I am Happy to Publish Another Chapter of The Wandless Archmage
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Harry woke before dawn with his heart already racing. The tournament. Today. He lay in the dark for a moment, staring at the blue silk canopy above his bed, then sat up and reached for his glasses.
Terry was already awake in the next bed, reading something by wandlight. He looked up when Harry moved. "Couldn't sleep either?"
"Not really."
Michael groaned from across the room and pulled his pillow over his head. "You're both mental. It's not even light yet."
"It's tournament day," Terry said, as if this explained everything. To Harry, it did.
They dressed in silence. Harry pulled on his robes and checked his reflection in the small mirror by his bed. Same boy. Same scar. Same empty pocket where a wand should be. He flexed his right hand, remembering the warmth of the Lumos, the force that had thrown Dudley backward. Today he would find out if it was enough.
The common room was empty except for Cho, who sat curled in an armchair by the fire with a book she wasn't reading. She looked up when they came down the stairs and smiled. "Ready?"
"No," Harry said.
"Good. You'd be lying if you said yes."
They walked down to breakfast together. The castle was quieter than usual, as if it were holding its breath. Their footsteps echoed in the empty corridors.
The Great Hall was nearly empty. A few early-rising Ravenclaws sat scattered at their table, and a cluster of nervous-looking first-years huddled at the Hufflepuff benches. Harry sat down and reached for the toast he didn't want.
Cho poured herself tea and looked at each of them in turn. "Listen. You've all trained. You know what you can do. The only thing that matters now is keeping your head when it starts."
"Easy for you to say," Michael muttered. "You're not the one dueling."
"No. I'm the one who got knocked into a wall by a troll because I was too slow. So trust me when I say this: slow down. Think. Don't just react."
Harry bit into his toast. It tasted like sawdust, but he chewed anyway. His stomach felt hollow and tight at the same time.
"Harry." Cho's voice was quieter now. "You'll be fine. You've done harder things than this."
He looked at her and remembered the hospital wing, the flowers in her hands. "Thanks."
Terry was spreading marmalade with intense focus, as if getting the coverage exactly right would determine the outcome of his match. "I've been thinking about the bracket. If Harry and Hermione both keep winning, they meet in the semifinal. Someone's going to have to knock out a friend."
"Don't think about the semifinal yet," Cho said. "Think about round one."
By the time they left for the Great Hall, the sun had risen properly, and the corridors were filling with students. The noise level climbed with every turn. By the third floor, Harry could hear the buzz of voices from the entrance hall below.
The Great Hall had been transformed. The four house tables were gone, replaced by a raised wooden platform that ran lengthwise down the center. Banners in house colors hung from the rafters, and the enchanted ceiling showed a clear, bright blue that made everything feel sharper and more real. Students packed the benches on either side of the platform, jostling for better views. The air smelled of excitement and nerves.
Harry followed his friends to a spot near the front of the Ravenclaw section. He could see the staff table clearly from here. Dumbledore sat in the centre, McGonagall to his right, Flitwick to his left. Snape was present, black robes making him look like a tear in the fabric of the morning. Quirrell sat at the far end.
The noise in the hall rose to a peak, then died suddenly as Dumbledore stood. He didn't raise his voice, but every word carried.
"Welcome to the Hogwarts Dueling Exhibition." He paused, letting the weight of it settle. "You are here to test yourselves, to learn, and to represent your houses with honour. Sportsmanship is remembering that the person across from you is also a person. Dignity is found not in how you win, but in how you lose. Disqualification will be immediate, public, and final."
He sat down. Flitwick took his place at the edge of the platform, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.
"Thirty-two competitors. Sixteen first-round matches. Victory by forcing your opponent from the platform or by taking their wand in hand. Disarming is not enough. You must hold the wand." His eyes found Harry briefly. "Mr. Potter's opponents may also win by touching their wandtip to his neck. Mr. Potter may only win by standard methods."
A ripple of whispers spread through the crowd. Harry kept his face still.
"First match," Flitwick called. "Hermione Granger versus Theodore Nott."
Hermione climbed onto the platform from the Gryffindor side. Theodore Nott, a thin Slytherin boy with pale eyes, took his position opposite her. They faced each other, wands raised.
Flitwick's hand dropped. "Begin."
The match lasted less than a minute. Hermione opened with a Shield Charm that caught Nott's Stupefy cleanly, followed it with Expelliarmus so fast Nott barely had time to reset his stance. His wand flew. Hermione caught it left-handed and held it up.
