The warmth of the Great Hall barely reached him.
Harry sat with his fingers curled loosely around a downturned fork.
His stomach felt heavy, and the thought of food made him queasy. He pushed his plate away, barely glancing at the untouched meal, the scrambled eggs now a pale yellow with a congealed film on top.
His gaze locked instead on his goblet — light rippling faintly across the silver, warping the reflection of his face. His eyes looked wrong in it — stretched, distorted — and the harder he stared, the less he recognized himself.
Bellerose's eyes looked worse.
The image flickered behind his eyelids — the French boy slumped against the wall, fingers curling weakly around that needle. That twisting blue liquid swirling like smoke. His face slack and pale...
Until his limbs had snapped taut, back arching sharp enough that Harry had heard the crack of vertebrae. His smile had stretched across his face like something carved there.
And then...
That movement.
That's not right...
Drugs didn't do that.
Piers — Dudley's friend — he'd taken something once. Something strong. Harry remembered the glassy stare, the way Piers' hands kept twitching like he couldn't unclench them. He'd seemed... too much — too loud, too hot, like he was burning through himself faster than he knew how to stop.
But that wasn't what made Harry's stomach knot.
It was what came before that.
Harry Hunting.
He remembered the sharp smack of Dudley's palms slamming into his back — the breath torn from his chest as he'd stumbled forward. He remembered Piers laughing from somewhere behind him — shrill and breathless — and the blur of fists and feet chasing him down the alley.
Piers had always been quick to follow Dudley's lead, but that night... he'd been different. Worse. He was reckless — red-faced, spitting curses between his teeth, swinging too hard like he didn't care if he connected with Harry or the brick wall beside him.
That's what drugs did — they made you burn too fast, too messy, too loud.
But Bellerose...
Bellerose hadn't been wild.
He hadn't flailed or shouted or stumbled. He hadn't seemed out of control at all.
He'd been... calm.
Too calm. Too clean.
Like someone making deliberate cuts with a scalpel instead of swinging a hammer. His limbs had bent like wire — not loose, not sluggish, but something else entirely.
Like something was slipping between his bones — moving him from the inside out.
Harry's stomach twisted.
Whatever that was... it wasn't just a potion.
Harry's fingers twitched around his fork.
It's not my problem.
But that was a lie.
It was all his problem.
Two Dark Lords — one whispering in his head, the other acting like a melting tumour that refused to die. The French Ministry breathing down his neck. Champions trained to kill. Spells burning behind his eyelids when he tried to sleep.
And now this — whatever Laurent was becoming.
Another thing I can't predict.
That was the worst part — the uncertainty of it. The way Laurent's movements refused to follow any rhythm Harry knew.
He didn't know what that blue liquid was, but he knew what it meant — another unstable variable in a tournament already riddled with chaos.
You can't predict what you don't understand.
And that was the problem.
He couldn't win unless he knew what Laurent was using.
Exposing him wasn't an option — not when the French Ministry had staked their reputation on him. Whatever Laurent was taking, they knew about it. They were letting it happen. Maybe even encouraging it.
If Harry tried to speak up...
They'd bury me.
Threats, intimidation — the Ministry would make sure Harry couldn't prove a thing. The press would twist his words, turn him into the liar, the cheat. His home country had already twisted his reputation, if the French press got the opportunity too...
Harry shuddered.
It would just give Bellerose more power, make him untouchable.
I can't go to anyone.
I can't stop it.
I can only figure it out.
His breathing felt shallow, too fast. His thoughts were circling themselves, one feeding the next — too loud, too quick —
No.
Harry inhaled slowly.
In... hold... out.
His grip loosened on the fork. He let his eyes half-close, pushing his mind back into order — brick by brick, wall by wall — like Salazar had taught him.
Stillness. Control. Lock it away — until you can use it.
His thoughts sharpened, the noise fading to something cold and quiet.
