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The common room fire crackled with what Harry thought was entirely too much cheer for a Monday morning. He sat wedged into the corner of his favorite armchair—the one with the suspicious stain that looked like a hippogriff if you squinted, while Hermione occupied the matching chair across from him, a stack of books balanced precariously on her lap. Neville perched on the arm of Harry's chair, nervously shredding a piece of parchment between his fingers.
"Ron's been at it again," Neville said quietly, nodding toward the portrait hole. "Practicing Stupefy on the armor in the fourth-floor corridor. Nearly took Sir Cadogan's head off yesterday when he missed."
Across the room, Ron sat with Dean and Seamus near the window, his voice carrying deliberately as he described, loudly, the "perfect wrist rotation for maximum stunning power." The git even demonstrated it, his wand movement exaggerated like he was conducting an orchestra of the profoundly deaf.
"You really shouldn't enter this race, Harry," Hermione said for what had to be the fifth time that morning. The firelight caught the worry lines around her eyes—lines that hadn't been there before his name came out of the Goblet. "You've got enough on your plate with the Tournament. This is just asking for trouble."
"It's different," Harry insisted, his fingers drumming against the worn fabric of the chair. "The Tournament—someone else made that choice for me. Forced me into it. This?" He gestured vaguely toward the notice board where the Duelling Race announcement still hung, its edges slightly singed from someone's wayward spell. "This is me deciding. My name, my choice."
Hermione's lips pursed in that particular way that meant she was formulating at least three counter-arguments simultaneously. "That's all very philosophical, Harry, but it doesn't change the fact that you'll be exhausting yourself before the first task. What if you get injured? What if—"
"What if I actually want to do something that isn't about surviving whatever horror someone's planned for me?" The words came out sharper than intended, and Harry immediately softened his tone. "Look, I know you're worried, but I need this. I need to prove I can handle something on my own terms."
Neville's parchment-shredding intensified, creating a small snowdrift on the carpet. "I get it," he said quietly. "About needing to prove something."
Harry glanced at his friend, noting the determined set of Neville's usually soft features. There was something there, some deeper motivation that Neville wasn't sharing, but Harry didn't press. They all had their reasons.
"Are you entering, Hermione?" Neville asked.
Hermione's nose wrinkled as if she'd smelled something particularly offensive, probably Ron's excessive cologne that he'd started wearing since the announcement. The whole common room reeked of "Wizard's Musk" or whatever tragic potion he'd doused himself in.
"Absolutely not," she said firmly. "The whole thing is barbaric. Sanctioned violence for entertainment? We might as well bring back gladiatorial combat while we're at it."
"Technically, this is gladiatorial combat," Harry pointed out, earning himself a withering look that could have petrified a basilisk.
"Who else is entering from Gryffindor?" Neville asked, clearly trying to redirect before Hermione launched into what Harry privately called her 'Decline of Civilized Society' lecture.
"Dean's entering," Harry said, remembering the conversation he'd overheard at breakfast. "Though he looked about as enthusiastic as someone heading to their own execution. Seamus is still deciding—something about his mam threatening to pull him out of school if he gets another detention this term."
"Ginny will also be entering," Neville added.
Ron's laughter suddenly boomed across the common room, the fake kind he'd perfected lately, all performance and no genuine humor. He was demonstrating another spell movement now, his audience of Dean and Seamus looking increasingly uncomfortable with the display.
"Your stunning spell needs to have intent," Ron declared, loud enough for the portraits to hear. "You can't just wave your wand around like you're afraid of it. Some people might be too cowardly to put real power behind their spells, but that's how you lose."
"Prat," Harry muttered under his breath.
Hermione was watching Ron too, her expression a complicated mixture of disappointment and something that might have been grief. "He's being absolutely ridiculous about this whole thing."
"He's scared," Neville said unexpectedly. When both Harry and Hermione turned to stare at him, he shrugged. "He is. He's scared he was wrong about Harry, scared he made a mistake, and now he's too proud to back down. So he's doubling down instead."
Harry wanted to argue, to point out that Ron being scared didn't excuse him being a complete arse, but something in Neville's tone stopped him. Maybe it was the fact that Neville knew something about being scared and pushing through it anyway.
"Still makes him a prat," Harry said finally.
