Relevant Inspiration:
Deprived by The Crimson Lord
Disclaimer: I am not British, French, Irish, Polish, Bulgarian, Portuguese, Indian, Filipino, Brazilian, nor South African.
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Formatting Note: I tried something new with this chapter. A solid line dividing paragraphs indicates a time change. A dashed-chapter number line does not.
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Enjoy.
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"Good evening, Wizards and Witches, I am Wix, the infamous Wizard Wireless host for all your worldwide dueling news, and we have a wonderful set of dueling matches coming to you live from the First Reiteration of the Triwizard Tournament. I am currently seated not fifty feet from the midline of the duelists' stage here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Scotland.
"However, before I get into the delicious details of the delectable duels I am delighted to describe, I have the pleasure of introducing my most intelligent and accomplished co-commentator for these events. An Ace of the ICW hailing from their legendary 'M Groups', she is rumored to have been on the raid to defeat not only Morgos of Macedonia, but to aid in combating the genocide of our South African brethren during the collapsing Apartheid! Thank you for being here, Tanitha DeWees!"
"Goeie naand, good evening. Please, just Tanitha or 'Tan will be fine."
"For those listening over the wireless, I can tell you that I have had a little time to chat with Tanitha and...wow! I must say it is rare that I find myself challenged when it comes to knowledge of the modern dueling circuits, but our friend here is quite the encyclopedia!"
"Voetsek, you are too nice...you certainly have me beat when it comes to knowledge of the teams or matches! The only thing I have much smarts about is spells and their usage." Wix smiled and chuckled good-naturedly.
"I am not too kind, but you are too modest! Tell me, how well does knowing about dueling spells make your job hunting dark wizards and witches easier? Does it help at all?"
"Oweh! It helps, it you might not think so, it does help. While we do deal with true Dark Lords occasionally, a lot of what we run into are only organized groups of skebenga...err, that is a group of gangsters. These gangsters often try and fight like their favorite professional duelists, and so it is very helpful to know what spells they might use and how best to counter them. Or, if possible, completely avoid them."
Wix, while keeping his grinning face to the Afrikaner woman, leaned in to whisper to the runic microphone.
"Believe me, Ladies and Gentlemen, Tanitha is very skilled! She joined some of the officials here in testing the safety wards and protocols in place to make this one of the safest dueling venues on the planet!
"And let me tell you, she held her own against the likes of Raghad Zaghloul, the French delegation's coach and current Baghdad Behemoth, and the Durmstrang Institute's dueling instructor, the Terror of Tallinn, Piotr Furan! As if that wasn't enough, I saw her in a friendly match against former World Champion Filius Flitwick! Though she lost, she proved herself outrageously skilled!"
"Enough is enough! You will make me blush and stammer!" Any anger her words were pretending to convey was lost by her coy grin and snort of laughter. Then she turned from her companion to survey the stage and the wizards and witches around it.
"It is amazing, Wix, I said it to my coworkers in the Confederation, and now I'm telling you. These additions to the Triwizard have drawn hundreds of wizards and witches from all over the globe to Great Britain! Even now, in the early rounds of this Dueling tournament, we have scores of fans watching."
"Right you are, and these early rounds are nothing to sneeze at! What do you think, Tanitha? The coaches of each school submitted to us a list of their eight duelists, in the order they believed them to be ranked on their respective teams. When we compare that list to the rankings provided by the judges and analysts of this Tournament, they don't match!"
"It is true. For those who could not make it, our copy of the coaches' rankings is fresh off the printing presses, and we would be silly not to talk about what we think of where the two lists agree and disagree." Wix nodded emphatically at her words and leaned forward excitedly.
"If you were unaware, some of the Tournament favorites are agreed upon by both coaches and analysts. These include the prodigy of Beauxbatons' dueling program, Aurélien Barreau, Durmstrang's Palla Slivka who hardly needs an introduction, and the trio of Fladbury, Whiterose, and Whitlock from Hogwarts…"
"Those three are on professional under-20 teams, are they not?"
"Yes they are, moreover their professors and teachers agree that those names will be in papers around the world in a few years. However, we have a few names we must talk about."
"Right! Amazingly, we have a student from one of the Eight Great Schools of Dueling who is doing his exchange year at Beauxbatons! He will undoubtedly be an asset to them, especially as, with the rule that Champions of the Tasks can't partake in the dueling or quidditch tournaments, they have lost Fleur Delacour."
"Agreed. Arguably she is a better duelist than Barreau, and the French will certainly mourn her loss from their team."
"I would tentatively agree, though I am not as well versed as you on the young up-and-coming prodigies." Wix dipped his head to his co-commentator in acknowledgement of the compliment, then chuckled.
"That being said, Hogwarts' coach, Diego Caplan, has declared even the three aforementioned young phenoms as second through fourth place on his roster. Top spot has gone to a 'Hermione Granger'. Do you know anything about her?"
"I cannot say that I do. But if Caplan, as the current captain of second league Southend United knows basic arithmancy, surely he must have reasoning behind the choice. I believe we can expect great things from her."
