"Good work, Mr. Potter," A judge called from the table, his voice floating into the arena. It was the one in the middle—now since Harry wasn't focused on his duel, he was able to pay more attention to the trio of people who were going to pass judgment on his first duel. The gravelly voice from before belonged to a man with bronze skin and salt-and-pepper hair that was combed neatly. He had a stern face and a golden ring that gleamed on his pinky, hidden under the fabric of his robes like a twinkling star. "We will now provide you with the analysis of your first duel. For your own edification, Mr. Potter, the primary question most judges will ask is always the same: what was the elapsed dueling time?"
Even though his duel had just ended, he didn't feel any different than he had when it first started. Not that he had much to base it on, though.
The only other physical activity he'd done in the past few weeks was running and some pickup Quidditch. Well, there were also his training sessions with Ace, but his duel with Leslie hadn't even begun to scratch the surface of the exhaustion Ace put him through daily. For one, Harry wasn't panting or drenched in sweat. There were no trembling hands, buckling knees, or racing pulse pounding in his ears. He wasn't ravenously hungry, either, and Rowena wasn't in his ears, reminding him that he could've been casting spells more efficiently, or dodging instead of shielding.
[I heard that! It isn't my fault that you choose combinations that drain your energy at a nonlinear pace while providing no real usefulness. If you would just twist your wrist more while casting hexes, you could flow through sets more fluidly. Besides, I've technically been helping grow your magical capacity, but you're nowhere near the level of control you need to be to continue wasting magic on shields as you've been doing.]
I thought you weren't going to draw on my magical reserves in preparation for the duel. Do you want me to fail, Rowena? I'm hurt.
[Oh, don't you start with me, Harry. I originally planned on allowing you to keep the majority of your energy, you're correct, but if this first duel is any indication, you could use my commentary. That way, you'll at least get some kind of workout.]
Cold, Rowena. That's just cold.
"One minute and fifty-two seconds," The judge on the left—a woman—broke Harry out of his thoughts. He made eye contact with her, brow furrowing. Her presence was as striking as her crimson robes, the fabric flowing around her like the petals of a rose in full bloom, with her at the center of it all. Yet, beneath the regal exterior, there was a palpable sense of formality. Her posture was upright, her body rigid, as though she was constantly aware of herself, making subtle micro-adjustments to maintain the appearance of impeccable, unyielding composure, like a board.
Harry found himself straightening out, too. His wand vibrated in his fingertips, the wood emanating a calm heat that tingled along his palm and slid up and down his fingertips.
[It certainly was a great showing on your part. Though, that time seems rather short. It felt longer from your perspective, though I suppose that makes sense. Adrenaline and all things considered.]
The middle judge hummed, his fingers trailing through silver-streaked hair before his eyes fixed on Harry with a calculating gleam. He looked at his fellow judges and shrugged, "One of the better times we've seen in this circuit, wouldn't you say?" His voice carried the tone of faint surprise, punctuated by the muted tap of his fingertips on the desk. "Especially for an F-ranked duelist. Most of those just flail their wands about until they're worn out, and we have to root through the slog of misfired spells and crying to find something even remotely worth judging," He glanced at his colleagues with a raised brow. "And more impressively, this was his first duel. The boy's taking it seriously, perhaps even more so than some of our second-years. His conditioning certainly is on par."
"Perhaps," The female judge leaned forward and pursed her lips, her expression carefully composed, neither warm nor cold. She seemed a figure carved from stone—in a way, she reminded Harry of some of the statues around Hogwarts, but with a softness that emerged in the set of her brow. Her lips pressed thin as she considered Harry, her eyes roving up and down his frame and pivoting on his wand. "It was quick and decisive, yes. But how much of that is due to Mr. Potter's skill, and how much can be chalked up to his opponent's...lack thereof?"
[Also true.]
Whose side are you on?
[I take our relationship as a student and teacher very seriously. I'll never tell you a lie, not when your development and learning are at hand. There's always, always room for improvement. For everyone. You know this. But, I will corroborate what the judges are saying; it was indeed a very valiant first attempt. I am impressed with you.]
A flicker of warmth crawled between Harry's shoulder blades. The female judge's gaze softened as she continued, though no smile was present on her face. "This being your first duel, I want to commend you. You performed exceedingly well, given your lack of experience. Don't doubt that." Her words were steady, firm, with something beneath them—the same kind of stability Harry had begun to pick up from Rowena. It was a teacher's insistence rather than outright praise. No flattery was involved. It was a statement of fact, "Still, it's our duty to determine how much of this was due to your own ability... and how much to the failings of your opponent. We're tasked with ensuring certain standards are met, even in an open and shut case like this."
