The Harbinger Arena stood like a monolith of shadow. Its towering obsidian walls glinted faintly under enchanted lights, casting an eerie glow across the stands. Torches mounted high on the lustered black walls flickered erratically, throwing jagged shadows across the stone floor. The crowd was a restless sea of noise. Their voices blended into a chaotic roar of excitement, anxiety, and anticipation. They had gathered-waiting for this moment-the final duel of the tournament.
At one end of the arena stood Gilda Harrow, her tall frame was a silhouette against the flickering torches. Her pale green eyes shone with a cold intensity, magnified by bookish, almost oversized glasses. Her once-pristine robes were torn and blistered from the previous rounds, a testament to her perseverance. She brushed the ashes off her shoulder with a steady hand, a sleek black wand gripped tightly in the other.
At the opposite end of the arena stood Winnick Goldstein, her vibrant hazel eyes locked on Gilda with fierce determination. The Gryffindor Quidditch captain was a picture of strength, her crimson robes untarnished, stance steady. Her auburn hair sat tied in a tight bun, her expression unyielding, red and gold wand steady in her hand. Winnick's reputation as a formidable duelist had been cemented long before this tournament, but now, as the defending champion, that reputation was more fragile than ever. She had waited for this match—prepared for it. She was defending her honor, her pride, and she wasn't going to lose.
A deep, resonant gong echoed through the arena, silencing the crowd. It was the signal they had all been waiting for. The duel was about to begin.
A stocky man with hair that look molded to his head took to the center of the arena, standing between the two competitors with amusement in his eyes. He looked and nodded toward both, wand pointed to his throat as he announced the final round.
"This,' he began, the single word drawing every conversation in the stands to a close, 'is the moment we have all been anticipating. Here to grace our arena again, stands our beloved Winnick Goldstein, Hogwarts own, and the returning Harbinger Champion. But, we have been witnessing a tremendous upset, a young witch with determination we have not seen in years. Another of Hogwarts best, Gilda Harrow stands ready to challenge her fellow alumni, having bested six competitors from all over the wizarding world. I believe that this will be a duel not soon forgotten. A triumph, regardless of who stands victor." He paused, nodding again at both witches, a broad smirk across his cheeks. "Without further ado, let the match begin."
The announcer apparated to his place in the highest stands, and the official brought his arm down between them, swiftly retreating from the center.
"And... begin!"
"Oppugno!" Winnick shouted, practically overlapping the official's words. A flock of vicious conjured ravens surged toward Gilda like a storm cloud. Their razor-sharp beaks and talons glinted with malice as they screeched toward her.
Gilda's green eyes narrowed, thrown by the sudden bombardment. "Defodio!" she snarled, ripping chunks and splinters of stone from the ground and hurling them into the flock like daggers. The ravens burst apart in an explosion of feathers and dust, but Winnick was already moving again.
"Confringo!" The spell smashed into the ground at Gilda's feet, sending scorching debris flying. She shielded herself with her arm, her glasses slipping down her nose.
"Expulso!" Gilda countered, her voice tight with fury. The blast hurtled toward Winnick, but the Gryffindor deflected it with practiced ease. The two combatants circled each other as the duel escalated into a storm of spell-fire.
Winnick's wand slashed through the air as she shouted, launching spell after violent spell, throwing Gilda off-balance with a practiced but unpredictable rythym. Gilda raised her wand, desperate to establish an offense, but Winnick had her trapped in the chaos she created. "Depulso!" The spell hit with brutal precision, slamming into Gilda's face and breaking her nose with a sickening crack. Gilda stumbled back, clutching the jagged edges of bone as a warm rush of blood poured down her freckled cheeks.
The crowd erupted, a roar of approval and horror rippling through the stands. Winnick wasted no time, raising her wand again. "Expulso!" she cried, sending a blast of force hurtling toward Gilda.
Gilda's body moved on instinct, her wand slicing upward. "Protego!" Her words were muffled by the flowing blood. The shield charm faltered under the explosion, the force sending her skidding across the stone floor. She gritted her teeth against the pain, her vision swimming as blood dripped onto the cracked surface beneath her.
The crowd's noise seemed distant, muffled by the thundering pulse in her ears. Her parent's voice rang in her mind like a curse, the message they'd instilled in her for months: If you lose, you are no Harrow.