"Winner: Hermione Granger."
The Gryffindor benches erupted. Hermione walked off the platform with her chin up and her face flushed, returning to her house table without looking back.
"Second match," Flitwick announced. "Draco Malfoy versus Dennis Creevey."
Harry leaned forward. Draco stepped onto the platform with the easy confidence of someone who had been preparing for this his entire life. Dennis Creevey looked small and pale beside him.
"Malfoy's going to destroy him," Michael said quietly.
Terry nodded. "Dennis couldn't hold a Shield Charm in practice for more than three seconds."
Harry watched Draco's face. The same cold smile from Potions, from the dungeon corridor, from every moment their eyes had met across the Great Hall.
Someone touched his shoulder. Harry turned. Hermione stood behind them, still breathing hard from her match.
"Professor Quirrell," she said without preamble. "He is missing?"
Harry blinked. "What?"
"Professor Quirrell is missing," she said. "Was he here during my duel?"
"I was too focused on the duel to check if anyone was missing. Was he here?"
"I saw him at the beginning," Cho said slowly. "Before the first match. But I don't know when he left."
The Slytherin section exploded into applause. Harry's head snapped up. On the platform, Dennis Creevey was on his back, wand three feet away. Draco stood over him, wand still raised, that cold smile wider now.
Flitwick's voice cut through the noise. "Winner: Draco Malfoy."
Draco stepped off the platform without offering Dennis a hand up. He walked back to his table, and the green and silver section parted for him like he had won the entire tournament.
Harry's hands were fists in his lap. He didn't remember making them.
"Next match," Flitwick called. His eyes found Harry in the crowd. "Harry Potter versus Roger Bletchley."
The hall went silent. Every face turned toward him.
Harry stood. He walked to the platform, with his shaky legs, as if they belonged to someone else. The wood was smooth under his feet. The ceiling stretched impossibly high above him.
The platform felt smaller with every eye in the Great Hall watching. Harry could feel the weight of their attention like a physical thing pressing against his skin. The enchanted ceiling stretched impossibly high above him. The wooden boards beneath his feet were smooth and old, worn by a thousand years of students who had stood where he was standing now.
Roger Bletchley stood ten feet away, wand held loose and ready. He was taller than Harry by half a head, with sandy hair that caught the morning light and the kind of confidence that came from never being told no. His robes were expensive, perfectly tailored. His stance said he'd already won.
Harry raised his right hand, palm open, fingers spread. His wand hand. Except he had no wand.
The crowd noise dropped to near silence. Hundreds of students leaning forward. At the staff table, Dumbledore watched with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. McGonagall's lips were pressed into a thin line. Flitwick stood at the edge of the platform, one hand raised.
Harry's heart hammered against his ribs. He thought of the cupboard under the stairs. The darkness. The word that meant light. He thought of Charms class, of thirty students watching him produce something from nothing, of Cho leaping to her feet to applaud.
He could do this.
Flitwick's hand dropped. "Begin."
Bletchley moved first. "Expelliarmus!"
The red bolt of light shot across the platform toward Harry's chest. There was nothing to disarm, no wand to fly from his hand, and the spell hit empty air where Harry's wand should have been and dissipated harmlessly.
Bletchley's smirk faltered. Just for a second.
Harry didn't hesitate. He raised his palm and spoke the word. "Lumos."
White-gold light exploded from his hand. Not the soft glow from the cupboard or the steady sphere from Charms class. This was bright, sharp, aggressive. The light threw Harry's shadow fifteen feet across the platform and touched the far wall. Students in the front rows threw up their hands.
Bletchley squinted hard, raising his left arm to shield his eyes. But his wand arm stayed steady. "Clever, Potter. But light won't win you this."
The Stinging Hex came fast, a streak of red aimed low. Harry threw himself sideways. The hex scorched past his shoulder close enough that he felt the heat of it. He hit the platform and rolled, came up on one knee.
Bletchley was advancing now, wand tracking Harry's movement. Harry focused on Bletchley's feet. He remembered the textbook, the spider crawling the path Harry had chosen for it, the patience and will required to make magic listen.
He thought: up.
The air beneath Bletchley's feet shimmered. Bletchley rose. Just inches. Just enough. His eyes went wide. His balance broke. His arms windmilled as his feet left the platform surface.
