudden maneuver thrilled the masses. However, only those in the front row near our section managed to understand the sheer baseness of what had just occurred. The murmur spread like wildfire as gossip of the assault ran from mouth to mouth. On the other side of the barrier, my mother screamed at me in desperation, beating the air; but the density of the dome muffled the outside sound to minimal levels. I feigned perfect deafness, ignoring her completely even though I could hear her with absolute clarity.
The scandalous event threatened to spark a riot among the spectators and the Aurors, but a powerful, clear voice dripping with biting irony silenced the Atrium before the panic could overflow.
"My, what a pleasant surprise. I did not know the Ministry had designed such a highly powerful and immediate containment barrier," Andromeda announced, projecting her flawless voice over the crowd. "Minister Fudge, it is evident that the rumors labeling you as incompetent are false, seeing the perfection with which you prepared this security system for the duel."
Cornelius Fudge blinked, visibly confused, and swept his gaze toward the administrators and technicians in charge of the arena. Pale-faced, they gave him subtle shakes of their heads, trying to communicate that they hadn't even begun to set up the barrier.
Fudge didn't have the remotest idea where that dome had come from, but following Andromeda's providential intervention, his inner politician took control. He drew himself up, adjusted the lapel of his robes, and nodded with a smug smile, claiming authorship of the spell as if it were all part of a brilliant and meticulous ministerial plan.
In the end, faced with the arrogance of the Minister and the authority of the House of Black, no one dared to question the origin of the magic. Everyone took for granted that the Ministry had the situation under control.
...
Meanwhile, within the confines of that small pocket dimension, the air vibrated, saturated by a violent display of lights, explosions, and blasts of energy.
Tonks moved with agility, running and sliding low to the ground to dodge the precise charms with which Dumbledore intended to immobilize her. There was no malice in the Headmaster's attacks, only an implacable efficiency; for her part, she was squeezing every last drop from her repertoire, determined to push her physical and magical capabilities to their absolute limits.
At one end of the deserted road, the other four wizards watched the scene without making the slightest move to intervene. One of them held a modified runic device blasting "All Hail Shadow" at full volume, while another operated a magical recording camera, capturing every movement. Tonks had fully adopted her husband's peculiar habit of "providing a soundtrack to life." Furthermore, that filming would serve a triple purpose: to treasure the memory, to serve as ultimate bragging rights, and, above all, to act as irrefutable proof to Red that this had not been a mere selfish whim, but that she was truly giving it her all on the battlefield.
Despite her vast experience and formidable gifts, Nymphadora was still a sidereal distance away from the old man's level. However, her performance was proving to be an absolute revelation. Dumbledore could not overcome his astonishment upon witnessing how much this young woman—who, not so long ago, roamed the corridors of Hogwarts as a mischievous student—had matured and evolved. He could only admire her tenacity, even if circumstances had aligned them on opposite sides.
But time was pressing. Aware that Tonks's resistance was too solid to resolve with subtleties, Dumbledore abandoned his indulgence and began to weave magic of a much higher complexity. The conventional transfigurations that had harassed her up to this point became mere child's play when the asphalt beneath Tonks's feet seemed to liquefy completely. The road transformed into a liquid, hungry mass that lunged at her and devoured the lower half of her body in the blink of an eye, instantly solidifying around her like a vice of solid stone that left her completely immobilized.
Dumbledore did not give her a second glance. Considering her knocked out of the fight and under control, he resumed his march at a slow but steady pace toward the exit of the perimeter, arrogantly ignoring the wizards who remained impassive on the corner, recording the outcome.
It was then that the crash of fracturing rock froze his steps.
Utilizing the pistons and runic power of her metallic prosthesis, Tonks shattered the stone block through sheer brute force. Freeing her mechanical arm with a deafening crunch, she aimed her hand directly at Dumbledore's back.
The veteran wizard sensed the imminent danger before it materialized. With reflexes astonishingly agile for his advanced age, he pointed the Elder Wand at the ground, transfiguring the road beneath his feet to erect a stone pillar that propelled him vertically into the sky in a fraction of a second.
A razor-thin beam of crimson energy erupted from the runic compartments of Tonks's robotic arm. The flash traced a perfect line through the air, executing a cutting spell so clean and devastating that it sliced through the rock column as if an industrial laser had passed through the structure. The impact of the severed section destabilized Dumbledore's ascent, forcing him to maneuver in mid-air while fragments of stone rained down around him.
Dumbledore landed several meters away, resetting his center of gravity as he darted his gaze between the sliced stone column and Tonks herself. A thick cloud of dust and suspended debris covered the air, a testament to the Auror's violent liberation. Of course, even if the Headmaster had not moved with such swiftness, the beam of energy would not have been fatal; Tonks had deliberately aimed at the old man's legs. This was not an execution. Neither of the two contenders harbored the slightest desire to end the other's life.
Through the smoke, Dumbledore saw Tonks push herself up, readjusting her guard. With a sharp, decisive movement, the young woman tore away what remained of the sleeve of her robe, exposing the entirety of her metallic prosthesis. Instantly, the complex runic filaments and technological microcircuits interwoven into the chrome flared to life, flashing with an intense, bluish luminescence.