Find the pattern. Find the drug. Find a way to end him.
The duel was in a day.
Not enough time to understand whatever Laurent was taking... but maybe enough time to learn how to break it.
Harry blinked hard, dragging his gaze away from the goblet. His fingers ached from how tightly he'd been gripping the fork. He forced his hand to unclench.
Don't think about it. Just eat.
He forced down one dry bite of toast — it turned to dust in his mouth.
Useless.
The sound of footsteps broke his thoughts. A familiar shape slid into the seat beside him.
Susan.
She didn't say anything at first — just set a parchment down on the table with a soft thud.
"Found something." The ends of her lips curling.
Her smile wasn't smug or sharp. It was measured like she knew exactly what she was about to say.
Harry straightened. "About what?"
"Bellerose."
Susan tapped the parchment lightly with her fingertip.
"He's... strange," she murmured. "Always has been. The French Ministry's poster boy — brilliant, but... weird."
Harry frowned. "Weird how?"
Susan shifted forward, lowering her voice, leaning towards Harry.
"Too clean," Her honey eyes staring into his own emerald ones. "Too controlled. No mistakes — ever. Like he doesn't get tired. People say he's impossible to break — he doesn't falter, doesn't flinch, just keeps wearing you down."
"Like he's rehearsing," Harry muttered.
Susan's brow arched slightly. "Exactly."
She leaned in closer. "But recently... something's changed. He's still precise, but now? Now he's fast. Too fast."
"What do you mean?"
"There's a rumour," Susan said slowly, "that he's started bending."
"Bending?"
"Physically," Susan said, though her voice wavered. "But he moves like... like his body doesn't care what bones are supposed to do."
Harry's stomach knotted.
I saw that.
"Like he's slipping past spells,"
Her brows furrowed.
"They say he moves before he should be able to — like his limbs are too loose, like they'll break — but they don't."
Harry swallowed thickly.
"I saw it," he said quietly. "Last night."
Susan's face sharpened. "You saw him?"
"Not like that," Harry said quickly. "Not in a duel."
He glanced around — too many students at nearby tables.
Too many ears.
"Come on," he muttered. "Not here."
He stood, gathering his bag. Susan followed without a word.
They stepped into an empty corridor, the cool air clinging to Harry's skin like damp cloth.
Harry turned, pulling his wand.
"Muffliato."
The charm buzzed faintly in his ears, muting the world around them. Susan's brow lifted, but she didn't ask.
"Last night," Harry said quietly. "I saw him."
And so he told her — the corridor, the syringe, the way Laurent's body had twisted beneath his skin like something cold and wrong was moving inside it. The too-wide grin. The muted eyes.
Susan listened, her features tightening.
"You can't say anything," she said flatly when he finished.
Harry exhaled. "I know."
"You have no proof," she continued. "Even if you did, the French Ministry's got too much invested in him. They won't listen."
"I know."
"And if you try to push this—"
"I know Susan." His voice came out sharper than he meant.
Susan inhaled deeply, her fingers pressing against her temples like she was forcing her thoughts to settle.
"Well," she muttered at last, "that makes things worse."
"Worse?" Harry barked a short, humourless laugh. "This whole thing is worse. Everything's—"
"Stop."
Susan's voice cut clean through his frustration.
"We'll figure it out," she said firmly. "But if you go after this alone? If you push too hard?" She shook her head. "They'll crush you before you can get anywhere near the truth."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You're better off surviving this stupid circuit first. That's how you win."
Harry let out a long breath. "Yeah," he muttered. "Yeah... I know."
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
"Here," Susan said, passing him the parchment. "I wrote down everything I could find. Not just about Laurent — the rest of them, too."
Her voice lowered.
"You're going to need it."
Susan lingered as Harry studied the parchment.
He wasn't sure why, but she hadn't left. She'd just stayed — standing a little too still, her eyes flicking between him and the corridor like she was waiting for something.
