The handwriting slanted like a knife, looping across the parchment in faded brown ink.
You cannot overpower a mind you don't understand. Break the rhythm. Shape the duel around your opponent's fear, not your strength.
Harry stared at Emily's words, lit faintly by the warm, flickering glow of the dormitory hearth. Her notes were sharp — no wasted sentiment, just tactics written in Parseltongue, annotated with diagrams and calculations of spell delay, hand angle, eye direction. A kind of choreography of dismantlement.
Beneath it, a messier scrawl had been added in fresher ink.
Pain interrupts focus. Use that.
He hated that he understood it. Hated even more how his fingers twitched to rehearse the motions, to internalize what it meant.
His duel with Bellerose was hours away, and the only thing sharper than his nerves was the feeling that he was missing something. Something important. Something he should've seen by now.
"Harry," said Susan from the stairwell, her voice cutting through the stillness. "You eating this morning, or brooding until you're hexed into the floor?"
Harry looked up, startled. Susan stepped in with a folder tucked under her arm, her expression tight.
He sat up straighter, ignoring the barb. "You found something?"
She tossed the folder onto the table. "More than something."
Harry opened it — parchment pages, Ministry-style files, clipped headlines. Most were in French, but she'd scribbled summaries in the margins. A separate page slid loose. Names. Scores.
His eyes went straight to his own.
POTTER, HARRY — 24
ROSIER, CASSIOPEIA — 32
DELACOUR, GABRIELLE — 26
DIGGORY, CEDRIC — 22
"What's this?"
"Updated scores. They all won. Rosier shut her opponent down in under 8 minutes. Delacour overwhelmed hers with sheer volume — I counted at least four modified spells, maybe five. Cedric…" She hesitated. "He got through it. Barely. His opponent wasn't even ranked — just someone picked to look scary and lose slowly."
Harry set the parchment down. "So they gave him a safe one."
Susan nodded. "They gave you a monster."
A beat of silence.
"He's not just a duellist, Harry. Laurent Bellerose is a trained executioner. The kind of wizard you send into a forest when the Aurors won't go."
He's not even a champion.
Susan's mouth tightened. "I think I know what he's using."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."
"I told you I'd find something." Her voice was low, urgent. "You were right to be worried. He's not just bending physics — he's breaking rules that shouldn't be touched."
Harry leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Talk."
"I sent an owl to someone in my aunt's old department — Forensics. They've seen something like this before. Years ago. Underground tournament in Eastern Europe. One duellist collapsed mid-round — muscles torn, joints shattered. They identified the potion used." She took a breath. "It's called Epine-Blanche."
"Epine-Blanche?" Harry repeated. "What is it?"
"A rare, dangerous concoction. It detaches joints and tendons from the usual restrictions. Lets the body move with unnatural speed and precision. It's like a magical steroid, but instead of raw strength, it erases limits. Flexibility, reflexes, balance — all enhanced. But the cost is… high."
"How high?"
"You stop feeling pain. And then, eventually, you stop noticing damage. Overuse leads to nerve decay. Permanent. You could snap your arm and keep fighting — until it's too late."
Harry's stomach twisted. "That's how he moves like that. He doesn't feel it."
"Exactly. And this isn't just a rogue potion. Epine-Blanche is banned in every major country. Which means someone's manufacturing it — here."
Harry's expression darkened. "The Ministry."
Susan nodded. "They're testing it. Bellerose isn't a champion — he's a prototype. A weapon in the shape of a student. They're grooming him to be the face of something bigger."
"They're using him as a product," Harry said, the words tasting bitter.
"Yes. The French Ministry's been bleeding political capital since their continental trade pact with Italy collapsed. They need a statement — something to project strength, control. Bellerose is that statement. Manufactured. Fast. Inhuman."
Harry let that sit for a long moment. "Then why put me against him?"
"You're the wildcard. The last unknown. If Bellerose crushes you — famous, unpredictable, British — it validates everything. The potion. The program. The Ministry's reach... At least the first stage of it."
Harry's lips thinned. "And if I beat him?"
Susan gave a small, humourless laugh. "They lose everything. Their golden weapon breaks. It shows the world he's just a drugged-up puppet. It turns their strength into a lie."
"But they wouldn't let that happen," Harry said, voice low. "If the risk's that high, they'd pull the duel."