Harry released the levitation. Bletchley dropped hard, stumbling backward three steps before he caught himself. His face flushed dark red. The smirk was gone entirely now.
"You little..."
Bletchley's next spell came faster, angrier. Harry dodged left. Another hex, this one aimed at his legs. Harry jumped. The crowd noise was rising now, a low roar building with each exchange.
Bletchley steadied himself. His breathing had changed. No more lazy confidence. He was taking Harry seriously now, wand held in a proper dueling grip, weight forward on the balls of his feet.
They circled each other. The platform felt even smaller. Harry's lungs burned. Sweat stuck his robes to his back. Bletchley's eyes never left Harry's face.
Harry prepared the heat. He'd practiced this with Flitwick, directing warmth the way he directed light. Not fire. Not yet. Just heat. Enough to make Bletchley flinch, to create an opening.
He gathered the warmth in his palm. Felt it build. Felt his magic respond the way it had in the cupboard, in the garden at Privet Drive, in every desperate moment when he'd needed something and magic had answered.
Then his scar exploded.
Burning. Like a brand pressed directly into his forehead, into the bone beneath the skin.
Harry's vision whited out. He dropped to one knee. Both hands flew to his forehead, clutching at the lightning-bolt scar. The pain was enormous, all-consuming, the worst thing he'd ever felt.
The platform tilted. The crowd noise became a distant roar, like the ocean heard from underwater. Harry couldn't breathe properly. Each gasp felt like swallowing glass.
Through the white haze of pain, he saw Bletchley's shape. Tall. Moving closer.
"Shame, Potter." Bletchley's voice came from very far away. "Thought you'd last longer."
Harry tried to focus. Tried to reach for his magic. But the pain in his scar was eating everything else, filling the space where his will should be, where his control lived.
Bletchley was advancing slowly now. Wand raised. Taking his time. Savoring it.
Harry's hands were still pressed to his forehead. He could feel his pulse hammering against his palms. His vision swam. He saw Bletchley's boots, the hem of his robes, the wand descending toward Harry's neck.
"Should've stayed with the Muggles," Bletchley said softly. "At least you'd have been safe."
The wandtip moved closer. Six inches from Harry's throat. Four. Two.
Through the blurred edges of his vision, Harry saw her.
Cho. Standing at the platform's edge. Her hands gripped the railing so tight her knuckles were white. Her face was pale. Her eyes were locked on Harry with an expression he couldn't name.
And suddenly Harry wasn't on the platform anymore.
He was in the hospital wing. Cho was lying in bed with a bandage wrapped around her head and blood drying at her temple. Her hair fell across her face, and she wasn't moving. The wall had caught her. The club had thrown her into stone because she'd put her hands on Harry's chest and shoved him clear.
She'd bled for him. She'd spent a week in the hospital wing for him. She'd saved his life.
He would not waste that.
The pain was still there. The scar still burned. But something else rose beneath it. Something that had been living in Harry since Godric's Hollow, since a green light and a curse that should have killed him, since the first time he'd lit the darkness in a cupboard under the stairs and discovered he was different.
Magic answered when Harry was desperate. Magic answered when Harry needed it most.
And Harry had never been more desperate than he was right now.
He released everything at once.
Not controlled. Not aimed. Not the careful, focused magic Flitwick had taught him..
The air around Harry cracked. Visible lines of force radiated outward from where he knelt. The sound was like ice fracturing on a frozen lake.
Bletchley didn't have time to scream.
The invisible wave caught him in the center of his mass. Lifted him. Threw him backward with such force that his feet left the platform before his body registered what was happening.
His back hit the stone floor ten feet from the platform's edge. He rolled twice and lay still.
The Great Hall went dead silent.
Harry knelt on the platform with both hands still pressed to his forehead. The pain was fading now, draining away like water through sand. His vision cleared slowly. He could see Bletchley's shape on the floor. Could see the boy's chest rising and falling.
Flitwick's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Winner: Harry Potter."
The Ravenclaw section erupted. The noise crashed over Harry like a wave. Students were on their feet, shouting, pounding the benches. Terry's voice carried above the rest, high and triumphant. Michael was yelling something Harry couldn't make out.
Harry barely heard any of it.
He lowered his hands slowly. His forehead felt cold where the scar had burned. His whole body trembled. He tried to stand, and his legs didn't want to hold him.
Madam Pomfrey was already moving toward Bletchley with her wand drawn. Flitwick appeared at Harry's side, one small hand on Harry's elbow.