The parchment felt thin between his fingers, but its contents were heavy — columns of names, notes in Susan's tidy script listing strengths, tendencies, rumours. It was thorough. More than thorough.
"You did all this... overnight?" Harry muttered.
Susan gave a small shrug — one that barely concealed her pride.
"Didn't sleep much," she admitted.
He frowned. "You didn't have to—"
"I did actually." Her voice was firm, but not cold.
Her fingers tapped lightly against the parchment.
"They think I'm just... Heiress Bones the diplomat." Her lips twisted — not quite a smile. "The girl who learned to smile through grief because she couldn't do anything else. The one who's too careful, too quiet — never stands on her own."
Her gaze flicked upward, meeting his.
"I've heard them whispering," she said softly. "That I'm just my aunt's shadow. That I get by because she's the one pulling strings for me."
Her fingers curled against the parchment's edge, knuckles whitening.
"But I know what my parents believed," she added quietly. "That's what I remember."
Her voice dipped lower — steadier now, like she was piecing something together aloud.
"My aunt... she told me everything. About what they stood for. How they fought. How they believed things could get better — even when it must have felt impossible."
Susan swallowed, her thumb rubbing absently over the worn edge of the parchment, like she was trying to smooth out a crease that wouldn't go away.
"I don't... remember them, not really," she admitted. "I don't remember their faces. Or their voices. Or what it felt like to be with them." Her breath hitched slightly. "But I know what they left behind. I know what they gave up because they believed it mattered."
Her fingers tightened.
"And I know... if I let people like Bellerose win — people who twist power for themselves — then what they fought for doesn't mean anything."
She looked at him again — gaze sharp now, determined.
"That's why I'm here," Susan said quietly. "Because I might not remember them... but I'm still their daughter. And I won't let them be forgotten."
She exhaled slowly, then looked back at Harry.
"I'm not my aunt," she said. "But I'm not weak, either." Her voice lowered, steadier now. "I know I can't fix everything... but I can try. And if I can help you win — if I can help you survive — I'll do it."
Her eyes flickered with something earnest — something that sat heavy with meaning.
"I owe them that much," she finished quietly.
For a second, Harry couldn't quite find his voice.
I know that feeling.
"I get it," he said at last.
And this time, when Susan smiled — small, careful — it didn't feel like pride.
Her fingers tapped lightly against the parchment.
"I'm not useless, Harry."
He glanced up at her — and for the first time, noticed how tired she looked. Her hair, usually neat, was a little looser at the edges. Her sleeves were wrinkled, like she'd never changed before dragging herself down to breakfast.
"Look," she said quietly, "I know I can't gather all this today, not everything. But I can try. I'll keep digging — for anything. If there's something about that blue stuff, or Bellerose... I'll find it."
She paused, her gaze steady.
"If you'll let me."
For a moment, Harry just stared at her.
There was no calculation in her eyes — no trace of politics or house loyalty. Just quiet determination — and something else, something warmer that he couldn't quite place.
"…Yeah," Harry said at last, his voice softer than he intended. "Yeah, alright."
Susan's smile flickered — not wide, but real.
"I'll get started," she promised. "I mean... after breakfast" she added dryly, eyeing Harry's still-full plate. "You look like you're about to keel over."
Harry snorted despite himself. "I'll live."
"Well, let's keep it that way," she muttered, turning to leave.
"Susan," Harry called before she'd gone far.
She paused, glancing back.
"Thanks," Harry said quietly.
Her smile lingered just a second longer.
"Don't mention it," she said.
The workshop smelled like burnt parchment and ozone — thick and sharp, like magic had gone wrong one too many times.
Harry stepped inside, boots scuffing against the floor. The place was a mess — diagrams crammed onto walls, potion vials rattling faintly in trays, and something that looked suspiciously like a melting teapot leaking on one of the desks.
Fred and George were hunched over a cluttered table, muttering heatedly.