The portrait hole swung open, admitting a group of second years who took one look at the tension in the room and immediately scurried toward the dormitory stairs. Smart kids.
"I should go submit my entry," Harry said, standing and stretching. His back popped in three places as if he were an old man, probably from hunching over spell books until three in the morning, not that he'd admit that to Hermione.
"Harry—" Hermione started, but he was already heading for the portrait hole.
"I'll be fine, Hermione. It's just a race."
As he climbed through the portrait hole, he heard Ron's voice rise again: "Of course, some people need all the attention they can get. Can't stand being ordinary for five minutes."
Harry's hands clenched into fists, but he kept walking. He had a form to submit, and hexing his former best friend, however satisfying it might be, would probably disqualify him before the race even started.
Though if I'm honest, Harry thought as he headed down the corridor, that might be worth it just to see the look on his face.
....
The corridor leading to Professor Flitwick's office had never felt longer. Harry's footsteps echoed off the stone walls with an accusatory rhythm—you're-an-id-iot, you're-an-id-iot—that matched his growing certainty that entering the Duelling Race was either brilliant or completely mental. Possibly both.
The entry form in his pocket felt heavier than it should, the parchment crinkling with each step like it was laughing at him. He'd filled it out three times before getting it right—the first attempt had been ruined when his quill punched straight through the parchment during a particularly aggressive signature, the second when Crookshanks decided the form made an excellent bed.
Professor Flitwick's door stood slightly ajar, voices drifting through the gap. Harry recognized the tiny professor's squeaky tones immediately, but the other voice made him pause.
Cedric Diggory.
Of course, Harry thought. Because this day needed more awkward.
He pushed the door open to find Cedric bent nearly double to fit through Flitwick's doorway, his Hufflepuff tie dangling dangerously close to a precariously balanced stack of books that looked ready to declare war on gravity.
"Ah, Mr. Potter!" Flitwick chirped from atop his usual tower of cushions. "Another competitor for our race, I see!"
Cedric straightened—carefully avoiding the book stack—and turned. His expression did something complicated, like it couldn't decide between friendly and uncomfortable and had settled for constipated instead.
"Harry," he said with a nod that probably qualified for Switzerland's neutrality award.
"Cedric." Harry matched his tone perfectly. Two could play at the awkward greeting game.
Flitwick beamed at them both, apparently oblivious to the tension that had materialized in the room like a particularly unwelcome boggart. "Excellent to see inter-house participation! Mr. Diggory was just submitting his entry as well."
Cedric held up his form with the same enthusiasm one might show for a dental appointment. "Father thinks it'll be good preparation. For the Tournament, you know. 'Character building' and all that."
The way he said 'character building' suggested it ranked somewhere between dragon wrestling and voluntarily listening to Binns lecture on goblin rebellions.
"Right," Harry said, because what else did you say to that? Sorry your dad's pressuring you into magical gladiator battles?
They stood there for a moment, three wizards united in their complete inability to navigate small talk. Flitwick's clock ticked loudly, each second stretching like taffy.
"Surprised you're entering," Cedric finally said. "With the Tournament and all. Seems like a lot to manage."
Harry's shoulders tensed. There it was—the subtle dig wrapped in concern. Classic Hufflepuff passive-aggression.
"I mean," Cedric continued, apparently warming to his theme, "you're already facing tasks designed for seventh years. And you're, what, fourteen? That's already a massive disadvantage without adding more to your plate."
Oh, he's going there. Harry's grip on his entry form tightened, the parchment protesting with a sharp crinkle.
"I can handle it," Harry said flatly.
Cedric's expression shifted to something that might have been pity. It made Harry want to hex something. Preferably Cedric's perfectly styled hair.
"Look, I'm not saying you can't," Cedric said, hands raised in what he probably thought was a placating gesture. "Just seems risky. Unless..." He paused, and Harry saw it coming like a bludger to the face. "Unless you're trying to prove something? About how you got into the Tournament in the first place?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop about ten degrees. Even Flitwick's perpetual cheer dimmed slightly.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry's voice came out dangerously quiet.
Cedric had the grace to look uncomfortable. "Nothing. Just, some people are saying—"
"Some people," Harry interrupted, "meaning every bloody Hufflepuff who's been treating me like I personally murdered their pets?"