She staggered to her feet, wand trembling in her blood-slick hand. Winnick was already closing the distance, her wand slashing through the air with a series of relentless attacks, forcing Gilda to twist and dodge, her body barely keeping pace.
Then, in a moment of perfect precision, Winnick struck again.
"Confringo!" The spell struck Gilda squarely, the force knocking the wind from her chest. Her robes went alight, her glasses shattered, one lens clattering uselessly to the ground. The edges of her vision blurred as pain radiated from her broken nose, but the roar of the crowd and the weight of her family's expectations pressed her onward. She smothered the flames, raising her wand with a shuddering breath.
Winnick advanced, face grim with determination. Gilda's heart jumped in her chest. Fear coiled around her, suffocating and relentless. But then, something sharper cut through the haze—hate. Another spell struck her square in the shoulder like a bludger, but she didn't falter.
With a cry of defiance, Gilda raised her wand. "Dervioso!" She hissed. The spell erupted from her wand, a cyclone of raw force that caught Winnick and lifted her into the air. The Gryffindor struggled, her arms flailing as the vortex spun her helplessly, but her grip on her wand didn't falter. She lashed out as she spun, her strikes ferocious but wild.
Gilda ducked under a volley of jinxes, maintaining her concentration on the whirlwind before finding her footing. She had her.
"Descendo!" Gilda's voice was a roar, her wand slashing downward. Winnick slammed into the stone floor with a sickening crack, her body jerking on impact. The crowd gasped, their cheers turning to unease, but Gilda didn't stop.
"Descendo!" she bellowed again, and Winnick's body struck the ground once more.
The red banner of surrender waved from Winnick's corner, but Gilda didn't see it. She saw nothing but the wand still clutched in Winnick's hand. The possibility that she might fight back. Again, and again, her body struck the stone floor like a thunderclap.
"Descendo!" The final slam was deafening. Winnick's head twisted at an unnatural angle, wand slipped from her broken fingers, rolling across the floor leaving a thin trail of blood. The silence that followed was suffocating.
The official rushed forward, grabbing Gilda by the arm. "I said, it's over, Harrow! Enough!" he shouted, yanking her back. Her wand slipped from her fingers, clattering at her feet. She stumbled, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the world came back into focus. Blood. Broken limbs. The stillness of Winnick's body.
The weight of her actions hit her like a tidal wave. Her stomach turned, twisted in a brutal knot. The crowd erupted into chaos—most demanding justice, others roaring in defense of her victory.
Winnick's family stormed the arena, their cries of grief cutting through the cacophony. Her father's face was a mask of disbelief, his lips moving soundlessly as he stared at his daughter's lifeless body.
Gilda felt a hand on her shoulder—her mother's—and allowed herself to be led away. Her mother's voice was low, soothing, as she whispered words Gilda could hardly process.
"You did what you had to do," her mother said softly, her hand tightening on Gilda's arm. "You're a Harrow. You proved that today."
But as Gilda glanced back at the arena, at the Champion's Robe draped over Winnick's lifeless body, the hollow ache in her chest only deepened.
The discontent in the Harbinger Arena was deafening. Officials swarmed the dueling platform, shouting orders and waving their wands as the enraged crowd surged against the barriers.
Gilda Harrow sat slumped against her mother's side, her bloodied face pale and trembling. Her shattered glasses hung loosely in her lap, one lens completely missing, her robes were streaked with blood and sweat. The sharp, metallic tang of bile lingered in the back of her throat. The noise around her seemed distant and distorted, like she was underwater.
Winnick's family—her father, a wide man with thin, graying hair, and her mother, a slight woman with wild, tear-streaked eyes—stormed onto the platform, pushing past officials. Winnick's mother let out a wail that silenced even the most boisterous voices in the crowd. She collapsed next to her daughter's body, clutching Winnick's limp hand as she sobbed.
"She was surrendering! The flag was raised!" Winnick's father roared, his voice shaking with fury. His grief twisted into something sharper as his gaze landed on Gilda. "That girl murdered my daughter! I want her arrested! I want her wand snapped!"
