Vincent had seen plenty since stepping into the wizarding world—snakes that killed with a glance, soul-sucking wraiths, blood thirsty werewolves, and vampires with strange personalities. At this point, very little could catch him off guard.
This was not one of those times.
He and the other eight champions stood frozen, staring at the Headmaster of Hogwarts, who, to his credit, at least looked mildly embarrassed by what he had just confessed. Beside him were the two visiting Headmasters, Ludo Bagman practically buzzing despite the fiasco with Crouch, and Rita Skeeter, her quill scribbling like mad. Judging by their expressions, or lack thereof, they'd clearly been briefed ahead of time (except for Rita).
"I'm zorry? Vat vas our first task?" Fleur finally asked, giving voice to what everyone was thinking.
Dumbledore coughed into his hand, then said, "I'll... start again. Champions, your first task has been arranged and decided upon: dragon taming."
A flick of his wand conjured a map of the Hogwarts grounds. The Forbidden Forest sprawled across most of it, with a circle nearly a mile and a half wide drawn inside its borders. Three smaller circles, each a different color, appeared along the perimeter.
"With the centaurs' permission, we'll be designating this section of the Forest as the arena. Your objective is simple: subdue one of three loose dragons and bring it to your assigned circle."
Vincent scanned the others.
Krum's expression hadn't shifted an inch. The two other Durmstrang students looked pale, though one glance at their stony teammate was enough to make them mask it, poorly in Nina's case, judging by the tremor in her hands.
The Beauxbatons girls fared no better, horror dawning on their faces now that the weight of the words "dragon taming" had settled in. Only Eloise stood apart, her eyes fixed on the map in quiet thought.
Then there were his teammates. Harry looked nervous, his fists clenched to his sides, while Nicholas just sighed as his head slumped in quiet acceptance.
"For fairness, lots will be drawn to assign each team to a circle," Dumbledore continued. "On my signal, you'll have three hours to complete the task. Should anyone find themselves in mortal danger, you need only crush one of these."
He held up several small crystals, each with a marble-like core.
"Conditional Portkeys," Nicholas Nott muttered, earning curious looks.
"Conditional?" Harry asked before Vincent could.
"It's an unofficial term used for spells activated by meeting certain requirements," Nott explained evenly. "In this case, instead of the Portkey being activated by touch or time, it's instead done by crushing the crystal."
"Correct, Mr. Nott," Dumbledore said warmly. "I would award Slytherin ten points, if the Cup were not cancelled this year. Now then—questions?"
Sylvie raised her hand. "I vas vondering... vhy dragons?"
Dumbledore gave a wry smile. "One of the original task drafts involved stealing from a dragon. The Ministry went to considerable trouble importing them, and insisted I not let their efforts go to waste."
"It might be a bit egotistical for me to say this, but I believe that this was far safer and more exciting than the original plan, don't you think so? Haha."
""Safer? You call this safer?!""
It was clear that everyone shared the same thought as they all glared at the somewhat pleased Headmaster, of whom was laughing heartily, not seeming to notice.
"Now then, I suggest you all make use of the day to plan and rest, you all have a long day tomorrow."
...
UNLIKELY CHAMPIONS!
By Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet Special Correspondent
The Triwizard Tournament has begun — but instead of the usual three champions, the Goblet of Fire has presented us with nine. Yes, dear readers, nine champions, in what should have been the most carefully regulated magical contest in Europe. What, one wonders, could possibly have led to such a scandalous outcome?
A whisper circulating in Hogwarts' drafty corridors is that this debacle was somehow engineered by none other than the two most controversial participants: The Boy Who Lived himself, Harry Potter, and the school's newest curiosity — Vincent Wong, the first Muggle ever allowed to attend Hogwarts. Coincidence? Or cunning interference?
While there may be a grain of truth in such mutterings, your humble correspondent smells a far more tantalising conspiracy — one that reeks of Ministry negligence and a name many hoped never to hear again.
Bartemius Crouch.
And not the upright, iron-fisted former Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement — but his wayward, supposedly long-dead son.
Three words, readers: Bartemius Crouch Junior.
That's right — against all common sense and official record, he lives. Much like the shocking return of Peter Pettigrew, the rat who exposed the innocence of Sirius Black, Crouch Jr.'s reappearance throws years of Ministry certainties into chaos.
How did he survive? Why choose this moment to crawl back into the light? And most damning of all — what hand does he have in this outrageous turn of events?