"It's too risky," Fred said hotly. "If it slips, he's done."
"That's your fault for making it so twitchy!" George shot back, irritation bleeding into his voice. "The beads are slower — they're cleaner — he's got time to—"
"Yeah?" Fred scoffed. "Because spells always wait politely, don't they?"
Harry cleared his throat, stepping into the room.
"Everything alright?"
The twins jumped, then turned with identical grins — too wide, too casual.
"Perfect timing!" Fred declared. "We were just arguing about whether we'd be arrested or expelled first."
"Comforting," Harry muttered, arching an eyebrow to survey the mess.
George reached for something on the table — a thin copper bracelet strung with small, faintly glowing beads. He held it up with a kind of pride, his fingers brushing over the beads as if handling something delicate.
"The Ministry's practically throwing gold at us right now — gave us a mountain of resources for the project. Testing materials, rare ingredients, some pretty dodgy charms we're definitely not supposed to have... but hey, no one asked too many questions."
Fred chuckled. "They said we could experiment with whatever we wanted — long as it was legal. Which, obviously..."
"...narrowly rules out most of our usual ideas," George finished.
Harry snorted. "And you're using all of that to make beads?"
"Not just beads," Fred said, tossing one to Harry. "You're outpaced, mate. These champions — they've been doing this since they were kids. They know tricks you haven't even heard of yet. You can't brute-force your way through that. What you can do..."
"...is cheat without actually cheating," George said with a wicked grin.
Harry rolled the bead between his fingers. It felt smooth, almost weightless — but he could feel the faint heartbeat of magic inside it, like something quietly breathing.
"This one's the subtle one," he explained. "Pulse Beads. Each bead's enchanted with a different spell — simple stuff, like jinxes or stunners. But..." He tapped one bead with his fingernail, and it flashed faintly. "...they fire on a half-second delay."
Harry frowned. "Half a second? That's... not much."
"That's everything in a duel," George corrected. "Bellerose's precise — too precise. He moves before a curse hits him because he's reading spells while they're still forming. This?" He grinned. "It makes him guess wrong."
"And this," Fred said, plucking a brass button from the table, "is the Needle Hex."
"What's it do?"
"Releases invisible strands of magic," Fred explained. "Barely noticeable, but they tug on your opponent's muscles — tiny pulls at the wrist, elbow, knee. Makes their movements feel... off."
"That sounds..." Harry paused, eyes narrowing. "That sounds like cheating."
"It's not," Fred said quickly. "Not technically. It's disruption magic. Bit of a grey area, yeah — but still legal if the strands only last a few seconds. Any longer than that, and it's classed as interference."
"Right," George added. "And if Bellerose's as sharp as they say, he'll feel it sooner or later. If he figures out you're using it... well..." He dragged his thumb across his neck in an unmistakable gesture.
"Brilliant," Harry muttered.
"And if they catch you," Fred added, "there's a good chance they'll strip points or disqualify you outright."
Harry exhaled sharply. "Yeah... that's not happening."
"Exactly!" George shot Fred a smug look. "That's why the beads are better — they're slower, yeah, but you've got more control."
"They're still not legal," Harry reminded him. "If they catch me using them..."
George waved him off. "We checked the rules. The beads technically count as 'charm-assisted casting' — not banned outright, just... frowned on."
"Big difference," Fred muttered.
"Look," George said, more serious now. "If anyone asks, just say they're a duelling focus — like a concentration tool. Half the judges won't know the difference."
"And what if they figure it out?"
Fred's grin widened. "Then you'll really have to move fast."
Harry let out a dry laugh despite himself, but his mind kept spinning.
The Needle Hex was too risky — Laurent would know something was wrong the second he felt it. And if Laurent complained... the French Ministry would back him up in a heartbeat.
The beads weren't safe either — but they were quieter. Cleaner. Something Harry could control.
"You're not presenting the beads, are you?" Harry asked suddenly.