Susan shook her head. "Too much press. Too much pressure. But they can tilt the match. Stack the odds. Limit your spell list. Disrupt your rhythm."
Harry's jaw clenched. "Which they already have."
"They want you to lose, Harry. But only just. Enough to keep the illusion intact. Enough to sell the story without showing the strings."
"Because if it's too easy," Harry muttered, "people start asking the wrong questions. About me. About him."
Susan nodded grimly.
"What about the others?" he asked. "Rosier, Delacour — do they know about this?"
"Rosier doesn't care. She's focused on the title, her family thought I'm unsure of their intentions. Delacour... might not know. But this isn't about them. This is about you." She met his eyes directly.
Of course it is.
Harry frowned. " Wait... Cassiopeia's old blood. She would want to win to solidify power. Delacour's dynasty is built on image — they're playing the long game."
"And the Beaumonts are bankrolling it," Susan added. "They've tied their wealth to the Delacours. Control magical commerce, control the narrative."
"And the Rosiers?" Harry asked.
"They want to tear it all down. Discredit the Delacours, expose the puppet strings, and put at least some modicum of old power back in place. Every duel is just a move on their board."
Harry looked out at the frosted glass, the dawn light creeping in. "So this tournament isn't about merit. It's about politics. Dynasty. Leverage."
Susan's voice dropped. "Exactly. And right now, you are the swing vote. You win, and the Delacour narrative cracks. You may not be the biggest fracture, but it would be a decent rupture. The Beaumonts rethink their investment. The Rosiers seize the moment. One duel could reshape half the country's future."
Harry's lip twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything.
Just another future hanging from his shoulders.
Of course it was.
She paused, eyes narrowing slightly.
"...Or not. I mean — maybe we've misunderstood a piece. Or maybe this is just the topsoil of something deeper. The kind of thing you only find after it's already swallowed you whole."
Harry tilted his head. "So we're digging with our hands, hoping we don't hit a landmine."
"Pretty much," Susan said. "Welcome to France."
A humourless smile touched his mouth.
Always the weapon. Never the wielder.
Harry exhaled through his nose. "No pressure, then."
Susan pulled a folded hex map from her bag — sequences, counters, runic symbols. She slid it across the table.
He took it silently, unfolding it halfway before letting it rest beneath his fingers.
It felt more like a battle plan than a study guide. And he wasn't sure whose war he was fighting anymore.
She lingered. "It's not just prep," she said. "It's control. If you know the field better than he does, you can tilt the whole fight before it even starts."
Harry gave a slow nod, but didn't look up.
Susan hesitated, then turned toward the door. She paused in the frame.
"And Harry?"
He looked up.
"I don't know what's going on in your head lately," she said, more gently now. "You've been… different. Understandably different."
Harry's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"But whatever it is — don't let it own you. You're still the one holding the wand."
A long moment passed.
Harry's voice was low, dry. "Nice to be wanted."
Susan rolled her eyes. "Just try not to die."
Harry stood next to Bellerose, facing the open arena. Tension filled the air, but Bellerose seemed almost... indifferent. Not relaxed, but resigned—like someone who had long accepted that this moment, this duel, was already written. It was just another move in the game. He watched him carefully. Not indifferent. Hollow. This wasn't the same boy he'd seen slumped in the hallway days ago, pupils blown wide and body slack, muttering to himself like a ghost. That version had seemed broken. But this one? This one sounded calm. Too calm. It unsettled him more.
"Think it matters, all this?" Harry said, voice low, not looking at him.
Bellerose's gaze never left the entrance, but there was something behind his eyes. "Matters? To us? No. It's a story. The ending was decided long before we stepped on this stage." He said it so plainly, so matter-of-factly, that Harry almost flinched.
Harry's pulse quickened, but he forced himself to stay composed. "And you're just fine with that? Being some piece in someone else's game?"
Bellerose turned his head, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. "You think you're anything but a piece? Everyone here is. You just haven't figured out what side you're on yet."
"Maybe I don't care to."
Bellerose's eyes glinted with something unsettling—amusement, maybe, or pity. "Oh, I think you do. You wouldn't be so angry if you didn't." His voice dropped. "But you're wasting energy. You'll play your part, and the story will go on. You can fight it all you want, but in the end, it doesn't matter."
Harry's stomach twisted. "That's how you live? Just accepting it? Like everything's already decided?"