The whispers grow louder by the day, but for now, that is all I can confirm. Rest assured, dear readers, I will continue to dig until the truth — no matter how scandalous — comes to light.
Stay tuned.
...
"So that's what all the buzz was about this morning," Vincent thought to himself as he read the Daily Prophet, eyes drawn to the picture of the nine champions with their Headmasters.
Vincent remembered that the Grand Hall had been unusually loud that morning—louder than even the usual din. He never had the chance to see what the fuss was about, however, before all the champions were whisked away to hear about the upcoming task.
"To think she already knows this much... either there's a leak, or she's just that good," Vincent muttered.
"Rita Skeeter has a talent for uncovering secrets, no matter how deeply buried," Nicholas remarked. "Even if the Ministry tried their hardest to keep things under wraps, something like Barty Crouch Jr.'s return was bound to slip through eventually. The rest was only a matter of time."
A sudden splash from the Black Lake, followed by a startled yelp, cut the conversation short. A thoroughly drenched Harry Potter emerged from the water, trudging toward them with a sour expression.
"Focus, Potter," Nicholas said sharply, earning himself a glare from the soaked boy. "Remember: image, structure, impact, perception. Again."
"...This is so stupid," Harry grumbled, sloshing back to the water's edge. He pressed his wand to his forehead and muttered under his breath.
'Tread like a spirit. All beneath my feet shall hold me, even as I walk upon water.'
This time, he placed one foot on the lake, then another. Step by step, he crossed the surface with surprising steadiness, barely disturbing the ripples.
"I'll give him this," Nicholas said as they watched Harry slowly make his way across the lake. "It's impressive Potter managed chanting in under a week."
"...But does it have to sound so dramatic?" Vincent asked, feeling some secondhand embarrassment, something that Harry looked to be feeling judging by his red ears.
Nicholas shrugged. "Grandiose words often help paint a better picture. It, again, also depends how you see magic. As a tool, it's only a tool. As an energy source, you'll always need to refill it. As something living, tied to you—well, the results speak for themselves. Remember what I told you two when we started?"
"Yeah, I do."
...
—One week earlier—
"Chanting?" Harry had repeated, baffled.
The three of them were walking along the Black Lake early in the morning per Nicholas' suggestion. The cool morning air did little to chill them thanks to a warming charm that Nicholas cast beforehand.
"The oldest method to casting magic there is," Nicholas confirmed. "Nowadays, with so many incantations, it's only used to power or alter pre-existing spells, or to lay down the framework for new spells, which is what we're after at this point in time."
"I suppose this 'framework' refers to the spell creation that you want Harry to learn?" Vincent asked, earning a nod from the older boy.
"That's precisely what we're doing. An expert chanter can create a virtually limitless number of spells on the fly. It's perfect for Potter here who lacks the experience and knowledge needed for other subjects."
Harry looked ticked off at Nicholas' backhanded insult, who didn't seem to notice or care. Taking another deep breath, Harry decided to ask questions instead of biting back.
"So, how do we get started? How does, chanting work?"
"Seems like you're keen to learn, wonderful," Nicholas' dry tone made his praise feel somewhat insincere. "But before we get started, I need to confirm something. What is magic to you?"
Harry blinked at the question, clearly unprepared. "What is magic to me?" he echoed, frowning. His eyes flicked briefly toward Vincent, then back to Nicholas. "I dunno... it just is. It's what we do. What else is it supposed to be?"
There was an edge of defensiveness in Harry's voice, as though he suspected a trick in the question. After a pause, he muttered, quieter, "It's... useful. Lets me fight back. That's enough, isn't it?"
"Not for what we're about to do, no," Nicholas stopped in his tracks and turned to face them. "Remember this, nothing is more important to a wizard than how he perceives magic."
Harry shot Vincent a look, but all he got in return was a shrug.
"Judging by your faces, neither of you quite understand," Nicholas said dryly. With a flick of his wrist, his wand slipped into his hand. "So, an example."
'Ripple, rise, turn, flow.'
A coil of water lifted from the lake and wound around Nicholas like a living serpent, slithering to the rhythm of his wand.
"To see magic as one thing is to blind yourself to what else it can be," Nicholas explained, voice steady, almost lecturing. "Right now, I see it as an empty book. My words write the story, my image, the one in my mind, fills the pages, and magic brings it to life. Now..."
He snapped his wand toward them.
'O water, strike, and drench my enemies.'