"I certainly hope so." There was the sound of shuffling papers, as the two reorganized their small commentating booth. "It would be criminal to ignore, however, that Master Furan of Durmstrang has lost his mind. He has named Palla Slivka as second on his roster!" The black-haired Ace shook her head.
"Listeners, I shall confirm what your host has said. The Terror of Tallinn has named a third-year student as Prime duelist on his team. I say again, according to Master Furan, a third-year student is better than his proven seventh-year starter. Palla Slivka duels alongside Nikaya Lipasky, the Hellion of Herzegovina, for Russian club team Zenit St. Petersburg. She has two-and-a-half years of experience at professional tournaments and at my last check, held a 127-8 record in Dueling at her school. Yet, despite all of this, a girl unknown to any duelists I have spoken with, a girl named Ginevra Weasley, has been named Prime duelist. Could this be an error?"
"If I know anything about Piotr Furan, it is that he is methodical. He would not submit anything with an error so obvious. I dearly hope that he knows something we don't. Perhaps Ms. Slivka injured herself at some point, and is still in recovery? It is also possible that this is a tactic to attempt to gain her an easier starting group of opponents."
"A good idea, Tanitha, but you have reminded me of the groups. Ladies and gentlemen, the placement of the duelists in the group stage has been finalized, and my wonderful companion in these proceedings shall read them to you. 'Tan, could you read them group by group, and also give each duelist's rank among their teammates?"
Tanitha DeWees nodded, clicked her tongue against her teeth, then began.
"I will, for simplicity, note each student's rank at their school by the first letter of their school's name and the rank they hold in their team, from one to eight. One being the best duelist, eight being the weakest on the team.
"Please note that these rankings are based on a vote from the judges and officials, not the Coaches' rankings." She took a quick breath, then read:
"Group One: Bridget Whiterose, H3. Darian Malfoy, B3. Lorien LaSalle, D7.
"Group Two: John Constantine, B1. Rhonda Fladbury, H2. Palla Slivka, D1 by the officials' decision.
"Group Three: Aurélien Barreau, B2. Draco Malfoy, H5. Ginevra Weasley, D8 in the officials' opinion.
"Group Four: Blaise Zabini, H6. Salomé Bardot, B4. Boquin Chu Hua, D6.
"Group Five: Chhaya Krishnamurthy, D4. Hermione Granger, H1. Felipe Sersaint, B5.
"Group Six: Sonia Zariri-Atallah, B6. Kizzie Caplan, D3, no relation to the Hogwarts' coach. And Luna Lovegood, H7.
"Group Seven: Angus Matlock, H4. Ingvar Obarin, D5. Gianni Lombardi, B8."
"Group Eight: Seleria Morein, D2. Simone Pasquier, B7. Seamus Finnigan, H8."
Wix let silence carry for a few seconds, then spoke softly.
"Before we analyze this, I know many of our listeners will want to be joining the official betting pools for these events. 'Tan, could you go through that one more time in case anyone missed the rankings?"
She took a breath, then she ran through the list a second time.
"Great, now, taking in mind that we will only see the first four groups wage war tonight, what are your immediate thoughts?" Tanitha took another long breath.
"First off, Group Two will by far and away have the most drama. Two prime duelists and one of the greatest Hogwarts has to offer eager for an upset!"
"Absolutely, whichever schools wins that group will have a significant advantage when it comes to the Stage of Eight. After all, only one duelist from each Group may continue to the Round of Eight, so we are certain to lose at least one of the top seeded combatants!" Tanitha smiled widely.
"Before we go into further analysis, who do you have winning the whole thing?"
"My money is on Palla Slivka. As you pointed out, her resumé is too substantial for me to discount."
"Ah, but she must face a member of one of the Eight Great Schools in the very first round. I think it will be her undoing…"
From the Beauxbatons' team seats, John sat beside Salomé and watched Darian line up against the Hogwarts' girl named Whiterose. He analyzed their stances, Darian's Andorran blend against a Welsh style called troedtric.
"John, what does her style help her with? She seems off balanced." The bodyguard nodded with approval at her assessment.
"It's like the muggle 'drunken master' style of martial arts. It's a Welsh style of throwing your opponent off with strange movement and combinations. The winning move is usually a tripping jinx tied with something more painful." The tall french girl nodded, and narrowed her eyes.
"Who should I be careful of in this tournament." John didn't need much time to answer.
"In your group, Zabini shouldn't be much of a problem, he will likely fight like his friend Draco, the other Malfoy. You will be able to see Draco duel in the third group before you go. However, watch out for what the Chinese girl from Durmstrang casts first."
"What will that tell me?"
"If it is an attacking spell, she is trained in fencing, and will move only linearly forward and backwards. If it is a spell that sets up for a combination, charge forward to break her focus, that will buy you the advantage." Salomé didn't ask how he knew this, she had a more important query.
"And if her first spell is defensive?" He turned to meet her cold but curious eyes. The warmth she used to radiate was dulled now, hidden in the depths like he had warned her. But she had accepted the new brutality of morning training without complaint, without hesitation. She was growing more and more impressive each day.
"If she defends, it's a trap. Do not attack. Cast the strongest defensive wards and shields you can think of, and stay moving."