Bellerose's laugh was quiet, almost rueful. "It's not about accepting it. It's about understanding it. You're here, aren't you? And you will play the role you're given. Maybe not now. But later? When the stakes are higher, you'll see. There's no choice in it."
A long pause hung between them.
Harry exhaled, pushing back against the bitterness rotting in his throat. "You sound like you've already lost."
"Not lost. Just... aware." Bellerose's voice was flat, but the weight of it lingered. "We all lose eventually, Potter. The difference is whether you know when to stop pretending you can win."
Stone columns groaned as they shifted, rearranging the battlefield beneath his feet. The ground sloped in uneven places, forcing careful footing. High above, Pensieve orbs floated in the air, recording every moment, every movement. The duelling ring stretched out around them, vast and empty, but that wouldn't last. The circuit was designed to test adaptability. He could already see the faint etchings of magic woven into the arena floor—a grid of enchantments waiting to activate, waiting to change everything beneath their feet. Around the outer edges of the arena, delicate veils floated in midair—thin sheets of translucent fabric that hung like suspended mist. They shimmered faintly when the light caught them, like glass turned to vapor. Harry had heard rumours: the Hall of Veils wasn't just a name. Spells cast too wildly would vanish into them, absorbed and neutralized. Or redirected. No one knew for sure.
The wards locked into place, shimmering blue for a brief second before fading into nothing. The cage was invisible, but Harry could feel it—the weight of magic pressing down, sealing them inside.
Harry rolled his shoulders, keeping his grip loose on his wand. His heartbeat was steady, but he could feel it, just beneath the surface—the rhythmic thud against his ribs.
Across from him, Bellerose smiled.
Not cocky. Not eager. Just… waiting.
Harry took a slow breath, forcing himself to stay loose. Wand grip light. Shoulders relaxed. Su had warned him.
The French had been trained here since they could hold a wand.
He had the stance of someone who wasn't just prepared to fight, but prepared to win. His feet barely touched the ground, weight evenly distributed, ready to move at any second. A duellist's stance, but an imperceptible lack of tension in his muscles.
Too relaxed. Like the arena belonged to him.
"And here we have it, folks! The final duel of the circuit—England's Harry Potter against France's Laurent Bellerose!" Ludo Bagman's voice boomed across the stadium.
Applause, some cheers, a low murmur of anticipation.
Harry flicked his gaze to the judges.
Dumbledore sat impassive.
Karkaroff was already leaning forward, watching hungrily.
Madame Maxime was unreadable, hands folded.
And the French "international" referee —thin, silver-haired, draped in navy robes—smiled just a little too much.
Yeah. This is political.
The bell rang.
No hesitation.
His wand snapped forward—not a word, just motion—
Harry dodged left—
Too slow.
A burst of golden light—"Percutio!"—struck his shield like a hammer blow. The force sent him skidding back, boots scraping the stone. Before he could plant himself, another spell was already flying toward him—
Flick. Redirect.
Obscuro
A dark mist erupted between them, but Bellerose moved through it like it wasn't there. He stepped forward with that same awful, jerking speed, his body bending away from the streaks of red light Harry fired at him.
A blur of motion.
Bellerose was already to his right—
"Diffindo."
Harry dropped low. The cutting hex screamed overhead, missing by inches. He slammed his palm against the ground—
"Motus!"
A chunk of the arena floor lurched upward, forcing Bellerose to pivot mid-step.
Harry used that half-second opening to flick his wrist.
A Pulse Bead dropped.
It landed near the uneven stone, barely noticeable among the cracks.
Bellerose lunged—too fast—
Harry forced himself to move faster.
He lashed his wand forward—not at Bellerose, but at the ground near his feet.
"Glacius!"
The stone froze instantly, slick ice coating the surface.
Bellerose stepped forward—
The Pulse Bead flared.
A Blasting Curse detonated beneath him.
The explosion sent him spinning mid-air. But before Harry could press the attack—
Bellerose contorted mid-fall, legs bending unnaturally as he caught himself in a crouch.
His grin widened.
Fuck.
He was already moving again.
Harry's breathing was sharp, heart hammering as he parried another bone-crushing hex.
Bellerose wasn't just fast—he was impossible.
Harry had faced skilled duellists before, despite it being at a single digit, but this—this was inhuman. The way Bellerose dodged was unnatural, his body twisting too far to avoid attacks, his spells snapping off before he even finished the motion.