Vincent ducked. Harry didn't. A rush of water smacked him in the face, soaking his robes.
Nicholas hardly paused. "But you don't have to see it as a book. You might picture magic as a child to teach, or an audience to perform for. In that case, theatrics and flourish strengthen the spell. The grander the words, the heavier the weight behind them, the stronger the result. This is the basis of chanting."
Harry glared murderously as he wrung water from his sleeves. Nicholas finally glanced at him, utterly unfazed.
"Now then, Potter," he said smoothly, "let's see how far you can get in one week."
...
"Perception of magic can change and affect how one casts a spell. Why wasn't that the first thing students were taught here?" Vincent asked.
Nicholas gave him a glance, the faint ting of his zipper sounding as he shifted.
"Short answer: because it's dangerous. But that's not what you want to hear, is it?" Vincent shook his head, and Nicholas went on. "Tell me, what do you think the seven years at Hogwarts, or any year at a magical school is for?"
"To teach young witches and wizards to control their magical gifts?" Vincent replied, giving the first answer that came to mind.
"A textbook response, but not a wrong one." Nicholas' eyes narrowed on the lake. "Magic is dangerous. That is fact. Those years in school exists to impose limits on what a witch or wizard can do, while also conditioning their very being to withstand the strain of the power they wield."
"Limits? Conditioning?" Vincent echoed.
"Exactly. Think of it like training a muscle—strain it, let it heal, and it comes back stronger. Push it too far, too fast, and it tears itself apart. A child's body, their magical channels, their core—call it what you like—aren't ready yet. That's why young witches and wizards tire so quickly when casting. Every charm that fizzles out, every spell that drains them, is part of building that strength. Adults can throw spell after spell without faltering because their bodies have been tempered by years of that process."
Nicholas folded his arms. "That's what schooling is really for: slow, deliberate conditioning. Keep children inside strict limits, teach them in uniform ways, until their bodies adapt. It may stunt progress, yes, but it prevents far more from destroying themselves."
He gave Vincent a long, sharp look. "But there are always exceptions. Some refuse limits, push their perception too far, too fast. They convince themselves magic is infinite, that it makes them untouchable. Those ones die. Some burn from the inside out, their bodies unable to channel what their minds demanded. Others are hollowed out entirely—their magic devouring them until nothing remains but a shell that still casts, even after the person is gone."
His tone darkened further. "And then, at the other extreme, you have Obscurials. The opposite fate. Children forced to suppress their magic instead of shaping it. No strain, no growth, only denial. The magic festers, lashes out, consumes them from within. Two ends of the same truth: push too hard and you shatter. Suppress too much and you rot. Balance, that's what keeps a wizard alive, and what separates a good one from a bad one."
Vincent's eyes shifted toward Harry, who was still making his way along the far bank, his pace slow but steady.
"Will Harry be fine then?" Vincent asked, worry edging his voice.
"Of course," Nicholas said, watching the boy with a cool certainty. "I'll make sure of it."
...
The next day arrived far too quickly. Though whispers of the Prophet's latest revelations lingered, they were drowned out by the collective excitement for the first Trial.
Students from all three schools crammed into the Quidditch stands, which had been magically expanded to accommodate the visiting delegations as well as Hogwarts' own.
"Come on, Hermione, they'll be fine," Ron tried to reassure his clearly anxious friend.
"But—dragons, Ron! They'll be facing dragons!" Hermione squeaked as she pushed Arnya into an open space. "And don't 'come on' me, you're just as worried! Look, your hands are trembling!"
"T-That's just from the cold!" Ron spluttered, going red as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Anyway, why are we even here? This isn't where the trial's happening."
As if in answer, vast transparent screens shimmered into existence above the pitch, flickering before settling into sharp, steady images. Dozens of views appeared at once—sweeping shots of the Forbidden Forest canopy, close-ups along its shadowed edges, and glimpses of clearings hidden deep within.
Towering above these were three larger screens, each fixed on one of the teams within their designated circles. Their uniforms left no doubt as to their allegiance: Beauxbatons draped in elegant blue, Durmstrang in fierce crimson, and Hogwarts in stark black, each robe marked with its school's crest emblazoned across the back.
"Welcome, welcome, to the first task of the Triwizard Tournament!" boomed the jubilant voice of Ludo Bagman, echoing across the stands. "Arranged under the watchful eye of our most esteemed Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore!" His tone bubbled with cheer, every word designed to whip the crowd higher. "We must, of course, thank Hogwarts for opening its doors to such a marvelous occasion. And now, before our brave champions set forth, allow me to explain the rules of the trial they are about to undertake..."