"If she seems to defend, it's a ruse for an all out attack?"
"Yes. Pray your shields hold." She nodded, then focused once more on the duel in front of them. It was about to start.
When it did, Darian opened with a streaking trio of red. Whiterose seemed to barely stumble out of the way, then her wand was cursing blues and yellows.
John idly kept track of the match, but his focus was on someone else. A redhead in the Durmstrang seats. There was something off about her, then chocolate orbs met silver-veiled green. John blinked.
"Salomé."
"Oui?"
"The redhead sitting with Dumstrang."
"What about her? She seems very young."
"She is the most dangerous person in this tournament." That stopped the strawberry blonde's preconceptions short. She cursed herself for assuming. Then, regaining composure, she closed her slightly parted jaw and asked a measured question.
"Why?"
"She has the eyes of a killer."
"Like the men from the Chateau?"
"No. They were pitiful amateurs in comparison." Brown eyes met grey, and it was all Salomé could do not to shudder. For a split second, the red-head's eyes held not the heat of humanity, but the chill of a rotting corpse. Those windows were to a soul that wasn't human...that couldn't be human. Then something changed in an instant, and there was once more the guise of life to the chocolate pools. When Salomé spoke, it was with thin bravery.
"I really hope you are wrong."
"Me too."
Darian won, but it had been a thrilling first match for the tournament, and the fans were uproarious in applause. His victory, an incarcerous hidden behind a blazing shield-breaker, had come mere seconds before a Welsh spell had sent tendrils of briars wrapping around his legs towards his arms and head. The match was called and the half-goblin Master of Safety had quickly counter-spelled the vines, allowing the French student a dignified end to his first duel.
It was the next match, however, that brought roaring cheers from the Beauxbatons' students, and rolling thunder of support from the much more massive Hogwarts' crowd. John stepped on the stage, reaching down and brushing his fingers against the floorboards before rising to his full height and approaching the center line. Down the lane, his opponent met him. She had dark skin, and ink-black tresses that poured over her shoulders. They shook hands.
"Rhonda Fladburry, Vice-President of the Hogwarts' Dueling Club." Her voice had a low timbre to it. A captivating sound. John's response carried the adopted Irish brogue.
"John Constantine, vagrant and villain of Cú Chulainn. I was the training dummy for their dueling team. I currently represent Beauxbatons." She cocked her head and offered a wry smirk.
"Training dummy?"
"A story for another time." Before she could try and match his wit, Flitwick approached to reiterate the rules as he was required to do before every match. While he tittered on, John took his time to study the girl that he was to face with. He appreciated that she did the same. His hidden eyes flicked, measured, and gauged.
She was left handed.
She had walked with a smooth gait, and her wand was not yet drawn.
Closed off, trained. Methodical.
Italian. John decided, piecing together her most likely style of dueling. Flitwick finished his recital, and requested to inspect their wands. With a smiling, 'Ladies first,' the diminutive professor gave her Beech-wood wand a thrice-over, and quickly returned it. Then he took John's.
"Mr. Constantine...is this even made from wood?"
"No, sir."
"Stone?"
"Technically, sir." The professor examined it for several more seconds.
"Coral?"
"Yes,sir."
"I admit, my pelagic knowledge is lacking, but I thought coral to be...well more vibrant."
"When exposed to too much carbon-dioxide, the coral dies. I'm afraid there is far more of that above ground than below the waves." Flitwick shook his head in amazement.
"This isn't against the rules to use." The part-goblin said more for the benefit of an overly nosy reporter that had tried to slide closer. John took his wand back, bowed to the Master of Safety, and then to his opponent. She returned the gesture, and they began their walk back to the starting circles placed closer to the ends of the massive table.
"Ladies and Gentlewizards, this is Wix and 'Tan coming back at you from our short break. Starting soon we have our second match of the day, John Constantine from Beauxbatons, and Rhonda Fladbury from Hogwarts."
"A first-ranked wizard against a second-ranked witch, Wix, this should be brilliant."
"Indeed, my lethal lady, young Mr. Constantine was a student at the legendary College Cú Chulainn in Ireland, one of the eight greatest dueling schools in the world!"
"But, my charismatic co-commentator," she grinned as she imitated his alliterative pattern of speech, "We cannot give the Irishman too much of an advantage. We spoke of the history of their third group-mate, Palla Slivka, earlier. Amazingly, Rhonda and Palla have a history of their own. In an amazing display two years ago at the ICW-sponsored Challenge of the Future, the third-seed Palla drew the unknown Rhonda in the opening round of 128 up-and-coming duelists.
"In a bout that lasted almost twelve minutes, Rhonda narrowly defeated the third-ranked Russian girl, and went on to make it to the round of 16."
"True, that may be, but the following year Palla placed second over all, obliterating two opponents before annihilating Rhonda in her third match. That goes without mentioning the whole trio of matches were completed in a sum total of eight minutes."
"You are right, Wix, and the two will be dueling later this evening, a tie-breaker to be anticipated. However, John and Rhonda are getting into stance now. We are about to begin!" The commentators and the crowd hushed. The first due to runes designed to ensure the duo wouldn't prove a distraction the duelists, and the second in the magnetism of the moment.