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" Harry stepped forward, his entry form crumpling in his fist. "Your whole house has been acting like I'm some attention-seeking fraud since my name came out of the Goblet. The same Goblet I never wanted anything to do with."
Cedric's jaw tightened. "You have to admit it looks suspicious—"
"Someone else," Harry said slowly, enunciating each word like he was explaining something to a particularly dim flobberworm, "put my name in that bloody Goblet. Without my knowledge. Against my will. This race?" He held up his crumpled form. "This is me choosing. This is my decision. Can you see the difference, or are all Hufflepuffs as thick as they've been acting?"
The silence that followed could have been bottled and sold as a particularly potent silencing charm. Cedric's face had gone from uncomfortable to genuinely shocked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish discovering air wasn't quite what it expected.
Professor Flitwick cleared his throat—a tiny sound that somehow managed to fill the entire room. "Mr. Potter, if you'd like to submit your form?"
Harry slammed the crumpled parchment onto Flitwick's desk with perhaps more force than necessary. The desk squeaked in protest, and somewhere in the stack of books, something shifted ominously.
"Thank you, Professor," Harry said stiffly. He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Good luck in the race, Diggory. Try not to blame me when you lose that too."
He left before Cedric could respond. It wasn't until he was halfway down the corridor that he realized his hands were shaking.
Well, he thought, that went about as well as a niffler in Gringotts.
...
"You called Cedric Diggory thick?" Hermione's voice pitched high enough that several portraits winced. "To his face?"
"Technically, I called all Hufflepuffs thick," Harry corrected, sidestepping a trick step. "I was being inclusive."
Hermione made a sound that fell somewhere between a sigh and a groan—a sound Harry had privately dubbed the 'Why-Is-My-Best-Friend-Like-This' noise. She made it at least three times a day.
"Harry, you can't just go around insulting entire houses!"
"They started it," Harry muttered, knowing how childish it sounded but not particularly caring.
"Oh, well, in that case," Hermione said with exaggerated seriousness, "by all means, continue your one-man war against inter-house unity. I'm sure that will end well."
They turned a corner, nearly colliding with Peeves, who was juggling what appeared to be inkwells filled with something that definitely wasn't ink. The poltergeist cackled and zoomed off, leaving a trail of suspicious purple droplets that Harry carefully avoided.
"Let's focus on something actually useful," Hermione said, pulling a piece of parchment from her bag. Of course she had a list. Hermione had lists for everything. Harry wouldn't be surprised if she had a list of lists somewhere.
"I've compiled all the fourth-year entries I could confirm," she announced, unfolding what turned out to be a disturbingly comprehensive document. "From Gryffindor, we have Ron—" she paused delicately, "—Neville, Ginny, and Dean, though Dean looked about as enthusiastic as someone facing a dementor's kiss when he submitted his form."
"That bad?"
"He actually asked Flitwick if there was a withdrawal penalty. Twice."
Harry snorted. Poor Dean.
"From Ravenclaw," Hermione continued, consulting her notes, "Anthony Goldstein, Terry Boot, and Michael Corner. Corner's apparently been practicing dueling stances in front of mirrors, according to Padma."
"Dueling stances," Harry repeated flatly. "What, like posing?"
"Apparently he thinks style points matter."
"Brilliant. Maybe he can out-pose his opponents into submission."
Hermione's lips twitched. "Hufflepuff has Susan Bones, Ernie Macmillan, and Justin Finch-Fletchley. Ernie's been telling anyone who'll listen about his family's 'noble dueling tradition.'"
"Ernie's family has a noble tradition of being pompous. Does that count?"
"Harry."
"What? It's true."
She ignored him, which was probably wise. "From Slytherin, we have the usual suspects. Draco's been boasting to anyone within earshot—and several people who weren't—about how he's going to 'show everyone what real pure-blood dueling looks like.'"
"Can't wait for that," Harry said dryly. "I'm sure his father has already owled him the secret to winning through excessive hair gel and sneering."
"Crabbe and Goyle are entering too, though I suspect they think it's an eating contest. Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini as well." She paused, giving him a significant look. "And Daphne Greengrass."
Harry frowned. "The blonde one who always sits in the back of Potions?"