For a moment, silence lingered, only to be broken by a voice from the right of the table. The third judge, his face obscured by a heavy hood, spoke for the first time. His voice was sharp, cutting through the room like a blade catching moonlight. It sent a shiver down Harry's spine. "Perhaps we should consult the wards, Flairwood. The eye test will only take us so far. I don't want to keep going in circles, and I don't want to keep Mr. Potter in the dark while we do so."
Flairwood, the middle judge, nodded briskly, his wand already in hand—it was a crudely cut, purple stick that curved like a boomerang. A twist of practiced skill flicked the tip toward the arena's perimeter. "Indeed," he agreed, words clipped. A low murmur rolled from his lips, and the air around them seemed to still, hanging thick and expectant.
Lightning flickered from the tip of his wand, its sharp blue tendrils snapping through the air like whips. The crackling energy danced along the protective wards encircling the dueling arena, sending a tremor through the shimmering barrier. Each strike hissed with intensity. The wards flared briefly with every contact, rippling like disturbed water as the magic collided with them.
The lightning didn't fizzle out immediately—it lingered, tracing the wards like a living thing, probing and testing, as if daring to break free. Flairwood's stance remained steady, almost bored, as a sudden gust of wind exploded outward, flattening Harry's fringe against his forehead.
[Incredible. Consulting wards, as far as my knowledge stretches, used to be a rather cumbersome task that required runes and a team of specialists. To see that functionality wrapped into a spell—it's quite intriguing.]
What will the wards tell them?
A scrap of paper floated out of the ward, gently settling on the desk in front of the judges. Flairwood held the paper up, and the judges crowded around it, whispering amongst themselves.
[It's hard for me to say. Magic is not a stagnant force. It grows, it evolves, reshaping itself with every incantation, every spell, and every wizard who dares to wield it. It's alive in its own right, weaving through time like a living thread, adapting to new hands and minds, never quite the same as it was moments before. It breathes and shifts, expanding its limits as it learns from those who command it. Magic, in essence, is as much a student of us as we are of it, constantly evolving with every push of intent, every flicker of will.]
So, you can't comment because the wards of now are probably incredibly different than the ones you're familiar with?
[In essence, yes. You must remember that my consciousness has been sealed away for some time. However, if I had to wager a guess, the wards would probably track metrics the judges can use to better analyze duels. Factors like overall magical contribution and strength of spellcasting would need to be considered.]
As Rowena continued running through her potential theories, Harry watched awkwardly as Leslie was floated out of the arena on a stretcher. He felt bad. Well, kind of. Ace had drilled into his head that winning was the only way to learn more and get stronger, but justifying that in his head was one thing, and seeing Leslie curled up in a ball was another.
The judges straightened then, having reached some unspoken agreement. Flairwood cleared his throat, casting a glance toward Harry.
"The wards have spoken," He began slowly, "And it seems we've reached a clearer picture of your performance."
The woman reached forward and gently tapped her wand against the center of the table. At once, the polished surface rippled, as if the wood had been replaced by water. The grain shifted, bent inward. Like a page folding under invisible hands, the table began to collapse in on itself—its edges creased and curled, folding down the middle.
The folds layered upon one another in quick succession, and with each fold, the mass shrank further until what remained was a small, compact square sitting at the table's center. The square gleamed faintly in the low light, reflecting the room's glow like a mirror. It hovered there, suspended in an unnatural stillness, then, with a quiet exhale, unfolded in the opposite direction, spreading out into an open basin.
From within its smooth, circular form, a soft light began to pool, swirling like silver smoke underwater. The woman enunciated clearly, "Duel 1A, dated June 12th. Judges present: Melinda Fudor."
Flairwood cleared his throat, "Charles Flairwood."
"Hermann Oswald," The hooded figure barked out.
"Now beginning analysis of duel," Flairwood's wand remained pointed at the scrap of paper, his eyes skimming its contents before folding it shut with a satisfied nod. He glanced at the other judges and spoke calmly, "The wards confirm what we all witnessed: Mr. Potter's actions were swift, calculated, and—above all—restrained. There was no excessive force, no recklessness. He achieved victory in an efficient manner."