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John stood as always, feet shoulder width apart, hands behind his back.
Rhonda stood side on, right hand splayed at hip-height behind her, left hand holding the wand in front of her at eye-height. Balanced, poised.
Flitwick stood on his chair in the judges booth just below the commentators box. He raised his wand, sparks frothing red from the tip.
The wand dropped.
The sparks flared green.
Rhonda pushed forward with a fencing lunge and a disarming charm.
John stepped left, out of the way, and his wand slithered, a whip of incandescent light snapping forward like a striking snake. Rhonda grew pale, and reacted with a protego. The shield shattered, and Rhonda crumpled to the floor. Her wand slipped from slack fingers.
"Eat shit Sigfried! Holy fuck!" The crowd turned to face the commentators booth, where Wix's shouted comment had escaped even the muffling walls. He blushed, and spluttered into the microphone as his companion laughed. "Sorry, most sorry…" The South African finished her chortling laughter, and grinned as she spoke.
"Wizards and Witches, though with un-wizardly words, Wix is correct. In a few mere seconds, the Irish wizard shows why the Great Eight are so prestigious."
"True, very true." Wix tried to recover gracefully from his faux-pas. "Though Rhonda Fladbury is a renowned duelist in her age bracket, she was played for a fool by a brilliant shield-reaver whip."
"Well identified! The shield-reaver is used in the dueling circuits as a surprise tool. Though it is very powerful, it has a major weakness; one cannot cast other spells while focusing on it. Mr. Constantine played upon his seemingly wider variety of spell knowledge and caught Ms. Fladbury unknowingly unprepared."
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On the stage, John holstered his wand, and waited for Flitwick and Caplan, the Hogwarts Coach, to bring the girl back to consciousness. When she did, raised up to unsteady feet by the two professors, it was to polite applause from the crowd, and a crooked bow of acknowledgement from her opponent. She returned a half-hearted curtsy, and John left the stage for his seat. Salomé had wide eyes.
"That was...fast."
"It was." She waited for him to continue, but he didn't. She let her eyes move from the boy to survey the crowd. Many eyes still trailed John, and she saw some people scattered around the room jotting notes as subtly as possible. Scouts? She wondered, but the next duel grabbed her attention.
Aurélien Barreau versus the British Malfoy.
She assessed the younger boy, and saw he walked with poise and confidence. The two duelists met at the midline, and shook hands. They spoke some short conversation before the Master of Safety briefed them of the rules and inspected their wands. Then they turned heel and strode off to opposite sides of the lane.
It was a long duel, and the young brit showed a surprising skill and expertise in far more spells than she suspected the Hogwarts curriculum held. In the end, however, Barreau was too skilled, and he defeated Malfoy with a textbook-triage. The blue leg-locker, the red disarming charm, and an indigo-hued incapacitating hex rendered Draco unfit to continue the duel, and the match was called.
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Fleur watched from the shadow of the bleachers as her once best-friend stood from beside John and climbed the stairs to the dueling platform. Salomé's opponent was a Chinese girl from Durmstrang, and she bowed formally during the introductions. As she tuned out the commentators, Fleur couldn't help falling back on the realization she had made.
While the silverette didn't exactly regret the decisions she had made regarding the tournament, she realized she hadn't handled things as she could have. Potentially, this short-sightedness and selfishness could be costing her one of her greatest friends. Deep down, though she was loath to admit it, the veela knew she had to apologize. However, she couldn't approach the team's bench, so she set herself to waiting.
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Salomé regarded her opponent as they waited for the signal. Chu Hua stood silently, head ever-so-slightly askew, and her wand held low. She remembered what John had said. In those few seconds when the judge's wand sparked red, she formed then chose a plan. The moment the wand flared green, her wand was tracing a wide stunner. She saw the slightest edge of a smile begin to pull the Chinese girl's mouth, and the shorter duelist drew a defensive shield.
The blonde let loose with the stunner, then instantly withdrew to rapid rune work that John had drilled into her. She was almost too slow. Even as the stunner met Chu Hua's shield, the Durmstrang student was forming an ocean of spells. Salomé did as John suggested. She prayed.
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Fleur watched in unmasked surprise as the Chinese girl finished her chant in her native tongue, and a massive fountain of spell light erupted from her wand, consolidating into a single beam that rocketed towards the French girl. Attack crashed against defence. Sweat blossomed on the brows of the two girls. Each second that passed, Fleur saw both combatants straining under the effort of continuing their silent battle of wills.
"Come on, Salomé. Come on. Hold it. Hold it." She found herself murmuring, words getting louder and louder until she was almost shouting.
"A friend of yours?" The voice was rich and cultured, and carried enough of a deep undertone that she felt herself blushing as she turned. The man who had commented was leaning against the opposite wall of the recess where she stood. He wore a dark-grey coat that reached his mid-thigh, and a pressed suit beneath hit. His smile was disarming, and handsome.
"Oui, monsieur?"
"Yet you are back here and not among the crowd?"
"We are currently in the middle of a...well...a disagreement."