"That's her. Harry, she's... different from the others. I've watched her in Charms. She's precise. Controlled. She doesn't waste movements or magic. When everyone else was struggling with the Summoning Charm, she did it perfectly on her second try, then spent the rest of the lesson reading ahead."
Harry tried to picture Daphne Greengrass. He had a vague impression of white-blonde hair, cold blue eyes, and an expression that suggested the rest of the world was a particularly dull play she was forced to watch.
"She's the only Slytherin who doesn't hang on Draco's every word," he remembered. "Four weeks when he was going on about the Tournament, she actually told him to shut up."
"Exactly. She's not interested in politics or popularity. She's interested in competence." Hermione folded her list. "If I were you, I'd worry more about her than Draco."
A flash of brown caught Harry's eye at the end of the corridor. Not the rich brown of castle walls or the muddy brown of student robes, but the specific shade of brown that meant—
"Tonks," he breathed, his stomach doing something complicated that definitely wasn't nerves. Definitely not.
She was walking toward them, but everything about her seemed... muted. Her hair, usually a vibrant pink that could probably be seen from space, had been toned down to a brown so ordinary it was almost aggressive in its normalcy. Even her walk seemed different—less bounce, more careful professional stride.
"Wotcher, Harry. Hermione," she said when she reached them. Her voice was friendly but carried an undertone that made Harry's chest tighten.
"Hi, Tonks," Hermione replied, already reading the situation with that terrifying perception of hers. "I was just heading to the library. Extensive research to do. Very extensive. Might take hours."
She was gone before Harry could respond, leaving him alone with Tonks in a corridor that suddenly felt too exposed. Portraits lined the walls, and while most appeared to be sleeping, Harry had learned never to trust a portrait's snores.
"We need to talk," Tonks said quietly. "Privately."
Harry nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. "Yeah. Okay."
She led him to an empty classroom two floors up, one of those forgotten spaces Hogwarts seemed to produce like lint.
Tonks cast a quick Muffliato at the door—the fact that she knew that particular spell raised several questions Harry filed away for later—before turning to face him.
"So," Harry said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near strangled, "how much trouble are you in?"
"I'm not in trouble," she said finally, and the relief in her voice was so obvious it made Harry's chest ache. "Amelia, Madam Bones, she handled it. Told the Prophet that Rita's article was a gross misrepresentation of an Auror providing emotional support to a traumatized champion."
Emotional support. The words tasted bitter.
"Is that what we're calling it?" Harry asked. A spider web in the corner trembled with his words, its owner probably wondering why wizards had to bring their drama to its perfectly nice abandoned classroom.
Tonks flinched. Actually flinched, like he'd thrown a hex instead of words. "Harry—"
"No, I get it," he interrupted, anger rising hot and sudden. "Emotional support. Very professional. Very appropriate. Nothing more than an Auror doing her duty."
"That's not—" She stopped, running a hand through her brown hair. Brown. Safe, boring, nothing-to-see-here brown. "We can't give Rita or anyone else more ammunition. You understand that, right? My job, your safety in the tournament—"
"So Hogsmeade meant nothing?" The question escaped before he could stop it, raw and accusatory. "The hilltop, the chocolate, the—" He gestured helplessly, unable to voice the way you looked at me without sounding like a lovesick idiot.
Tonks's carefully maintained composure cracked. "It meant—" She paused, her hair flickering through three different shades of brown like a malfunction. "It meant something. Of course it meant something. But Harry, I'm nineteen and you're fourteen. I'm supposed to be training you, not—"
"Not what?" Harry challenged, stepping closer.
"Not feeling things I shouldn't be feeling," she finished quietly, refusing to look at him.
The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Harry could hear his own heartbeat, loud and insistent, probably audible in the Astronomy Tower. Tonks looked everywhere but at him—the dusty blackboard, the cobwebbed ceiling, that fascinating blank stretch of wall.
"Right," she said abruptly, her voice shifting to something forcefully bright. "Training. That's why we're here. Training."
Harry wanted to argue, to push, to demand they actually talk about whatever this thing between them was. But the desperation in her tone stopped him. She needed this escape route, this retreat to safer ground.
"What spell today?" he asked, and if his voice was flat with disappointment, well, at least he was trying.