"Can you walk, Mr. Potter?"
Harry nodded. Didn't trust his voice.
"Good. Come down slowly. You've done enough for one morning."
Harry let Flitwick guide him off the platform. The crowd noise washed over him, but he couldn't focus on any of it. All he could feel was the fading echo of pain in his scar and the hollow, shaky feeling in his chest that came after using too much magic too fast.
He reached the bottom of the steps. Cho was there. She didn't say anything. Just looked at him with an expression that made Harry's throat tight.
He'd won. But the scar had burned for the first time, and Harry didn't know why.
Four more duels finished in quick succession before Flitwick called the day's final bout.
Flitwick's voice cut through the lingering buzz of Harry's match. "Last duel: Michael Corner versus Susan Bones."
Michael stood from the Ravenclaw benches. His face was pale but set. Susan Bones rose from the Hufflepuff side, her round face serious, her wand already in hand. They walked to opposite ends of the platform.
Harry sat heavily on the bench where Cho had guided him. His legs still felt unsteady. His forehead was cold where the scar had burned.
Terry dropped onto the bench beside him, breathless. "That was mental. Absolutely mental. Did you see how far Bletchley flew? He must have gone ten feet."
Cho sat on Harry's other side. She didn't say anything. Just positioned herself close enough that her shoulder touched his, a quiet, solid presence.
Hermione appeared in front of them. She'd left the Gryffindor section and crossed to theirs without seeming to care about the stares. Her bushy hair was coming loose from where she'd tried to tie it back. Her expression was sharp with concern.
"Your scar," she said without preamble. "What happened to it?"
Harry looked up at her. "I don't know."
"But it hurt. I saw you drop. You were clutching your forehead."
"It burned," Harry said. The words came slowly. "Like someone pressed something hot against it."
"Has it happened before?" Cho's voice was quiet beside him.
"No. Never."
Hermione was already reaching into her robes. She pulled out a small notebook and a self-inking quill. "What triggered it? Were you casting? Were you angry?"
"I was preparing heat. Directed warmth. Then it just hit."
"In the middle of spellwork." Hermione wrote something down. "That might be significant. Wandless magic puts strain on your core differently than wand-based casting. If your scar is connected to your magical core somehow."
"Hermione." Cho's voice was gentle but firm. "Maybe now isn't the time."
Hermione looked up. Saw Harry's face. Closed the notebook. "Right. Sorry. Are you alright?"
"I think so. It's gone now."
"But it came back once. It could come back again." Hermione bit her lip. "You should tell Professor Dumbledore."
Harry nodded. He would. Eventually. When he could think properly. When the hollow feeling in his chest had filled back in.
On the platform, Michael and Susan were taking their positions. Michael's stance was good, weight forward, wand arm steady. Susan mirrored him. She looked steadier than Harry had expected. More confident.
Flitwick raised his hand. "Ready? Begin."
Michael opened with a Shield Charm. Smart. Defensive. Susan's first hex bounced off the shimmering barrier. She didn't hesitate, followed immediately with a Disarming Charm. Michael's shield caught it.
They circled each other. The crowd had settled into focused quiet. After Harry's match, this one felt almost ordinary. Two first-years with wands, casting spells they'd learned from books, doing it the way students had done it for a thousand years.
The main doors at the far end of the Great Hall swung open.
Every head turned.
Hagrid entered first, his enormous frame filling the doorway. Behind him, smaller and dustier, came Professor Quirrell. His robes were covered in dirt and what looked like bits of leaves.
On the platform, Michael's spell went wide. Susan's counter-hex fizzled halfway. They both stopped, staring at the interruption like everyone else.
Hagrid's voice boomed across the hall. "Sorry fer the interruption. Was on me way back from me business in the Forest. Dumbledore sent me ter check on the Acromantula colony, they've been actin' strange lately. Found Professor Quirrell here wanderin' near the edge of the trees."
At the staff table, Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. McGonagall's lips pressed together. Snape's black eyes fixed on Quirrell with an intensity that made the air feel colder.
Quirrell stepped forward, wringing his hands. His stutter was firmly in place. "Q-quite right, Hagrid. Thank you for your c-concern. I was c-collecting ingredients for a p-potion. Valerian root grows near the F-forest border this time of year. Excellent for calming draughts. I'm afraid I l-lost track of time."
Harry's entire body went still.