Wisps of smoke trailed out of Flairwood's wand and dropped into the mirror, swirling around the glass like smoke trapped in a bottle.
What is that?
[It looks like an advanced version of a pensieve—a very rare and powerful magical item. It's a magical device used to store and review memories. This one is likely being used to hold the results of your duel.]
So, it's just for me? Is it going to hold the results of every one of my duels?
[Unlikely. They're rather expensive to create, and unless things have dramatically changed, there's no chance that it's just for you. The memories are probably there to ensure objectivity, and the results will be transcribed at a later date.]
Harry watched silver wisps of magic float around in the basin, pulsing with light. They shimmered like strands of moonlight.
And those?
[Memories to back up their analysis. I'd imagine objectivity is held to a high standard in something this organized. It'll help make sure your performance holds up in a vacuum, so to speak.]
Melinda leaned forward in her seat, addressing Harry directly. Her voice lowered an octave. "You could have drawn it out. Prolonged the duel. Made a spectacle of your supposed power, as many do when given their first taste of control in the arena." She paused, her eyes studying him intently. "But you didn't."
Harry felt a small flush rise to his cheeks. He hadn't thought of it that way. The duel had been quick, yes—but he'd made a point not to drag it out. Something in him, perhaps Ace's relentless drilling, had told him to finish it fast and clean, not out of mercy, but out of practicality. Winning efficiently meant avoiding unnecessary risk.
At least, that's what he'd told himself.
"True restraint," Melinda continued, pointing her wand at the basin. The basin glowed, and more strands of memories slipped out of her wand. "Is not about holding back your power entirely, but knowing when to release it and when to pull it back. In this case, you did so admirably. I'm not entirely sure if we've seen enough to move you forward a rank, and normally I would let that stop me, but your mentality is impressive enough for me to recommend it. I believe you will acclimate. Please let the record that show that I, Melinda Fudor, recommend Harry Potter for a rank-up."
The hooded judge, Hermann, shifted slightly. His voice was cool, though not unfriendly. A thick accent dangled at the edge of his words. "Indeed, it was a quick and decisive victory. Perhaps too quick for some to catch the finer details. I will be honest, Mr. Potter, I don't think I saw enough to move you up, but I do think you're on the right track," He let the statement hang for a moment, before adding, "Your opponent's mistakes were evident, but you didn't exploit them ruthlessly. That, Mr. Potter, is as important a lesson as any you'll learn here. Bear that in mind, and you'll be better than okay."
Harry's mind flickered back to the duel. Leslie had fumbled, sure—her spells had been a fraction too slow, her stance off-balance—but Harry hadn't capitalized on those mistakes in a cruel way. He had focused on ending the fight before things could spiral. Before she—or he—could make a mistake that couldn't be undone.
Both of the judges turned to Flairwood. Flairwood tapped the parchment again, causing it to dissipate into thin air. "This duel was not about glory or domination. You performed with discipline and tact, even when you had the upper hand. That is not something we see often in first-time duelists. You did well, Harry. Better than most in your position would have. It's easy to let victory cloud judgment, to let the thrill of power push you beyond what's necessary. But you didn't. And that, more than anything, speaks to your character. I suppose it's slightly unprofessional of me to say this, but I do believe you have a very bright future ahead of you in this corporation. I, Charles Flairwood, will be recommending a rank-up for you."
Harry felt a slight weight lift from his chest. He hadn't really thought about it in those terms before, but hearing it laid out like this, he felt a small sense of pride. Two of the three judges recommended a rank-up for him! After his very first duel!
"Leslie will recover," Flairwood continued as if, he could sense Harry's thoughts from earlier. He offered Harry a small smile that dimpled on his left cheek. "A duel is never without its risks, but you ensured it ended without lasting harm. That, too, is a sign of restraint."
Hermann gave a curt nod. "It's a quality we'll be watching closely as you continue. There's potential in you, Potter, but power without wisdom is dangerous. See to it that as you rise up the ranks, you don't lose a handle on that. Based on the availability for your next duel, you may be moved up a rank as a trial."
Harry gave a small nod, though he wasn't sure if the statement was meant as praise or a warning. Either way, he understood, kind of. They were supportive of the fact that he ended the fight without dragging it on too much. The premise of moving up a rank made him feel giddy inside, too, like he'd just taken a swig of a Pepper-Up potion.