"If I may ask, what over?" Fleur didn't know why, but she found herself replying.
"Me joining the main Tournament as Champion and not staying on the dueling team." The stranger's lips parted in apparent surprise, and he stood straight, before executing a textbook bow.
"My apologies, Mademoiselle Delacour, I believed I had recognized you, but did not want to do a lovely woman the disservice of guessing her name presumptively." He raised from his bow, a bemused but respectful glint in his eye at her automatic curtsey in response. "Your father has done wonders for Defense departments and the magical world over with the precedents he has set in enforcement and civil security. I am certain you will do him and your family great honor as a Champion." Fleur blushed prettily at the praise.
"You do me too great a service, Monsieur…?"
"I must ask forgiveness once again, how rude of me. My name is Tom Riddle."
Salomé burned. Her whole body felt like it was on fire. Her arms shook, her body trembled, and her eyes blurred with the effort it took to hold her shield. The cascading magic that buffeted her felt unending and she was no longer certain how long she had been holding it at bay. A few seconds? A few dozen? A few dozen minutes? The world lost its edge around her as every iota of her being focused on the spell.
Her skull pounded, her shoulders ached, and her lips curled back in a feral snarl. She wouldn't give up now. She wouldn't fail her team. She wouldn't fail her friends. She wouldn't fail...John. Memories of him rose unbidden to her mind.
Him complimenting her after surviving a brutal morning of training.
Him fighting in the corridors of the Chateau to protect her.
Him showing her the pain and wars he had endured.
She. Could. Not. Fail.
More memories.
John playing the muggle game she had bought for the Delacours.
John pushing her to get better, stronger.
John, his smile that made her heart flutter.
John, his clever mind that blew her away with all that it held.
John, his green eyes that were so beautiful yet showed so much pain.
She. Would. Not. Fail.
Salomé roared and let the fury, the hatred, the frustration, the hunger, the carnal need manifest in her and...she dropped the shield...
The red flood surged the last foot towards her...
And impacted the nullifying rune she had wordlessly summoned in between herself and the incapacitating light. The sudden rune she had wandlessly summoned after seeing John demonstrate it just once that first morning at Beauxbatons.
The beam vanished.
Chu Hua's perfect mask of calm vanished to unmistakable confusion.
Salomé's spat concussion hex exploded into her opponent like a fouled full-back with a vendetta. The girl went airborne for a split second, then crashed to the wood.
Silence.
"BRILLIANT!" Wix roared as the Beauxbatons' seats thundered with applause. Salomé whipped her head to meet John's eyes. Her chest heaved with exertion. Her eyes wide with joy.
He wasn't there.
"Excuse me, sir, but I believe I must escort Miss Delacour to her seat with her schoolmates." Fleur looked over from her conversation with the eloquent and enthralling man she had just met.
"It's okay, John, I'll be there in just-"
"No, no. You should go. I've been unforgivably rude in keeping you from your friends." Tom turned as well.
"Mr. John…."
"Constantine, sir."
"I see." Amber eyes reflected in silver mirrors. The man called Riddle smiled. John didn't like the grin. It was too friendly, too inviting...it was the smile of someone who knew more of you than you knew of them. "Good luck in your next match, Mr. Constantine, though I believe Misses Slivka and Fladbury face each other first?"
"You are correct, sir."
"Wonderful, good to know my memory isn't failing quite yet." He gave a different grin this time, one of a shared joke. Fleur laughed the laugh of someone who thought they understood. Amber eyes changed focus to the beautiful silverette. "Good luck, Mademoiselle, and please give your father my well-wishes. Over the summer he revealed some flaws in my work with the English Ministry."
"I will, thank you again Monsieur Riddle, it has been a pleasure." Her smile was heart-wrenchingly genuine.
"Assuredly, Fleur, your presence has been." John decided he neither liked, nor trusted this man. He also felt something else burning inside...jealousy. He didn't like that either.
Salomé hid her frown when John returned with Fleur in tow, escorting the beauty to a seat, before returning to his spot in the team benches. She masked her displeasure with an inquiring eyebrow. John shrugged.
"I thought I sensed danger." The blonde looked at him incredulously, eyes sliding from him, to the dueling stage, and back.
"Danger. In a dueling tournament. Not possible." Her lethal sarcasm morphed into mild-accusation as she adjusted her mask of inquiry to one of not-so-fake-anger. "You missed my match, and the two after that."
"I didn't realize I had been gone that long."
"Well, you know what they say about how time flies…"
John frowned in confusion, not understanding the emotion beneath her words, but she charged on before he could speak. "I won, by the way, as did Darian. He beat the traitor." She snarked, referencing Lorien LaSalle, a Frenchman who attended Durmstrang. "And Palla humiliated Rhonda. After losing so quickly to you and the Russian, she'll be a mockery among the younger circuits for months."
"I'm sorry I missed your match…"
"And the two after that."
"And the two after that...but I have a job you know." She punched his arm halfheartedly.
"Shut up."
"Okay." She hit him again. Then she let the issue drop, because Aurélien was mounting the stage. His opponent was the redhead from Durmstrang. Salomé pushed her frustration with John to the side as she watched the two talk quietly, then the tiny Judge explained the rules, and the two separated to their respective sides.