"Calcivestis," she said, visibly relieved by the change of subject. "It creates a temporary armored shell around your torso. Useful against cutting hexes, mild bludgeoning spells. Won't stop an Unforgivable, but it might save you from a nasty Sectumsempra."
She demonstrated the wand movement—a complex figure-eight that ended with a sharp jab toward the chest. "The trick is visualization. You need to imagine the protection as something physical, something real. Not just a wish or a hope, but actual armor forming from your magic."
Harry tried. He really did. But his mind kept circling back to I'm feeling things I shouldn't be feeling, and his magic responded to his emotional turmoil by fizzing out like a damp firework.
"Calcivestis," he said for the fifth time, his wand movement perfect but producing nothing except a faint shimmer that looked more like heat haze than protection.
"You're not focusing," Tonks observed, which was both accurate and unhelpful.
"Hard to focus when—" Harry bit off the rest of the sentence. When what? When the person teaching him had just admitted to feelings but immediately shoved them in a box marked 'inappropriate'?
Tonks studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Here," she said, moving closer. "The protection needs to come from your core, your center."
She placed her hand over his heart, and Harry forgot how to breathe. Her palm was warm through his robes, and he could smell her shampoo.
"Feel that?" she said softly. "Your heartbeat? That's where the protection starts. Not from your head, not from your wand, but from here. The need to survive, to protect yourself—it lives here."
Harry's heartbeat was doing something extremely unprofessional under her hand, probably morse code for help, I'm an idiot.
"Now," Tonks continued, apparently oblivious to his internal crisis, "imagine that beat spreading outward. Each pulse creating another layer of protection. Like... like tree rings, but made of magic and will."
Harry closed his eyes, trying to focus on her words instead of her proximity. Tree rings. Protection. Not the way her breath ghosted across his cheek when she spoke.
"Calcivestis," he whispered, and this time he felt it—a warm spreading from where her hand rested, flowing outward like ripples in water. His wand tip glowed with soft blue light, and suddenly his torso felt different. Heavier, but not uncomfortably so. Protected.
"You did it," Tonks said, and she sounded genuinely delighted. Her hand was still on his chest, and Harry wondered if she could feel his heartbeat trying to escape his ribcage.
"Good teacher," he managed, his voice only slightly strangled.
She looked up at him then, and for a moment they just stood there, her hand on his heart, his magic humming with the successful spell, the dust motes spinning lazy circles around them like the world's least impressive snow globe.
"I don't regret Hogsmeade," she said suddenly, quietly. "Any of it."
Harry's brain short-circuited. "So it was a date then?"
Tonks's eyes widened slightly, and for a horrible moment Harry thought he'd ruined everything.
Then she laughed and rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek. Quick, barely there, but Harry felt it like a brand.
"Focus on the race," she said, stepping back. Her hand left his chest, and the absence felt like loss. "We'll figure out... whatever this is... after you're safe."
Whatever this is. Not nothing. Not inappropriate. Something that needed figuring out.
"That's not a no," Harry pointed out, attempting a grin.
"That's not a yes either," she countered, but her hair had shifted to a warm auburn that undermined her attempt at sternness. "Now, let's practice that spell again. And Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful. In the race. Some of those older students... they won't hold back just because you're younger."
"I'll be fine."
Three Days Later
Three days later, Harry stood at the edge of what had once been the Quidditch pitch and tried not to gape like a first-year seeing the castle for the first time. The transformation was... well, magical barely covered it.
Where grass and goal posts should have been, a massive square arena rose from the ground like it had been summoned from some ancient Roman fever dream. The platform at its center gleamed with polished wood that probably cost more than the Dursleys' house, raised high enough that even Hagrid wouldn't block anyone's view. Stands surrounded it on all sides, already filling with students whose excited chatter created a buzz that Harry could feel in his bones.
The protective charms around the dueling platform shimmered like heat waves off summer pavement. One Hufflepuff third-year had already been gently repelled twice, much to his friends' amusement.
"WELCOME, WELCOME TO THE FIRST EVER—well, first in about two centuries—HOGWARTS DUELLING RACE!" Lee Jordan's voice boomed from the commentary booth, magically amplified to levels that probably violated several noise ordinances. "I'm your commentator for today's bloodbath—"
"Educational competition, Mr. Jordan," Professor Flitwick's higher voice interjected.