The judges stood and bowed, signaling the end of the evaluation, and Harry felt a sense of relief wash over him as they filed out of the room. But there was something else, too—something quieter, more persistent, that lingered in his chest like kindling from a fire that had just gone out.
Before he could think about it for too long, one of the workers gestured for Harry to follow him out of the arena.
As someone who was moving onto a second duel on the same day, Harry still wasn't permitted to see Ace. There was a rule against communication with your mentor, in hopes of 'maintaining the integrity' of your next duel.
Harry supposed it made sense. Meeting with Ace would allow him to reflect on whatever he'd done wrong in his first duel—granted, he was also pretty sure he hadn't done anything wrong, but the general idea still made sense. Ace would probably find him, sit him down, and gruffly explain all of his 'fuck-ups' while pulling some random stories in to highlight his points.
So, while those who had lost their first duels were being transported back to Ravnholm, he and the other winners were led into a cafeteria to relax and mingle before their next assignments.
The cafeteria stretched wide and long, its polished marble floors gleaming under the warm, suspended glow of floating chandeliers. The ceilings, high and vaulted, curved elegantly overhead, with arches trimmed in silver that flitted in the air like thin clouds. Tall, slender windows lined the walls, allowing soft beams of sunlight to filter through the delicate latticework, casting a gentle light that made everything shimmer. The dueling arena had been temperature-controlled, but being back in the sunlight felt pleasant in its own right.
One thing Harry noticed, though, was that the ICW's logo was everywhere—subtle, yet unmissable. It was woven into the very fabric of the tablecloths, stamped onto the base of the ornate chairs, and embossed in silver along the walls. Ace's explanation from earlier was lodged in Harry's mind, and he kept considering how much of this was truly to just rope him into paying for a membership once he was of age.
[Don't worry about that now. Just focus on learning and perfecting your craft, and the rest will fall into place.]
Despite the elegance, the atmosphere retained a sense of openness, of quiet order. Rows of long mahogany tables were neatly arranged, adorned with neatly folded napkins and crystal glasses. Though the cafeteria was large, there was an intimacy to the space, with small alcoves where individuals gathered, exchanging soft murmurs over plates of food that steamed with rich aromas.
Working with Ace had strengthened Harry's capability to sense magic. He could feel it shimmering in the air like an invisible undercurrent. The enchantments in the room kept everything precise—every chair perfectly aligned, every plate spotlessly clean, every bit of decor in its rightful place.
Harry stepped closer to one of the mahogany tables and picked up a plate. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he knew he had to keep his energy up for the next duel. There was no guarantee that it was going to be as easy as his first one. Really, he'd be surprised if anything in his life was ever going to be as easy as that duel had been. If only he could apply that level of dominance to potions with Snape...
Harry felt an unexpected light bloom in his chest, spreading out like the warm ripple of sunlight after a storm. A warmth gathered in his throat, and the corners of his mouth curved upward. He felt great.
[As you should feel, Harry. You earned this, through your hard work and dedication. Your journey has only just begun, sure, but you're allowed to feel happy in the moment as well. These things are not mutually exclusive.]
Thanks, Rowena.
[You're very welcome. Now eat something. I suggest simple sugars and foods that are easily digestible ahead of your next bout. Breads, fruits, grains, eggs. Load up!]
He took stock of his options. As per usual, the ICW had gone all out.
To the left, there was a fruit and bread station that was decorated like an enchanted grove. Platters floated, showcasing ripe fruits that glimmered under soft lights: glossy apples, plump pears, and grapes that floated around baskets like planets orbiting the sun. Warm, freshly baked bread rose in woven baskets, next to a vat of swirling butter. Glass jars of jams and jellies were neatly arranged alongside the station like a decorative trim.
Across the room, cauldrons bubbled over with different kinds of soup. Each pot shimmered, revealing colors that danced like flames. Enchanted ladles automatically poured portions into bowls, and invisible servants garnished them and prepared them with rolls of lap towels.
The main course station stood as the centerpiece. Roasted meats glistened under the light, their skins crisp and enticing. Platters boasted an array of rare dishes. Harry was a bit farther away but he could make out octopus, swordfish, and other cuts he'd only ever seen on cooking shows that his aunt Petunia used to watch.
It was rather early in the day, but Harry was greeted by the sight of fellow U18 winners as he grabbed his plate and stepped closer to the food stations.