...
"Nervous?"
Harry looked back to see Vincent stretching, Arc-Wand in hand.
"...A little. You?"
"Just a bit," Vincent admitted, lowering into a lunge. "There's a lot of people watching, after all."
"I see..." Harry trailed off, eyes drifting skyward. A near-transparent dome shimmered overhead, and a few figures on brooms patrolled the perimeter. The Ministry, no doubt. Not that knowing that made him feel any safer.
"What if something goes wrong? What if... somehow... Voldemort interferes? What then?"
A thump on his shoulder jolted him from his thoughts. Vincent grinned, fist raised.
"Hey, we got this. Just another year at Hogwarts, right?"
Despite his unease, Harry felt a grin tug at his lips. He tapped his fist against Vincent's.
"Yeah... just another crazy, wild year at Hogwarts. Nothing we haven't faced before."
The tension between them eased, replaced by shared laughter.
"So, Nic, what's the plan?" Vincent asked, earning a raised brow from the Slytherin.
"Nic?"
"Nicholas is a handful to say, and it's not like you're attached to Nott at the moment. Unless you prefer something else?"
Nicholas raised a hand to his chin. "I don't particularly mind. Call me what you like."
"Nic it is. So, what's the plan?"
Nicholas paused, then fixed them with a sharp look. "I should've clarified this earlier, but... do you two want to win this?"
"...What? Are you planning to throw the match or something?" Harry asked, narrowing his eyes.
Nicholas' expression stayed calm. "Close. You were both chosen against your will, by forces that might want your demise or intend to use you for their plans. And while the Goblet of Fire binds us to compete, there is another option. Far safer."
A look of understanding crossed Vincent's face. "You mean... forfeit?"
"You catch on quickly," Nicholas nodded. "The contract forces us to participate, yes. But if we were eliminated early—after the trial begins—we'd still get through the Tournament. No risk. And thanks to these crystals around our necks, it's likely even Dumbledore anticipated this contingency when he made them."
Nicholas pointed to the crystal hanging around his neck, one that was similar to the ones Harry and Vincent wore, one that was shared by all champions participating.
Harry blinked, eyes wide. "...It's that easy?"
Nicholas' gaze was steady. "Well... aside from our reputations taking a hit, being branded cowards for the rest of our time here, maybe even beyond, yes, Potter. That's all it takes. I'll leave the choice with you two."
"Us? Why?"
Nicholas shrugged. "If I compete and do well, I can defy my housemates, impress nobody in particular. If I drop out, it doesn't change my situation much, if at all. At worst, it saves me the hassle. I have nothing to lose. The decision is yours, will you play the game, or play it safe?"
Harry looked thoughtful for a moment, turning to Vincent. "What do you think?"
"He has a point," Vincent shrugged. "Doing this would ensure that we remain safe, at least from the trials."
"...and apart from the trials?"
"...I don't believe that sitting this out would stop whoever wants to hurt or use us," Vincent sighed. "Either way, we're targets."
"So... what do you want to do then?"
Vincent glanced up at the sky, knowing that there were thousands of eyes watching them right this moment.
He smiled. "The last couple of weeks have been full of worrying, panic, and people saying we shouldn't be here. Right now? I think this is the perfect moment to cut loose, and tell everyone to shove it, don't you think?"
Harry's eyes widened slightly before a grin split his lips.
"Heh, I suppose that's as good a reason as any, wouldn't want my training to go to waste either," Harry turned to Nicholas, holding out a hand. "Sorry Nic, guess you're stuck with us for now. Looks like you'll be teaching me for a bit longer."
Nicholas' eyebrows rose at the gesture.
"...I suppose it's settled then," Nicholas sighed, before he shook Harry's outstretched hand. "Now, let's use what time is left to plan out course of action."
...
"...now, without further ado—at the sound of the cannon, our champions will charge into the forest to catch a dragon! The daring Durmstrangs, the dazzling Beauxbatons, or the heroes of Hogwarts—who will triumph first?"
"Heroes of Hogwarts?" Ron snorted. "Bit of a mouthful, don't you think?"
"Would you have preferred horrendous Weasley?" drawled a sneering voice.
Both Ron and Hermione stiffened, turning to see Draco Malfoy flanked by his usual pack of Slytherins.