Beside him, Cho's hand found his sleeve. Her fingers closed around the fabric and held.
On Harry's other side, Hermione leaned close and whispered, "Valerian root grows in marshland. Wet soil, standing water. Not near forests. I read about it in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. The chapter on aquatic and semi-aquatic plants."
Harry barely heard her. He was watching Quirrell make his way down the center aisle toward the staff table. The professor's movements were small and apologetic. He kept his head slightly bowed. The stutter never faltered.
But Harry remembered.
"M-master, I am d-doing what I can. It is n-not so simple, the th-third floor is..."
The voice in the dark corridor. The voice that didn't stutter. The voice that had called someone master and talked about accessing something forbidden.
Whatever Quirrell had been doing in the Forbidden Forest, it wasn't collecting potion ingredients.
At the staff table, Snape's fingers drummed once against the wood. A small movement. The only sign he was thinking hard about something. His eyes never left Quirrell as the Defense professor took his seat at the far end of the table.
Dumbledore's expression was placid, but something in the set of his shoulders had changed. McGonagall was watching Quirrell with the same look she got when she was deciding whether a student was lying about homework.
Flitwick clapped his hands twice. The sound echoed through the suddenly quiet hall. "Everyone sit, please. The duel continues."
The crowd settled reluctantly. Conversations buzzed in low tones. Students kept glancing toward the staff table, toward Quirrell, toward Hagrid, making his way out through a side door.
Harry sat frozen. His mind was racing. Quirrell had been in the Forbidden Forest during the tournament. While everyone was watching the matches. While the castle was nearly empty. While Dumbledore and all the staff were here in the Great Hall.
What had he been doing?
"Harry." Hermione's voice was barely a breath. "He's lying."
"I know."
On the platform, the duel had resumed. Michael's stance was wrong now. His weight was too far back. His wand movements were stiff, distracted. Susan saw it. She was sharper now, more focused, pressing her advantage.
She feinted left with a Knockback Jinx. Michael raised his shield. She followed with Expelliarmus from the right.
Michael's wand flew from his hand in a clean arc. Susan's left hand shot out and caught it before it reached the apex of its flight. She held both wands up, Michael's and her own.
Flitwick's voice carried clearly. "Winner: Susan Bones."
The Hufflepuff section cheered. Susan smiled, looking surprised at herself. She handed Michael his wand back with a small nod. Michael took it, his face flushed, and climbed down from the platform.
Flitwick waited for the noise to settle. "Excellent work today, all of you. Round two begins Monday morning. He paused, looking across the faces of the thirty-two competitors. "Those who won today, do not assume Monday will be easier. Those who lost do not assume it's finished. This is round one of five. There is a great deal of dueling yet to come."
He clapped his hands once. "Dismissed."
The Great Hall erupted into motion. Students stood, stretched, gathered their things. Conversations burst out at full volume. The first-years who'd competed were immediately surrounded by older students asking questions, offering advice, criticizing technique.
Harry stood slowly. His legs held him this time, though they still felt strange. Michael appeared beside them, looking dejected.
"I was useless out there."
"You weren't," Terry said immediately. "Your Shield Charm held through three spells. That's solid."
"I got distracted."
"Everyone got distracted," Cho said. "Hagrid and Quirrell walking in like that. Half the hall stopped watching."
Michael shook his head but didn't argue further.
Harry looked toward the staff table. Quirrell was sitting very still, hands folded in his lap, staring at nothing in particular. Snape sat three seats away, also motionless, also watching nothing.
Or watching Quirrell without seeming to.
Dumbledore rose from the center of the table. The other professors followed. They filed out through the door behind the staff table, heading toward their private chambers, offices, or wherever professors went when they weren't teaching.
Quirrell was the last to leave. He walked slowly, turban crooked, robes still dusty. He didn't look toward the students. Didn't look toward anyone.
He disappeared through the doorway. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Harry stared at the empty space where Quirrell had been.
"Come on," Cho said quietly. "Let's go back to the tower. You look exhausted."
She was right. Harry was exhausted. Bone-tired. His scar had burned for the first time, and Professor Quirrell had been caught returning from the Forbidden Forest with dirt on his robes and lies on his tongue.
Harry followed his friends toward the doors. But he looked back once at the empty staff table, at the spot where Quirrell had sat.
Something was happening. Something larger than a dueling tournament or a first-year boy learning to fight without a wand.
And Harry had the terrible, certain feeling that it was only just beginning.
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