Unsurprisingly, they were all new faces to him. He received varied reactions from around the room—a few curious glances, others indifferent—but he made a beeline for the fruits area, filling his plate with an assortment of bright, ripe fruit and crusty bread.
He brought the plate back to the table, his fingers lightly brushing the polished wood as he walked, the weight of the food nearly forgotten in his hands. His steps carried him to a quieter corner of the hall, away from the clusters of students and their low hum of conversation.
He settled in front of a gigantic window that spanned nearly from floor to ceiling, its thick panes letting in a wash of golden light. The world outside stretched endlessly before him—a vast, rolling landscape, dotted with hills and valleys, cloaked in the rich, warm hues of late afternoon. The sky was a soft, endless blue, punctuated by the occasional wisp of cloud, while the distant mountains stood like sentinels on the horizon.
The warmth of the sunlight filtered through the glass, sinking into his skin and chasing away the lingering tension that had built up in his shoulders. Harry leaned back slightly, letting his body absorb the comforting heat. The light was gentle, not overpowering, but enough to feel like a soft hand resting on the back of his neck, calming, steadying.
The room around him continued to get busy—students chattering, forks clinking against porcelain—but Harry, for the first time in a while, felt still. He rested his hands on the edge of the table, the cool surface grounding him as he breathed in, the faint scent of roasted meat and fresh bread wafting through the air.
His stomach growled in anticipation as he picked up a slice of bread, about to tear into it when a familiar chill draped around his shoulders like an icy blanket.
Harry looked up, his teeth barely grazing the bread, and there she was—the girl from the train—the one who had found him wandering the back of the train and had tried to run him out of the corridor. Fleur.
She was standing before him with the same unapproachable elegance, her eyes narrowing just slightly as if she expected him to acknowledge her before she deigned to speak. The silence between them lingered in the air, thick and tense. Fleur turned her nose up at him again, regarding him in the same way someone would glance at a piece of trash on the street, or a bug on the windowsill.
"Enjoying your little victory?" She asked, her voice low and laced with something colder than mere indifference. "It was a quick duel, no?" Her French accent curled around the edges of her words like frost on a windowpane.
Harry swallowed, unsure of how to respond at first. "Yeah," he said slowly, "I guess it was. My opponent didn't put up much of a fight."
Fleur gave a delicate, unimpressed shrug, folding her arms as she tilted her head slightly. Her pale hair, shining like strands of moonlight, cascaded down her shoulder, but the softness of her appearance was lost in the sharp edge of her gaze. Fleur reminded Harry of a snow leopard he'd once seen in a book—a pretty, yet unmistakably dangerous animal.
"Don't get a big head just because you won once," Her words were sharp, cutting through the space between them like a knife. The silver in her eyes burned, and Harry was vaguely reminded of the pensieve in the arena, churning and flashing with memories. "One victory does not make you great. It makes you reckless, especially if you start believing in your own capabilities. You are a gnat, nothing more."
Harry blinked, taken aback by the bluntness of her statement. He hadn't expected gratitude or even congratulations, but Fleur's dismissiveness felt personal somehow. What did she have against him?
"I wasn't—"
"You were," He'd started to defend himself, but she cut him off, her voice lifting just enough to silence him, like a delicate bell ringing in a still room.
Harry looked around the room and noticed that most people were giving them a wide berth. Fleur leaned across the table, and her fingers, cool as polished marble, closed around Harry's chin effortlessly.
She tilted his head up, her grip firm but not cruel, forcing his gaze to meet hers. Her touch was ice and steel, deceptively delicate yet leaving no room for resistance. The sharp glint in her eyes held him captive, her voice a low, cutting whisper as she leaned in closer, their faces only inches apart. The air between them seemed to freeze as she spoke, every syllable calculated and precise, leaving him no choice but to listen.
"Do not pretend you weren't," She said coolly. "I saw your face when you won. That little smirk, like you've already conquered something. What do you have to be happy about? Nothing. You have nothing."
The air around them thickened with tension as her words hung like icicles, sharp and crisp. Harry opened his mouth to respond, but the intensity in her eyes froze the words on his tongue. "You've won one duel, and it wasn't even against anyone impressive."
The air between them chilled further. Had she been watching him ever since he walked into the room? When did he even smirk? Wait, how did she win her duel and find the time to watch his?
"I wasn't trying to—" Harry began again, keeping his voice even, but Fleur waved him off with a flick of her wrist.