"He's predicting me. No—he's reacting before he even sees the spell form."
The next spell came—fast, precise—
Confringo!"
The explosion roared forward.
Harry dodged, rolling sideways, heat licking at his heels. He flicked his wrist mid-motion, firing back a silent Expulso, but—Bellerose wasn't there.
He had already shifted, slipping just out of range, bending away like he had seen the spell coming before Harry had even cast it.
Harry gritted his teeth.
Too fast.
He adjusted his grip. Fired again.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Bellerose's spine bent—too far. The curse hissed past his ribs.
Not dodging.
Collapsing.
Harry's stomach twisted. That wasn't normal. A human body wasn't supposed to move like that.
Bellerose didn't stop. He landed in a crouch, wand snapping up.
"Flipendo!"
Harry barely got a shield up in time—the force of Bellerose hex sent him sliding back.
He gritted his teeth.
Alright. If I can't hit you—
"Glisseo."
The floor changed beneath Bellerose's feet—polished glass.
Bellerose moved anyway. Disregarding any of the Muggle laws of physics Harry had memorised in primary school.
Harry reached out.
A flicker. A sensation—
Not sight. Not sound.
Instinct.
For a split second—just before Bellerose fired—Harry felt what he would do. A half-second shift in the way his fingers curled—
Harry moved before he even thought.
The curse sailed past his shoulder.
His heartbeat spiked.
He'd just—read him.
Bellerose's grin twitched.
And then—realization.
His expression darkened.
Bellerose moved to press forward—
Then the arena shifted.
A low pulse of magic rippled through the floor.
The ground split.
Not cracked — split, like some invisible chisel had slit a fresh seam into the ground. Stone yawned beneath Harry's feet, sending a tremor up his spine, and Bellerose didn't hesitate. A flick of his wand, and something sharp and silver screamed across the gap.
No time. No cover.
Harry dropped low — fingers sliding covertly to the bracelet at his wrist wrenching a bead free. The faint blue shimmer glowed richly between his fingers as it dropped.
Half a second.
His wand moved in the same breath, sketching a jagged arc just ahead of the incoming spell.
"Protego."
Not shouted — not even whispered. Just shaped by thought and motion, a spell bent to instinct.
The bead exploded.
Boom
The blast didn't come with flame — just pressure. A shockwave punched the shield sideways as it bloomed, slamming into the incoming curse just off-centre. It twisted, momentum curving, and the spell tore past Harry's face by inches — straight into a floating veil.
The spell vanished with a hiss of fabric, swallowed whole.
Harry hit the ground on one knee, breath scraping at his throat. A fine mist of dust drifted in the air between veils, lit faintly by the aftershock. His ears rang. His palm burned.
But he was alive.
Bellerose didn't hesitate.
A high-arc slash of his wand split the air — a crescent of lightning crackled outwards, bluer than a curse, faster than fear. It wasn't meant to injure. It was meant to kill.
Harry ran.
The spell exploded behind him, tearing through veils, igniting powder-fine dust in the air. A shockwave shoved him sideways — his shoulder hit stone — and still, he moved.
He couldn't block this. He had to run smarter.
Another spell — Depulso, maybe, or something nastier — carved through the ground behind him. Chunks of shattered tile lifted and twisted in the air as the magic tried to pull the earth apart.
Harry's wand was already moving, his thoughts racing faster than spells.
"Durus."
A flash of hardened Transfiguration — his boots struck stone and turned it rigid.
"Arresto Momentum."
The broken slabs floating in the air slowed, gravity tugging at them with hesitation.
"Wingardium..."
Not on Bellerose.
On the rubble.
The shards floated — half-spun, misted in dust, caught mid-fall. Harry weaved his hand forward and another glint of copper slipped between his fingertips
Half a second.
The kinetic detonation rippled outward, not as a blast but as a shockwave. It struck the rubble he'd frozen mid-air — and pushed it forward.
Stone slabs surged ahead like stepping stones — rising just before him, scattered and unstable, but enough.
Harry ran. Jumped. Slid.
He launched himself up the first slab, boots pounding against uneven ground. A second stone rose as he landed — the momentum from the Pulse Bead lifting it just enough.
The third shard crumbled under his weight — but it was meant to.
"Accio — veil!"
He tore a ragged length of fabric from the air and used it as a tether, swinging off the last stone. He landed hard, wand out.