John leaned forward, and muttered, "Ready?" Her response was quiet as she focused.
"Yeah."
-X-
"Alright Witches and Gentlewizards, we have an important match before us."
"That's right Tan, Aurélien is the second best duelist from the Beauxbatons' delegation, and he must face the girl that Pietr Furan claimed was the best on his team."
"Right! And with what we have seen from Palla Slivka, we must expect true greatness from the third-year if she is to live up to her coach's praise."
The Frenchman adopted a modified stance with the intent of scoping his opponent out before switching into a style more suited to victory. The younger girl rolled her shoulders, and slid into a dueling form that had Tanitha DeWees' eyes wide.
Red sparks turned green.
"Tan..."
"Wix...that…"
The two announcers tried several times to get the words out. Then, after a clear but quick war, their professionality broke through their shock.
"Listeners across the wizarding world, we have described as best we can the matches so far...but this match…"
"If Constantine versus Fladbury was an execution...if Palla versus Fladbury was a massacre…"
"Then this, ladies and gentlemen, was an abject annihilation."
"From the first spell cast to the last, we were subject to a masterclass in precision spellwork."
"If this were a game of chess, Tan, then Ginevra Weasley was playing both sides."
"I think, Wix, we can both agree on one thing. Coach Furan was correct. She is a prodigy unmatched."
Salomé looked to John, her eyes wide in shock and her mouth only closed by the greatest of self-control. John too, normally a paragon of stoicism, had his face slack in surprise.
"John…"
"Yeah…"
"I think you were right."
"Yeah."
-X-
In the shadows of the bleachers, where John and Fleur had recently left, Tom Riddle watched with a proud smile. If any had been near to see it, they would have been chilled. The smile did not reach his eyes, and he let his face show the emotions he always obscured. It was a terrifying visage.
"Using what my diary taught you, good girl." He looked to the aging headmaster in the spectators' section for Hogwarts' staff. Dumbledore had a troubled, confused frown behind his half-moon spectacles. "Ever the fool, old man. Beneath your very nose and yet still you cannot see…" Riddle kept his eyes on his nemesis, but half-turned his head to the side. He spoke into the darkness. "Amy, did you succeed?"
"I had the barest of angles on his eyes behind their shields, but yes, I did."
"And?" He didn't need to see her to know she was mirroring his smile.
"Yes, he hasn't trained enough in the mind arts. That paired with his unflinching focus on you, my Lord, and he didn't even feel me peeking."
"Yes...what? I desire to hear the words." She loved the sound of his voice slipping into her ears. She relished in her own tongue forming those very words that would please him.
"You were right, my Lord. Harry Potter has returned."
"I'm Wix."
"I'm Tan."
"And we are back from the last break before a match that we have been waiting for all evening."
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Wizards and Witches, two first-ranked duelists in this Tournament approach the dueling lane."
"John Constantine. Palla Slivka. If you wish to change your bets, gamblers, now is certainly your last chance. This match will be thrilling."
"Absolutely, with Ginevra rising to the occasion, these two will need to bare all their mettle to prove themselves worthy of attention-"
"Sorry to interrupt, but there were no words spoken between the two, and the match is about to begin..."
-X-
John expected the girl to be quick, anticipated this, and planned accordingly. Still, the moment red sparks flashed green, she moved faster than any witch he could remember fighting. Like wind whipping through canyons, like hurricane gales ripping through coastal cities, the ashen-haired girl had her wand up and was casting in a fraction of a heart-beat.
Actually caught off guard, John was forced to roll backwards to avoid a blistering curse, then awkwardly scampered sideways to avoid a rolling thunder of blasting curses. He swore quietly in accented english, then drew a runic shield in the air. The golden, translucent circle of light formed just in time to reflect a fire-hose of bludgeoning hexes back at the tempestuous girl, briefly forcing her to abandon her all-out assault to nimbly avoid her own curses. This moment was all John needed.
With three quick slashes, John carved out a Japanese charm that sent a howling blizzard of frozen flurries at his opponent. True to his expectation, the Russian ignored the snow she was so used to dealing with at Durmstrang. Then John transfigured the snow and slush into a massive cloud of sparrows, and the small birds battered and buffeted the shorter girl with furious fervor.
Palla impressed him by casting a runic counter-charm focused on herself, forcing the birds to burst apart into tufts of feathers when they hit her small force-field. He saw her lips forming the words for her next assault, and he grinned. Check.
His wand danced, and the feathers became angry quills, whipping around the Russian leaving trails of ink in their wake. He then spelled the quills to begin scratching floating black symbols into the air all around her. Palla's eyes widened as she recognized the Cyrillic based language, and she cursed as she recognized the trap that had been laid.
"Blyat..." She breathed, as the web of ink was completed, and darkness fell over her.
John regarded the black sphere of runes with patience, ignoring the confused muttering of the spectators and the rapid, excited argument that seemed to be growing in the commentator's box. To his surprise, for the third time that night, Palla impressed him. When the runes burned themselves out, the fragile nature of the conjured feathers and ink not strong enough for a truly successful runic cage, Palla stumbled out. Still conscious, and furiously throwing curses.