"—educational bloodbath, and we have quite the show for you today!"
Harry found himself a spot in the Gryffindor section, trying to ignore the way conversations died when he passed. The empty seat beside Neville seemed to echo with Hermione's absence—she'd made good on her promise to boycott what she called 'glorified violence.'
Probably for the best, Harry thought. She'd spend the whole time critiquing everyone's wand movements.
The first match began—a sixth-year Ravenclaw versus a Hufflepuff Harry didn't recognize. They circled each other like cautious cats, throwing careful jinxes that seemed more concerned with form than effect. The Ravenclaw's Shield Charm was textbook perfect, the kind Hermione would approve of. The Hufflepuff's Stunning Spell had excellent wrist rotation.
It was, Harry realized, tremendously boring.
The crowd seemed to agree, their initial enthusiasm dampening to polite applause when the Ravenclaw finally managed a Disarming Charm that sent the Hufflepuff's wand sailing in a graceful arc.
"Well, that was... technically proficient," Lee Jordan said with obvious disappointment. "Next up, we have something hopefully more exciting—"
The next match proved him right, though perhaps not in the way anyone expected. A fifth-year Slytherin with arms like tree trunks faced a Gryffindor Harry vaguely recognized from the common room. The Slytherin didn't bother with circling or careful jinxes. He went straight for a Bludgeoning Hex that sent the Gryffindor flying backward into the protective barriers with a crack that made everyone wince.
"Oof! That's got to hurt!" Lee announced with unseemly glee. "And Montague follows up with—is that even legal? Professor?"
"Technically within regulations," Flitwick squeaked, though he sounded disapproving.
The Gryffindor tried to rally, managing a Jelly-Legs Jinx that made Montague wobble, but a follow-up Stunning Spell put an end to things. The Gryffindor had to be levitated off the platform, unconscious but breathing.
Note to self, Harry thought, the Slytherins aren't playing around.
"And now, something rather special," Lee's voice took on a note of genuine excitement. "Neville Longbottom versus Justin Finch-Fletchley!"
Harry straightened, watching as Neville climbed onto the platform. His friend's face was pale but determined, his father's wand held steady in his grip. Justin looked equally nervous, his Hufflepuff supporters cheering with slightly forced enthusiasm—the inter-house tension since Harry's name came from the Goblet hadn't fully healed.
The duel started slowly, both boys clearly nervous. Justin tried a Stunning Spell that went wide. Neville's return Disarming Charm barely had enough force to ruffle Justin's hair. The crowd was beginning to mutter when Neville did something unexpected.
Instead of another offensive spell, he cast an Impediment Jinx at Justin's feet. Not at Justin—at his feet. The platform beneath the Hufflepuff suddenly became treacherous, like trying to walk through thick mud. Justin stumbled, his next spell going wild, and Neville followed up with a surprisingly powerful Expelliarmus that sent Justin's wand spinning into the protective barriers.
"Clever!" Lee shouted. "Absolutely clever use of environmental magic by Longbottom! Who saw that coming?"
The Gryffindors erupted in cheers. Neville's face flushed red as he helped Justin up, both boys shaking hands with obvious relief that it was over.
Harry grinned, genuinely pleased for his friend.
More matches followed. Harry noticed patterns emerging: the older students relied heavily on power, throwing around Stunning Spells and Bludgeoning Hexes like they were going out of style. The younger students, unable to match that raw magical strength, got creative. A third-year Ravenclaw used a Tickling Charm to distract her opponent before going for the disarm. A fourth-year Slytherin conjured soap bubbles that exploded in his opponent's face.
Tonks would approve, Harry thought. It's not about the biggest spell—it's about the smartest use of what you have.
The empty seat beside Neville seemed to grow more obvious as the matches continued. Hermione should be here, even if she disapproved. She should be analyzing opponents with him, pointing out weaknesses, making unnecessarily detailed notes.
But then again, maybe her absence was its own kind of statement. Not everything had to be about fighting and competition. Sometimes walking away was its own form of strength.
"Our next match," Lee Jordan's voice boomed across the arena, "features our youngest champion—though don't tell him that, he gets tetchy—HARRY POTTER!"