"You're slow," She said flatly, her tone almost bored now. "You could feel it, couldn't you? How sloppy it was. You ended it quickly, but that's because your opponent was pathetic. I saw you hesitate." Her icy blue eyes flashed. "And if you think that's enough to survive against someone like me..." Her lips curved into the faintest ghost of a smirk. "Then you're in for a rude awakening, Potter."
Harry stiffened, the words bristling under his skin. The fork on his plate sparked and hissed, a tiny sliver of smoke rising from the metal and curling into the air. He clenched his jaw. "I'll beat you."
"Will you?" Fleur said, her voice softening for a moment, almost thoughtful. Then the coldness snapped back like a winter gust. "You'll never catch up to me. No matter how hard you try. Some people are born with talent, and some are born to chase after it," She paused, her eyes searching his face with an unsettling intensity. "You? You're a chaser. Always a step behind."
With that, she turned on her heel, her robes trailing behind her like a streak of frost in the dim light. Harry stood there, the weight of her words pressing down on him like a cold, heavy blanket. His grip tightened on the plate in his hands, the bread forgotten as a new fire sparked in his chest. She didn't know what he was capable of. Not yet.
Fleur hadn't taken more than a few steps before she stopped, turning slightly to glance over her shoulder at Harry. There was a flicker in her eyes, not quite curiosity, but something closer to calculation, as if she was weighing him on invisible scales.
"I don't understand," She began slowly, her voice dropping an octave. The sharp edges softened, but only marginally. "I don't understand why someone like Ace is interested in you."
Harry blinked, startled by the sudden mention of his mentor.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, his voice a little sharper than he'd intended.
"I've watched Ace for a long time," She said, "He doesn't waste time on students who don't already have something...special. People like him, like me—we can sense potential." She tilted her head slightly, a shadow of a frown forming on her lips. "And yet, I look at you, and I see nothing of the sort."
Harry grumbled, a quiet fire burning in his chest at her words, but before he could snap back, Fleur continued, her voice gaining a strange intensity.
"I had no mentor, no guiding hand." Her gaze sharpened, cutting into Harry with the weight of her words. "I wasn't chosen or singled out for greatness like you, I earned my strength without anyone holding my hand."
Her jaw clenched slightly, but she kept her composure, only allowing the smallest flicker of emotion to break through her icy demeanor.
"Do you know what that's like? To claw your way up when everyone else is born with the ladder already set before them?" Fleur's voice took on an edge of quiet disdain. "I don't think you do. You've already got a mentor—Ace—and yet, you hesitate. You win your first duel, and already you're unsure. If I had even half the guidance you have now..."
She trailed off, shaking her head in disbelief. "Ace could be teaching anyone, yet he's wasting his time on you. Why? What is it that he sees? Because, frankly, I don't see it. Not yet."
Harry's breath caught in his throat. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, but every retort felt flimsy in the face of her absolute certainty. Fleur didn't see him as a rival, or even a threat—she saw him as an obstacle, something beneath her notice, and that stung more than any insult could.
"Maybe I don't have all the answers yet," Harry said, his voice quiet but steady. "But that doesn't mean I won't find them."
Fleur raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint, mocking smile. "Oh, I'm sure you'll try. You seem to have a lot of heart, Potter, I'll give you that. But heart doesn't win battles." Her voice lowered again, dripping with cold finality. "And it certainly won't help you catch up to me."
"You seem really set on talking me out of doing this," Harry's anger bubbled over, shearing into the air like steam out of a pressure cooker. "Are you scared? Jealous? You said you watched my duel—did you see the results? I got shoved up a rank. Was that the record Ace told you I'd beat? Maybe you're just mad you're not the prodigy anymore."
"I don't think you understand, Harry," Fleur said, her voice like silk wrapped in steel. It was soft but so utterly certain that it felt unshakable. "There is no one more prodigious than me."
"And yet, no one chose you," Harry didn't flinch, but he felt his heart beat faster. Her words held a weight, a gravity that dragged him into her orbit. The glow in her eyes intensified as she took a slow step toward him. "You said it yourself."
"You think you're special?" She snarled. "You've won one duel. One." She shook her head, her lips curving into a faint, almost pitying smile. "And you think that makes you worthy of notice? Of someone like Ace's attention? You are a child playing with matches while the rest of us wield the sun."
She extended her hand, and for a brief moment, the air around her shimmered, like heat rising from hot stone. Harry could feel it—the magic responded to her, bending itself to her will effortlessly. She wasn't even casting a spell, yet the room seemed to hum with her presence.