"It's your school too, Malfoy," Hermione shot back with a frown.
"Is it?" Malfoy's lip curled. "I feel ashamed to be represented by a Muggle, an outcast, and Potter." His eyes flicked to Hermione with particular venom. "What has this place come to?"
"You've been awfully quiet lately," Ron retorted, glaring. "What, your daddy get sacked or something?"
For a split second, Malfoy's sneer faltered. Ron blinked.
"No way... did he?" Ron burst out, grinning. "Malfoy—your dad's been sacked, hasn't he?!"
But before Malfoy could snap back, Ludo Bagman's booming voice rolled over the stands, announcing the countdown. Malfoy and his cronies slipped away, their expressions unusually sour.
"Oi! Get back here!" Ron shouted after them. "You hear that, Hermione? Malfoy's dad got sacked!"
"Or maybe something else happened to him," Hermione murmured, her eyes narrowing at the spot Malfoy had stood. "If it were just being sacked, I think your father would've mentioned it."
Before Ron could argue, Bagman's voice rose above the crowd:
"Join me on the count of three!"
"Three!"
"Two!"
"One!"
BOOM!
The cannon thundered, and on the massive screens the champions surged forward into the forest.
The first task had begun.
...
"Keep up, Potter, or we'll be leaving you behind," Nicholas called from the front.
"Go on, Vince—don't worry about me," Harry told his friend, who gave him a quick nod before lengthening his stride. "But why are we even running? Can't we use magic to move faster?"
Their plan was simple; push straight toward the center of the forest. The hope was to stumble across a dragon along the way. How they would actually bring it back was a question none of them could answer yet, especially since the task details had deliberately kept the types of dragons hidden. Without that knowledge, no one could form a solid strategy.
What bothered Harry most, though, was Nicholas's rule: no magic until contact. It went against everything Nicholas had been drilling into him over the past week; adapt, improvise, conjure a spell for every situation. If there was ever a time to put that into practice, it was now.
Nicholas, leaping over a gnarled root, finally answered. "We could. But the moment we do, we give ourselves away. Dragons, and most magical creatures in fact, are sensitive to magic, and to the intent behind it. Imagine being ripped from your home and thrown into this forest. What do you suppose happens if the first thing you feel is someone casting spells to hunt you down?"
"...They'd see us as a threat," Vincent muttered.
"Exactly." Nicholas gave a sharp nod. "This way, at least, we make ourselves the least threatening of the three groups. Not invisible—just less noticeable. Still, there are breeds that hunt by scent, or by sound, or even by the tremor of a footstep. If that's what we're up against, then all of this is only buying us time."
Harry frowned. "What if we use that? Cast spells to lure one straight to us? Then we just stand in the circle and wait it out."
"Ignoring the possibility that we may have a dragon that scares easily, who knows how we'll track that down if that happens, that plan could work," Nicholas admitted, "if the circle weren't such a blatant trap. It's warded to activate the moment a dragon enters, and believe me, unless it is expertly hidden—which would take far too long to do— creatures like that can sense it long before they step inside. If they haven't already. Not to mention, if we're unlucky, we could have three whole dragons on top of us instead of one."
Harry and Vincent exchanged looks. Nicholas slowed slightly, glancing back to explain. "I studied the circle earlier. It's a containment ward. The moment a dragon crosses the boundary, the magic locks it down."
Understanding dawned on their faces. "So all we really need to do," Harry said slowly, "is drive one into the circle, and the wards will handle the rest."
"Correct, although, again, that's easier said than done," Nicholas stared straight ahead. "Not to mention, dragons aren't the only threat in this forest."
"What do you—?!" Harry was cut off as Vincent tackled him to the side.
BOOM!
...
"Tch, missed." Nikolai Osman muttered in Bulgarian, watching his target vanish behind a tree as the Muggle boy dragged Potter to cover, Vincent right on his heels.
"Osman?! What on earth are you doing?!" Nina hissed from below, fury crackling in her voice.
Nikolai peered down from his levitated perch in the branches. Krum and Nina looked up at him—Nina sputtering, Krum inscrutable but tense.
"Eliminating the competition," Nikolai said with a shrug, as casual as if discussing the weather. He tapped the crystal that hung from his neck. "Break those things and you're out. Crush one on someone else and instant elimination. Easier than corralling a dragon into a circle, no?"
"You—" Nina started, hand going to her wand, but Krum's big, steady hand on her shoulder stopped her from doing anything.