The crowd's reaction split like a broken wand—half cheers, half mutters. Harry stood, his legs feeling distinctly uncooperative. Around him, Gryffindors offered mixed encouragement ranging from genuine "Good luck, Harry!" to lukewarm pats that felt more obligatory than supportive.
"Facing off against him today," Lee continued then he frowned deeply, "is seventh-year Slytherin, Chaser extraordinaire—ADRIAN PUCEY!"
Harry's stomach dropped. Adrian Pucey emerged from the Slytherin section like a creature from the Black Lake—tall, broad, and wearing a smile that suggested he ate fourth-years for breakfast. Seventh year meant three years more magical education, three years more practice, three years more everything.
Brilliant. Just brilliant.
Harry climbed onto the platform, the polished wood suddenly feeling very exposed. Pucey was already there, twirling his wand between his fingers.
"Potter," Pucey drawled, his voice carrying across the platform. "I've been hoping for this. Nothing personal, you understand. Just think someone needs to remind you where fourth-years belong in the food chain."
"Let me guess," Harry replied. "Somewhere below flobberworms but above Malfoy's personality?"
Scattered laughter from the crowd. Pucey's eyes narrowed, but his smirk remained.
Professor Flitwick's voice squeaked the rules—no Unforgivables, no permanently damaging spells, victory by disarmament or incapacitation. Harry barely heard him, too focused on reading Pucey's stance. The older boy held his wand loose, almost lazy. Overconfident.
Good. Harry could work with overconfident.
"Begin!"
Pucey flicked his wand almost dismissively. "Stupefy."
Harry sidestepped easily, already moving.
"Lumos Temporis!"
The modified Light Charm Tonks had helped him develop shot from his wand—not a beam but a compressed orb of light that sailed past Pucey's ear. The seventh-year didn't even bother dodging.
"A Light Charm? Really, Potter? Did you forget this is a duel, not—"
The orb detonated.
The explosion of light was like a miniature sun going supernova. Pucey cried out, hands flying to his eyes as the afterimage seared into his retinas. Harry was already moving, having closed his eyes at the last second.
"Aguamenti!" Water streamed from Harry's wand, not aimed at Pucey but at the platform beneath his feet. The polished wood became treacherous, slick as ice.
Pucey, still blinking away tears, tried to adjust his stance and immediately slipped. His Stunning Spell went wide, hitting the protective barriers with a crack.
"Clever little—Confringo!"
The Blasting Curse came fast and angry, forcing Harry to dive. Wood splintered where he'd been standing, sending fragments flying. The crowd gasped—that spell could seriously injure.
"Running already, Potter?" Pucey snarled, water still dripping from his robes. "What would dear old Dad think? Oh wait—"
Harry's jaw clenched, but he kept moving. "Ventus!" The wind charm wasn't strong—fourth-year magic at best—but aimed at the wet platform, it sent a spray of water directly into Pucey's face.
"ENOUGH!" Pucey roared. "Diffindo!"
The Cutting Curse sliced through the air. Harry's Shield Charm barely held, cracking like stressed glass.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" Harry targeted not Pucey, but the wood fragments from the earlier Blasting Curse. A dozen splinters rose into the air, hovering between them like tiny daggers.
Pucey laughed. "What are you going to do, give me splinters?"
Harry flicked his wand. The fragments didn't fly at Pucey—they flew around him, a buzzing cloud of annoyance. Not dangerous, just... distracting.
"Petrificus—get off—Totalus!" Pucey tried to aim through the swirling wood, his spell missing by a foot.
"Accio Pucey's shoelaces!" Harry called out.
It was such a ridiculous spell that Pucey actually looked down. His laces yanked themselves free, whipping toward Harry. Pucey stumbled, his loosened shoes sliding on the still-wet platform.
"You little—that's it!" Pucey's face had gone purple with rage and embarrassment. The seventh-year's wand moved in a sharp, vicious pattern Harry didn't recognize. "DARK-SHEER!"
It shot toward Harry like a bolt of midnight lightning. Harry threw himself sideways, but the spear adjusted course mid-flight, tracking him.
The protective barriers sparked violently as the spell passed through them. Several professors stood up in alarm. This was kind of magic that left scars.
Or corpses.