George shook his head. "Nope — we're using the Needle Hex as our pitch for the Ministry. We'll show it off during the delegation presentation — something flashy enough to impress them."
"And you…" Fred's smile sharpened. "Get the good stuff."
Harry ran his thumb across the copper links. Each bead hummed faintly beneath his skin, the magic curled tight and waiting.
"This last one is different" He tapped the bead with the spiral carved into it.
"Ah," George said, grinning wider. "That's the best one — ten-second delay."
"Ten seconds?" Harry repeated. "That's ages in a duel."
"Exactly!" Fred leaned in, voice low. "Most duels get faster the longer they go — both sides start throwing spells faster and faster, trying to force an opening. But if you cast early — set a bead in place while things are still slow — by the time the spell fires, they'll have forgotten it's even there."
"Think of it like playing chess," George added. "Set the piece down early, then steer your opponent into it."
"Like planting a trap?" Harry asked.
"Exactly!" Fred snapped his fingers. "Say you fire a Stunner from that bead — place it near the edge of the duelling floor. A few spells later, you start driving your opponent toward it. They won't realize they're walking right into your spell until it's too late."
"Or," George said, grinning wickedly, "use it to fake 'em out. Pretend you're aiming left, but drop a bead right. When they dodge the wrong way... well..." He shrugged. "That's your opening."
Harry's grip tightened around the bracelet.
"One shot, though," Fred warned. "They'll all burn out after a single use."
Harry nodded, closing his fingers around the copper links.
"I'll take the beads," he said quietly.
"Good choice," George grinned. "Now go win."
Fred's grin flickered — something about Harry's voice had shifted, colder now.
"Listen," Fred said. "You're under a lot of eyes, yeah? French Ministry, foreign judges... they want you to screw up. They're just waiting for an excuse."
Harry snorted. "Yeah... I know."
"So..." Fred tapped his temple. "Don't give them one."
The corridor felt too quiet.
Harry's footsteps echoed off the stone, each one sharp and hollow. The Pulse Beads were warm against his wrist — not comforting, not solid, just… there.
It's not enough.
He stopped walking, breath hitching.
It's not enough. He's faster. Sharper. He'll see right through you.
His fingers twitched — the instinct to grab his wand was so sharp it startled him.
Get a grip.
But the thought kept looping back, circling like smoke.
You've heard how he moves — no hesitation, no wasted steps. That's not instinct. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't guess. He knows. Worst of all he's fucking juiced up on magical blue shit.
His hand drifted to the bracelet, thumb brushing over the ten-second bead.
What if he sees this coming too?
Emily.
"Instinct won't save you. Not against someone who thinks faster than you can move."
The thought twisted, colder now — sharper, like a knife slipping between ribs. Familiar in a way that made his skin crawl. A voice — not his, but not quite someone else's either. Not words, but a presence — ambiguously pressing against his skull.
He'll hesitate if he thinks you're weaker than you are.
His breathing slowed.
Let him underestimate you. Let him think you're careless — stupid — and then...
His fingers tightened on the bracelet, slipping beneath the copper links. The ten-second bead pressed warm against his fingertip — a faint pulse, steady and waiting.
...you strike when he thinks he's already won.
The whisper slithered away, but its weight remained — like cold fingers lingering on his shoulder.
Harry's pulse hammered in his ears, but this time... he felt calmer.
She's not here.
But she was — woven into his thoughts now, her instincts threading through his own. A quiet, cold certainty whispering from the back of his mind.
And somehow, it felt... right.
"Incendio."
The flames shot from her wand, streaking toward him like a wave of heat. Harry barely had time to react, slashing his wand. "Fumos!"
The thick smoke billowed around them, obscuring vision and thickening the air. But Harry didn't wait. His focus sharpened, trying to see through the haze.
Come on.
For a moment, it felt like the smoke slowed, and he reached—just a flicker of her thoughts. Calm. Steady. A calculation forming.