The tension erupted again, the crowd roaring as supporters of both families began shouting over one another. Winnick's family demanded justice, their grief raw and blistering. Gilda's father, standing tall amidst the storm, stepped forward to meet the challenge.
"This was a duel," he said coldly, his low voice cutting through the noise. "A sanctioned match in a sanctioned tournament. My daughter fought bravely until the official declared the match over. The result is final."
"That child broke my daughter's neck!" Winnick's father bellowed, advancing toward Gilda. "You call that bravery? She's a monster!"
Gilda flinched at the word, a trembling hand rising to touch her still-bleeding nose. Her mother tightened her grip on her shoulder, pulling her closer. "Don't listen to them," she whispered, her voice low but urgent. "You did what you had to. You're safe now."
Her mother's words felt fragile, like glass about to shatter, and the uncharacteristic warmth in her voice only made it worse. The realization of what she'd done kept crashing over her in waves. She doubled over suddenly, her stomach lurching as she vomited onto the stone floor.
Her mother quickly conjured a handkerchief, wiping Gilda's mouth with surprising tenderness. "It's all right," she murmured, her tone almost pleading. "You've been through so much. It's over now."
But it wasn't over. The commotion only grew as representatives from the Ministry of Magic joined the fray. A sharp-dressed wizard with a silver badge stepped between the families, his expression impassive, his large, twisted moustache suddenly seeming out of place. "This is an unspeakable tragedy, but... the rules of the Harbinger Tournament are clear. Fatalities, while rare, are not grounds for criminal charges. Miss Harrow acted within the bounds of the duel."
"Bounds?" Winnick's mother screamed, clutching her daughter's lifeless body. "She was still attacking after surrender! She didn't stop until the official dragged her away!"
"Because she was barely holding herself together," snapped a witch standing beside Gilda's father, her face contorted. "Look at her! She's a child who just endured a brutal match. She was injured, bleeding, and defending herself. That's all."
"She broke my daughter's neck!" Winnick's father roared again, stepping closer. Gilda's father didn't flinch, his gray eyes cold as steel.
"My daughter fought valiantly," he said, his voice like ice. "Your anger is understandable, but it doesn't change the facts. Gilda stopped when the official intervened, and the duel was ruled in her favor. The matter is settled."
Her mother's hands were on her shoulders, grounding her, but the world spun violently. Her mind replayed the moment over and over: Winnick's body slamming into the stone, her neck twisting at that unnatural angle, the wand slipping from her broken fingers. The roar of the crowd was distant now, muffled by the sound of her own ragged breathing.
"Mother," Gilda whispered, her voice so faint she wasn't sure it carried. "Did I… did I do the right thing? Am I still—" Her throat tightened.
Her mother's hands froze, just for a moment. Then, with a calmness that belied the guilt in her eyes, she cupped Gilda's face, brushing a lock of sweat-soaked hair from her forehead. "Of course you are," she said firmly, but her voice wavered. "You're our daughter. You've proven yourself today."
"But—" Gilda's voice cracked as another wave of nausea rolled over her. She clung to her mother's arms as though they were the only solid thing left in the world. "But what if—"
"No," her mother interrupted, her tone soft but resolute. "You've done enough, my darling. We're going to give you a break for a little while."
The words didn't make sense. Gilda's brow furrowed, her pale green eyes wide and glassy. A break? Her parents never gave her breaks. They had always demanded more, expected perfection, conditioned her to believe that anything less than victory was failure. The idea of them letting her rest felt incomprehensible.
And terrifying.
If even her parents were cutting her slack, then what she had done must have been truly, irreparably wrong.
Her father's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, his tone sharp and dismissive. "This discussion is over," he said, addressing Winnick's family and the officials alike. "Gilda is the victor, and we are leaving."
As if on cue, the entourage of pureblood supporters closed ranks around them, shielding Gilda from the crowd's eyes. Her mother helped her to her feet, steadying her as they made their way off the platform. The shouts and cries of Winnick's family faded into the background, but Gilda's gaze lingered on the broken body on the stone. The blood pooling beneath Winnick's head seemed to shine under the flickering torchlight.
Her mother's grip tightened. "Look at me, Gilda," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Keep your head up. You're a Harrow. You've done what was necessary."
But as they disappeared into the shadows of the arena, the words rang hollow.