"It seems... you harbor more surprises than I anticipated," Dumbledore murmured, narrowing his eyes.
"Well, I suppose at this stage there's no point in keeping secrets anymore," Tonks replied, spitting out a trace of chalky dust that had slipped into her mouth. "As a conventional witch, I'm fully aware I can't catch up to you. So let's see if technology from outer space can level the playing field a bit."
With a high-frequency hum, a blade of pure, vibrating energy materialized from the tip of her metallic fist, tearing through the air with an electric hiss.
Dumbledore furrowed his brow. He caught on immediately to how the nature of Tonks's presence was mutating, becoming denser. It was no longer solely torrents of magic; an alien and complementary force was rewriting her aura. It was psionic energy. Though manifesting in an incipient form, the mental flow was expanding the Auror's cognitive speed, weaving a micro-field of distorted force around her. It was not an absolute power; despite having undergone the rigorous and experimental procedures Red developed after that "adventure," her psionic progress was still modest. However, combined symbiotically with her magic and cutting-edge engineering, it was more than enough.
Witnessing such a display, Dumbledore could not help but recall what had happened hours earlier in his own office, when the ultimate containment runes, designed to nullify any known spectrum of magic, proved completely useless against a simple blood clone. The laws of the wizarding world were bending before a new era.
"The future... truly belongs to the young," the old man sighed, tightening his grip on the Elder wood, devoid of any trace of arrogance.
"Here I come, Professor!" Tonks announced.
The psionic-witch flexed her legs and catapulted herself forward with the speed and grace of a gazelle. Long-range assaults and the ordinary exchange of jinxes were left behind; Tonks had just dragged the most powerful wizard of the century into a close-quarters fight.
...
Several meters of stone stretched between Lucius and me. Both of us remained motionless in the center of the dueling arena, completely ignoring the clamor and agitation of the public on the other side of the barrier.
"So we have finally come to this," Lucius pronounced, sliding his words with precise contempt as he elegantly drew his wand. "I hope you at least know the proper etiquette of a duel, though I sincerely doubt your father had the capacity to educate you adequately."
It was the start of the psychological warfare, the subtle attempt to unbalance me before the exchange of magic. Lucius began to close the distance with a steady stride, advancing toward the central mark of the platform.
"Are you nervous, by any chance?" I asked him with a mocking smile, mimicking his advance and walking to meet him.
"Do you truly believe that possessing a spark of talent, a couple of exotic abilities, and a few cursed artifacts gives you the right to challenge a wizard of my caliber? You are ignorant, Weasley," Lucius hissed, without losing an ounce of his aristocratic arrogance. "Today I will teach you just how catastrophic your mistake was in pretending to stand against me."
Forthwith, halting at the mark, he executed the formal bow with impeccable rigidity. I confined myself to holding his gaze, denying him the satisfaction of showing the slightest trace of fear, tension, or doubt. With a smile, I returned the bow.
We both turned our backs on each other and walked back toward our respective ends of the arena. Upon reaching the starting lines, we spun around in a fraction of a second, coordinated by the same lethal instinct.
—Expelliarmus!
—Stupefy!
The first two spells ripped through the air simultaneously. At the same time the magical lights shot forth, both of us executed a side feint, dodging the opponent's attack by a mere few centimeters. Lucius had opened the offensive with the clear intention of resolving the match the quick way; he craved a flash victory that would grant him his prize without giving me room to react. But I... heh, I needed exactly the opposite. I needed to prolong the fight, to offer a Dantesque spectacle, to force a perfect choreography that would give the ideal narrative to the grand finale I had prepared.
—Incendio!
—Reducto!
—Stupefy!
—Confringo!
—Glacius!
—Fremerem!
An uninterrupted succession of magical blasts began to fly as we moved in circles around the ends of the platform. With agile and precise movements, we bypassed the beams of light crossing the diameter of the arena; some impacts splintered the runic stone of the floor, while others ricocheted or dissolved with an electric hiss upon colliding against the translucent protective barrier.
Bit by bit, the rhythm of the contention intensified drastically, forcing us to trace increasingly complex wand figures and flourishes. As the seconds ticked by, Lucius's brow sank deeper and deeper into a scowl of pure frustration. His attacks began to change; the standard, everyday charms that anyone in the Ministry would consider legitimate gave way to considerably more damaging, cruel, and lacerating hexes. Upon realizing just how difficult it was for him to predict my movements, the aristocrat began to tinge his arsenal with dark magic.
I, for my part, made sure to project a facade of growing vulnerability and pressure toward the audience, feigning that I was barely managing to stay on my feet. However, in my heart of hearts, I was smiling. I continued to restrict myself strictly to using the most common spells from the Hogwarts curriculum, compensating for the lack of offensive power with a brutal increase in my physical mobility. I ducked and wove through the ravenous flames, piercing ice spikes, and dark curses Lucius threw at me with an almost choreographic grace.