He gritted his teeth. He needed more. His wand sliced through the air, calling on a new strategy. "Petrificus Totalus."
The spell shot through the smoke, aiming for Su's chest. But she was already moving, her figure dancing out of the way as her feet slid like a whisper across the floor.
Her eyes flicked to him, a moment of recognition — and then the flicker of a smirk. "They won't play fair," she muttered, the words almost lost in the thickening fog. "Neither should you."
He blinked, the words sinking in.
The French champions… they've been training for this since they could hold a wand.
The Ravenclaw's words haunted him for a moment. His thoughts flashed to Emily—her tactics. Her fierce unpredictability.
The Boy Who Lived...
His mind churned with the weight of his title, how it had defined him. Little girls dreamed of him saving them; little boys wanted to be like him. But it wasn't just that. Just as many wanted to take him down. Defeat him. Prove he was lesser than a story.
Harry's jaw clenched. He couldn't afford to be a symbol in this circuit.
I need to be more.
The fog cleared, but not enough. Harry flicked his wand, channelling his frustration. "Aguamenti!" Water rushed forward, flooding the ground and the air with cool mist. He waded through, moving with a new plan.
One more time
Flickers, brief as a heartbeat. He caught her, just barely—her thoughts threading with his own.
She's baiting me.
Su's eyes met his as her wand raised. "Glacius."
The air chilled instantly, the water freezing as it reached the floor, locking the room in a solid sheet of ice.
Harry's feet slipped for an instant, but he forced himself to steady. She's controlling the flow. Not just the duel. Her movements were deliberate, each one drawing him in—every spell, a calculated risk.
He thrust his hand forward, casting again—"Arresto Momentum!" Time seemed to slow around him, his wand tracing the air in sharp arcs.
Su's eyes locked on his. Her movements were a blur, quick and nimble, as she dodged the freezing air, stepping sideways like water running between fingers.
He could feel it — the push, the pull — her mind almost flickering past his.
Think faster.
"Don't think you're just fighting for a win," Su's voice cut through the tension. "You're thinking like this is just a duel."
Her wand lowered, her expression sharp and unreadable.
"It's not just a duel," she said quietly. "You know that, right?"
Harry wiped sweat from his brow, still in motion, trying to shake the rush of thoughts. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Su's gaze flicked toward the high windows above them — glassy panes streaked with aftermppm light.
"The people watching this tournament?" she said softly. "The Ministry. The judges. The spectators..." She shook her head. "They aren't just watching to see who wins. They're watching to see who beats you."
Harry stared, confused.
"You think they care about the circuit's rankings?" Su's voice was low, cold. "They don't. The ones fighting you? They want your head on a spike."
"That's dramatic."
"It's true." Su stepped forward. "You're not just some champion, Harry — you're a starting point."
"You fall... and suddenly anyone who beats you is worth something," Worry etched itself across her features.
"It's like bleeding in the water."
She stepped closer, her eyes fixed on him.
"At first, it's just a cut — small, nothing you'd worry about. But then the scent spreads... and that's when they start to circle."
Her fingers curled tight against her wand.
"You won't see it at first — not until you're bleeding faster than you can stop it. And by then? They're not fighting to beat you anymore — they're fighting to tear something off before there's nothing left."
She paused, her expression tightening.
"You think Laurent's dangerous? You're right. But he's just the first one — the one who gets the glory for tipping you over."
Harry exhaled shakily. "So what... you're telling me to cheat?"
"I'm telling you to survive."
Her gaze flickered — something softer, less sharp.
"You're too worried about how you're fighting. Start worrying about what happens if you don't win."
The weight of her words settled into him as the duel resumed, the pressure mounting. He wasn't just fighting for victory. He was fighting for something much bigger—his reputation, his survival, and the endless chain of duels yet to come.
Her eyes never left his as she prepared for the next move.