"I see magic, Potter," Fleur continued, her voice lowering to a dangerous murmur. "I feel it in a way you will never comprehend. Every thread, every pulse—it speaks to me. It's like... breathing." Her glowing eyes narrowed slightly, locking onto Harry like a hawk watching prey. "And you? You're nothing but an insignificant little insect, buzzing in my ear, pretending you belong here."
"We'll see who does and doesn't belong," Harry spat.
"You will never understand what it means to be a true prodigy," She said softly, almost too softly, like a secret she wasn't even supposed to share. "To wield this kind of power with such ease, such...elegance. I don't just use magic. It flows through me. I can bend it, twist it, command it, and it responds as if it was born to serve me." She let out a soft, breathy laugh. "And you think you could ever catch up to that?"
The glow in her eyes flickered, intensifying. Harry could feel his skin prickle, as though the very air was charged with invisible energy. It wasn't that Fleur was showing off—this was her normal. This was the power she held, naturally, effortlessly.
"You can train all you want," She said, tilting her head slightly, her lips forming a cruel smile. "You can have mentors, you can win your little duels, but you will always be steps behind me. Because this?" She gestured to herself as if the very concept of her being needed no further explanation. "This can't be taught. This is innate. It's what I am. What I've always been."
Harry shot back, "A pretentious loser who no one wanted to train?"
Fleur's nostrils flared. Ice crept outward in delicate, lethal lines, weaving a frozen tapestry across the surface of the bread in his hand. Thin, glistening tendrils spiraled like a spider's web, spreading wider, faster, encasing the bread entirely in a crystal sheen. The frost curled over its edges, locking the warmth inside, every inch of the surface glittering, sharp as glass. The ice pulsed faintly, as if alive, capturing the moment with an eerie, fragile beauty.
"There is no comparison," She said quietly, "You will always be beneath me, Potter. You will always be chasing shadows, trying to match something you cannot even comprehend. And the worst part?" Fleur leaned in slightly, her eyes boring into his. "You can work for years, you can fight until your bones break and your spirit shatters, and I'll still be there, leagues ahead of you, watching you struggle."
She straightened, the glow in her eyes finally dimming, but the room still felt thick with her presence. Harry wanted to say something, anything to break the silence, but nothing came. Everyone else in the room was staring at them.
"Do yourself a favor," Fleur said, her tone now chillingly calm, as if the conversation had drained her of any interest. "Don't chase me. You'll only tire yourself out."
With that, she turned sharply, her robes swirling around her like a winter tempest, and walked away. The cold air seemed to follow in her wake, clinging to him long after she was gone. Harry stood there, rooted to the spot, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at the space where she had been moments before.
As he sat there, the sounds of the bustling room faded into a dull roar. The laughter, the chatter, the clattering of plates all blurred into the background, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts and the chill that seemed to seep into every crevice of his being. He could almost hear Fleur's voice echoing in his mind, challenging him, taunting him.
She's going down.
[AN] Is this the part where I apologize for taking too long to upload? No? Oh, great! Kidding, kidding, I am sorry that it's taken me so long to upload, but, as a stranger on the internet, my word will probably not mean much to you.
This chapter was basically brought into creation by a number of pleas from those who are in my discord server. If you'd like to join the growing number of people who cast their vote on what I need to update next, please join us. Just take the spaces out of this: Linktr . ee /maroooon
Either way, the next chapter is here now, and I just want to take this as a moment to remind everyone that this is an AU. Some things have remained the same as the original work, and some things have changed. I've taken lots of liberties and created multiple different systems of my own, and I just want to make sure that everyone is cognizant of that as we move forward with this story—I've always sought to reimagine the magical system in a way that makes sense to me, and again, just want to make everyone aware of that as we move on.
Characters have also been changed. Yes, I'm aware Fleur isn't this much of a bitch in canon. I've modified her character to fit in the confines of what I want her to represent in this story. Same with Cho, same with Flitwick, and so on and so forth. I do get a review or two about this from time to time so I want to clear things up a bit before the story continues. Hope you understand, and if that's not your cup of tea, that's completely fine, just putting it out there so people don't complain later. Well, people who are going to complain will find something else to complain about, but that's neither here nor there, and I will stop my rambling.
That's really all. Hope you enjoy the chapter and I will see you soon.
- Maroon