"You do realize how dangerous this is?" Krum asked slowly, looking up at Nikolai.
"Of course," Nikolai replied, voice calm. "That's why it works."
Krum's eyes stayed on him. "...You will have no support from us if you continue," he warned.
"Do what you must then, use me as bait, abandon me even."
A long, slow beat. Krum measured him, then inclined his head almost imperceptibly. "Very well. Do as you wish."
Nikolai's grin split his face, too wide, too eager. "Naturally."
Krum turned to Nina, whose cheeks were still flushed with anger. "Can you adapt your plan?" he asked.
She threw one last glare at Nikolai, then nodded curtly. "Yes. But only if you're certain."
Krum's jaw tightened. He scanned the undergrowth where Nikolai had fired his shot; he felt, rather than saw, a pair of golden eyes fix on them. The stoic mask cracked at the corners. For the first time, a small, dangerous smile touched his lips.
"Show me what you can do, Vincent."
...
Harry stared at the small crater where he'd been standing seconds ago. His heart pounded, his ears still ringing. It had all happened so fast, just a flash of light before the impact. He didn't even get a chance to breathe before Vincent yanked him behind a tree, Nicholas following right after.
"Did you catch the location?" Nicholas asked, voice clipped.
"Barely. Five, maybe six hundred meters dead ahead," Vincent replied without hesitation. "That's insane range."
Harry blinked, still trying to process. "What just happened?"
"We were sniped," Vincent said flatly. "Pretty sure it was Osman. So much for subtlety."
"Evidently," Nicholas muttered. "Did he aim for the crystal?"
"Judging by the angle, yeah. He absolutely did."
"We're being attacked by a champion? Is that even allowed?" Harry asked, incredulous.
"No rule against it," Nicholas groaned. "And as long as he's up there, we're pinned. Sitting ducks."
"Any ideas?" Vincent asked, glancing at him.
"We split," Nicholas answered after a beat. "One distracts him, the other two circle wide. The firing probably scared off, or attracted, a dragon. With a bit of luck, and if we're quick, we might reach it before the others."
Vincent chuckled. "Then I guess I'll see you both later."
Harry frowned. "Wait, you're going alone?"
"Relax," Vincent said, grinning as though it were the easiest choice in the world. "Out of the three of us, I'm the best distraction. And besides, you two still have the real job. I'm just keeping Osman busy."
Harry bit his lip, then gave a stiff nod. "Stay safe."
"You too," Vincent replied, spinning his Arc-Wand once before snapping it forward. "On my mark, we split. One, two, three!"
A wall of ice erupted from the ground, shattering trees and scattering frost in every direction. Under its cover, Harry and Nicholas darted left while Vincent broke the other way, charging headlong toward Osman's position.
...
"Straight at me? Really?" Nikolai muttered, eyes narrowing as the Muggle boy cut across the battlefield with reckless speed. The glacier had been a distraction, or cover for his teammates, but it no longer mattered.
What mattered was the boy himself, closing the distance at a speed far beyond that of regular men.
"He's quick, but that's all. Stupefy."
A scarlet bolt tore through the air, splitting branches as it streaked accurately toward Vincent. In his mind, Nikolai already pictured the crystal shattering, the boy crumpling—
"?!"
His breath caught as Vincent's wand cracked against the spell, swatting it aside. Sparks danced, yellow arcs leaping off the Arc-Wand's tip like chained lightning.
"You've got to be joking," Nikolai said in disbelief. For an instant he wondered, was it luck?
No. He refused to believe it.
Snapping his wand upward, he unleashed a barrage, three bolts in rapid, merciless succession.
Vincent was a blur. He slid beneath the first, vaulted cleanly over the second, and when the third came screaming down, he didn't evade, he met it head on. His wand flashed, hurling his own bolt forward. Red and gold slammed together with a deafening crack, sparks erupting in a storm that lit the forest like day.
And through that storm, Vincent ran. Unstoppable.
"...Hah. Hahahahaha!" Nikolai's laughter erupted, wild and ecstatic, carrying over the chaos. "So, there is some truth to the rumours after all! It seems Krum's eyes were well placed!"
Gone was his scorn. In its place burned the fierce, exultant fire of competition.
"Come then, Vincent Wong!" Nikolai bellowed, wand raised high, his voice shaking the canopy. "Let start this Tournament off with a bang! Show me your strength, and do not dare disappoint me!"
...