Though she was fighting to keep heavy eyes open, and her body was drenched in a cold sweat, she tried to fight on. Ultimately however, the cage, the same runic construction used to prevent Rasputin from magically escaping the ice under which he was drowned, did its job. Palla fell sideways, halfway to successfully conjuring a fireball, and hit the wooden duelist lane snoring. Checkmate.
Neville awoke the following morning to the dead silence that always follows a night of revelry. Unfortunately, the previous evening had not been a celebration of joy, but of sorrow, and the hope of future victories. Of the four groups that had dueled, not one had yielded a Hogwarts victor. As the leaderboard showed, there were three of the French academy's duelists in the final eight, one from Durmstrang, and none from the hosting school.
However, as the boy-who-lived walked underneath the unconscious legs of a student who had fallen asleep dangling over the rafters of the Hufflepuff common room, he still held the belief that Hogwarts could make a comeback, after all, their best duelist had yet to be seen in action.
"Come on, Granger, do your thing…" He muttered to himself. Little did he know, for once, regardless of blood purity or social standing, all the students of the prestigious school for magic in Scotland were thinking the same thing. Well, those that had awoken...most were still in a drunken stupor.
Neville thanked whatever gods may be that it was a Sunday, and there were no classes to miss. Just on his way to breakfast, he counted sixteen students that certainly wouldn't be up for several more hours, and one so utterly hammered, he was going to escort the third-year to Madame Pomfrey if he wasn't walking by the time he returned.
"Oh, hello Neville, you look very cheery today. Did a banderbumble flit around your left foot while you slept last night?"
"Good morning, Luna. I'm not sure? What do banderbumbles look like?" His calm answer told volumes about how used to the girl he was.
"Picture a fuzzy bee and a raccoon...and combine them. They like to steal bad thoughts in people's sleep and weave nests from them. That's why willow trees sag...from the weight of the nests." Neville nodded as he considered what such a mutant creature would look like.
"I can't say I have seen them, but seeing as I do feel rather cheery, perhaps they did."
"I'm glad. Merlin knows you can use the help." The boy-who-lived began to interrupt with an indignant protest, but Luna continued before he had the chance. "Seamus obviously did not have visitors in the night...he's more cross than an angry goblin watching an eye-flea hop up his nose." Neville choked on his own spit at the mental image, and had to cough several times to gain his bearing. Then, not being able to resist imagining the Longbottom's Master Accountant in such a predicament, he began to sputter and gasp in laughter.
"Hey Luna, 'Morning Neville." Hannah's voice pierced his conniption.
"H-help." He wheezed, jabbing a finger towards the girl-with-radish-earrings. "Raccoon-bees...goblins...nose...eyeflea." Each word was a struggle. Hannah snorted, but decided to have mercy on the boy.
"Seriously, Lovegood, I told you, until we complete the next stages of our secret plan, you are not allowed to break Neville." Though the honey-haired girl flashed a wink, it seemed Luna missed it.
"The plan to surround Neville with even more blondes, form a harem, and breed any other hair colors out of existence?" The heir to the Longbottom line succumbed to his fit, and grabbed his wand for a calming-charm, but it slipped from his hands as his full-bodied laughter racked his body.
"...please…" His voice was even weaker than before.
"No Luna, not that plan, the other one." Then, suddenly, Neville felt the atmosphere change, and he felt the effects of a calming charm soothe his nerves. Shooting to his feet, he saw Hannah reholstering her wand in the dragonhide bracer he had gotten her for her birthday. Her eyes were locked on someone over his shoulder. He turned.
"Oh, there's no need to cease your games on my behalf." Draco Malfoy smirked from where he stood, arms crossed, and eyes flashing with mirth. Neville stepped forward.
"What do you want, Malfoy? I didn't think you'd be so quick to look for a fight after getting thrashed by Ginny." Whatever the brown-haired Hufflepuff had been expecting, it wasn't a nod of agreement from his long-time foe.
"No, Longbottom, I am not searching for a fight." The Malfoy heir winced slightly as he shifted on his feet. "And yes, it was quite a thrashing. She's certainly gotten better at dueling since she left this school." The trio narrowed their eyes, waiting for the barb that would follow. A barb that never came.
"Well, I was just waiting for you three to stop taking up the whole corridor so I can get to breakfast." And with that, Draco Malfoy strode past them and towards the Great Hall.
Hannah looked to her two friends. "Was that really Draco? He seemed, actually...I can't believe I'm saying this, but…"
"Nice." Luna finished for her. Then she got a far-off glint in her eyes. "Hannah, does this mean we have to add him back into the list for Neville's Blonde Harem?"
"NO!" The boy's cry was desperate, and terrified.
Dumbledore sat in his office, cup of now-warm tea in one hand, and a pair of Sherbert Lemons in the other. As he mused over the happenings of the previous day, he rolled the candies over each other in his hand. On the simplest level, he was distinctly disappointed that none of the Hogwarts duelists had advanced in the tournament so far, but his worries were abated by his hopefulness for the next four matches that would occur later that day.