Harry's Shield Charm shattered on impact. The dark spear grazed his ribs, tearing through his robes and leaving a line of fire across his skin. He hit the platform hard, rolling desperately as Pucey advanced.
"Not so clever now, are you?" Pucey snarled, raising his wand again. "Your mudblood mother couldn't save you, and neither can your bag of tricks!"
The insult about his mother cut deeper than the spell had. Harry's vision went red at the edges, but he forced himself to think clearly through the rage.
"PERCUSSIO DENSO!"
The sonic thunderclap spell Tonks had taught him erupted from his wand. The sound was like a cannon firing in a cathedral—a deafening BOOM that made the protective barriers ripple. Pucey cried out, hands flying to his ears as the concussive wave hit him.
Harry pushed himself up, ignoring the burning pain in his side. "You're soaking wet Pucey."
Pucey, still disoriented from the sonic blast, looked down at his drenched robes in confusion. "What—"
"Glacius!"
The Freezing Charm hit Pucey directly. His wet robes instantly crystallized, ice spreading across the fabric like frozen armor. The water in his hair turned to icicles. His shoes became blocks of ice. In seconds, the seventh-year was encased in a thin shell of his own frozen clothing.
Pucey tried to raise his wand, but his arm moved like he was swimming through treacle. The ice wasn't thick enough to completely immobilize him, but every movement was stiff, cracking, desperately slow.
"Wh-what—c-can't—" His teeth were chattering so hard he couldn't form words.
"Expelliarmus!"
The Disarming Charm caught Pucey's barely-raised wand, sending it spinning through the air. Harry caught it with his seeker hand.
Pucey stood there—if standing was the right word for someone doing an excellent impression of an ice sculpture—shaking violently from cold and rage. Ice crystals fell from his robes with each shiver, creating a small snowfall around his feet.
Harry stood there for a moment, breathing hard, blood seeping through his torn robes. The arena was dead silent.
"Next time you want to insult someone's parents," Harry said, his voice carrying in the quiet, "make sure you can back it up with more than dark curses and three extra years of mediocre spell work."
He turned to walk away, then paused.
"Also," Harry added over his shoulder, "you might want to invest in some drying charms. That was embarrassing."
"HARRY POTTER WINS!" Lee Jordan's voice exploded across the stunned silence. "SWEET MERLIN'S BEARD, HARRY POTTER WINS! Fourth-year beats seventh-year! Did everyone see that? Because I'm not sure I believe what I just saw! Professor, was that Dark-Sheer spell even legal?"
"Technically within regulations," Flitwick squeaked, though he sounded deeply disapproving. "Though Mr. Pucey will be having a conversation with his Head of House about appropriate force..."
The crowd's reaction split dramatically by house. The Gryffindor section erupted in jubilant chaos, students jumping and screaming Harry's name. Even those who'd been cold toward him since the Goblet incident were cheering, house pride apparently outweighing personal grudges, except for a few of them.
The Ravenclaws were applauding with genuine appreciation, some already dissecting the tactical brilliance of using environmental factors. "Did you see how he used the water from earlier?"
The Hufflepuffs looked conflicted. Most sat in annoyed silence, clearly unhappy that Harry had won yet another victory. But in their midst, Cedric Diggory was clapping, not enthusiastically, but with what looked like genuine respect.
The Slytherin section was perhaps the most interesting. They stared at Pucey—still frozen on the platform, being helped by Madam Pomfrey—with expressions of disgust and disappointment.
"Lost to a fourth-year!" someone shouted.
"Absolutely pathetic!"
"My grandmother could have done better, and she's been dead for ten years!"
Draco Malfoy looked particularly sour, probably calculating how this affected his own chances if he faced Harry later.
Harry climbed down from the platform, his legs shaking. The graze from the dark spear burned like acid, and he could feel blood making his robes stick to his skin. But he'd won.
Neville appeared at his elbow, eyes wide. "Harry, that was brilliant! The freezing charm on wet robes—Hermione's going to be furious she missed it."
"She'll probably lecture me about the tactical applications of temperature-based spells," Harry said, trying not to wince as the movement pulled at his injury.
He'd won his first duel. Against a Seventh Year on top of that.
Not bad for a fourth-year, he thought, then immediately looked for Madam Pomfrey. Now if I could just avoid bleeding to death, that would be brilliant.
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