No, the main focus of his considerable concern was one of the foreign duelists. While, certainly, the Irishman had demonstrated incredible skill and talent, as had that Russian girl Palla, it was Genevra he thought of. He still remembered with heavy heart the day when Seamus had come sprinting to his office yelling that they had found the missing Weasley.
Fawkes had flamed him to the bathroom where the ancient Warlock had found Neville and Luna holding the girl's hands, and a sobbing Hannah casting every medicinal spell the fervently loyal blonde could think of. Albus took another sip of lukewarm tea, the overly sugary liquid doing little to wash away the guilt of the broken look in the once spirited redhead's eyes.
In his tenure as Headmaster, Albus had only been forced to let a handful of students go, and all but one of them voluntarily. While Ginevra had left of her own accord as well, it was with great angst that he knew she felt that she had no other choice. He had been worried for the quality of her future education, Dumbledore admitted to himself, but it seemed he had been wrong in his fears.
From his roost, the Phoenix trilled once, and the warmth of the song brought a temporary smile to the old wizard's face. A smile that faded when his mind returned to the dueling stance that his former student had used. He hadn't realized Durmstrang had chosen to explore Alexandrian dueling into their curriculum, especially not that particular subsect. Fawkes, still chortling, broke through the depressed reverie of his friend. The headmaster stood up, smiling, and went to stroke the handsome bird's plumage.
Albus decided a written suggestion to the dueling program at Durmstrang, a suggestion that teaching young students how to duel like long dead witch-queens was a poor idea, could wait until later. Cleopatra Ptolemy didn't need to be remembered as anything more than a footnote in history, much less as a role-model for young Ginevra.
N/B: \Goeie naand is Afrikaans for 'good evening.' Voetsek is similar to the English phrase, 'get out of here!' with bashful/playful intent. Oweh is an exclamation of agreement, generally when excited about the subject at hand.
\Troedtric is Welsh for 'Trick Foot'. This, and Whiterose's name is a subtle reference to a character from a rather popular D&D show. There is no great reason for the reference, I kinda just wanted to.
\Siegfried (SIG-FREED) was a legendary figure in Germanic myth. He killed a dragon and did some other cool Norse stuff.
\If you want to see a visual parallel to the speed of John's first fight, watch Tom Hardy's first fight in the 'Sparta' tournament of his movie, Warrior.
\For my non-American/English readers… 'time flies when you're having fun'. Salomé, jealous that she is, is snidely implying that John snuck off to have fun with Fleur instead of staying to support her in her match with Chu Hua.
\Fun Fact/Metaphor: Chu Hua's name means First Flowers. Salomé's victory over the Durmstrang girl is metaphorically her first defeat of a flower, i.e. Fleur. However, even her victory over her growing rival is countered by losing to Fleur for John's attention. Yet another building block for her insecurities when she compares herself to Fleur's seeming perfection.
\Rasputin was a Russian mystic and occultist who survived a ludicrous amount of assassination attempts. He eventually was killed after being poisoned, shot, wrapped in a rug, tied, and thrown under a frozen lake. He had clawed his way free of his bindings, the rug, and was trying to scrape his way through the ice with his fingernails when he finally drowned. (B/N: Allegedly.)
\For those who don't understand my group list, or don't want to keep track of who has advanced, the 'TLDR' is as follows.
Darian Malfoy advances from Group One.
John advances from Group Two.
Ginny advances from Group Three.
Salomé advances from Group Four.
While this last result is not stated in the chapter, it is implied by Neville and Dumbledore's acknowledgement that in the first four groups, three Beauxbatons' duelists have advanced and none from Hogwarts. I could have written her second duel, but after John's battle with Palla, it would fall flat.
\Don't worry, you will see Ginny duel later in the tournament. A duel written in full. Trust me, the wait will be worth it.
Author's Note:
Between birthday's, relationship drama that is now sorted out, celebrating America Day, my crazy-long training for my job in the Corps, and trying to make a chapter almost wholly dedicated to dueling fun to read, this took a while.
Sorry.
That being said, this chapter was super fun to write, but really hard to piece together in a logical, easy(-ish) to read format. I hope you like it, and launch your feedback this way.
The next chapter will NOT be focused on dueling, but will be more exposition as well as the first match of the Quidditch tournament!
(I have also started laying the groundwork of research and scene writing for the story after this one. It will either be a Harry Potter/ Star Wars crossover (inspired by I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For by Kathryn518), or a Percy Jackson/ Star Wars crossover of a similar style. I WILL NOT be copying or imitating her work, as that would be both criminally dishonest, but also disrespectful of her immense talent. However, much like Deprived inspired this story, hers inspired me to start another one. [B/N: Read her story, it's easily one of the best stories on this whole site. It's incredible.] )
Finally, all of your feedback to my commentary on Voldemort was AWESOME! While I disagree with the premise that splitting his soul would have made him less logical and thus a weaker 'mastermind', it was truly amazing to see how much all of y'all love this world and its lore! I'll see if I can better word my rebuttal of your solid points, and add it to a later chapter.
Thanks again for your passion and support,
Love y'all and stay safe,
Semper,
Vi