Bellerose had followed. Of course he had. Predictable. But not fast enough.
Harry flicked his wand.
"Pulvis!"
Dust exploded around him — the last of the ground shattered by spells. The smoke rolled between them, and Harry vanished into it.
"Coloro."
A red shimmer in the dust — fake.
"Gemino."
A second shape, running left — fake.
Bellerose fired.
Too wide. Too eager.
Harry was to the right. Low. Silent.
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell caught him — a direct hit to the chest, force enough to knock most off their feet.
Bellerose didn't move.
The red light shimmered against his uniform, fizzled at the edges, and died like it hadn't mattered at all.
At least flinch you cunt.
He simply kept walking forward, eyes locked on Harry like a machine that hadn't registered a threat.
Flickers of irritation rung in his skull barely subdued by his mental shields. This wasn't just a duellist anymore. This was a titan in motion, and every trick, every illusion, every bead... it wasn't about winning.
It was about not dying.
Harry's hand tightened around his wand, fingers trembling from the exertion. His mind raced—Emily's notes, his training, every thought he'd absorbed over the past weeks—they were all flooding back to him in fragments. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together, slowly but surely.
Pressure. Pattern. Disruption.
His breath came in shallow bursts as he surveyed the scene: The stone slabs above him, suspended in mid-air, slowly shifting into new configurations with every moment. The ground had split earlier, leaving chasms of broken earth below. The arena was alive with movement, each physical consequence of the pair's actions seemingly capable of becoming either a boon or a curse.
Stone spluttered above — shards suspended in slow, lethal drift, bobbing where momentum had abandoned them. The arena hadn't stopped moving. The floor flexed beneath the strain of magic. The walls shimmered like heat haze. And Bellerose…
He walked through the aftermath like he owned it. Not even running. Just advancing. Mechanical. Unhurried.
Harry ducked behind the remnants of a crumbled ledge, one knee bent, heart hammering in his ribs. Harry reached for his bracelet, fingers brushing against the last three Pulse Beads. They were warm against his skin, pulsing faintly with stored force of spells he had infused into them earlier.
Three beads. Three chances.
He let one roll between his fingers coating it in magic. Flicked it — soft, unseen — into the air behind a drifting slab.
Ten.
It vanished behind the slab. He didn't watch it land. Didn't need to.
Nine.
The second bead flicked higher, cracking against a chunk of floating debris above Bellerose's left shoulder. It clung to the stone like a tick, a faint shimmer betraying the Sticking Charm anchoring it in place.
Half.
The first bead exploded.
A concussive blast lit the mist behind Bellerose, throwing heat and red light across the space. Not a hit — not meant to be. It was a distraction, and it bought Harry exactly half a second.
He used it.
"Confundo!"
The spell burst through the smoke. Somewhere behind it, Bellerose raised a shield, swatting it aside — mechanical, practiced. Unbothered.
But the floating slabs trembled. One cracked. Another tilted. Dust hung in air like silk.
Harry ran.
A leap — a step — a stone caught mid-air. He bounded like a dancer through a collapsing dream, each motion a precise gamble.
The edge of a jagged slab sliced across his ribs mid-vault. He bit back a shout — warmth bloomed under his shirt, a fresh line of blood drawn across his side.
Eight.
He didn't stop. Didn't look.
Half.
The second bead detonated.
The slab Bellerose stood on pitched hard to one side, stone groaning under the pressure. A crack echoed through the hall — something shifted. A tremble in the titan's stance.
Bellerose adjusted — not much, just enough to hold steady — like the world itself needed more than a bomb to shake him loose.
Harry landed hard on a higher slab, his boots scraping, breath caught on a raw inhale. Pain lanced through his shoulder, his ribs aching from the earlier scrape.
Seven.
He twisted mid-air, wand snapping up before the blood reached his elbow.
"Stupefy!"
The spell slammed into Bellerose's side — enough to spin a duellist, to drop them flat — but he merely swayed.
Still, his heel slipped off the edge of the slab.
A fault. A wobble. A gap in the impossible rhythm.
Six.
Harry dropped low again, lungs burning, his side slick with warmth. Pain spiked as he bent — that shallow cut across his ribs tearing wider, muscles shrieking in protest — but he grit his teeth and moved anyway.
One hand touched stone to steady himself. The other gripped his wand like a lifeline.
He couldn't hold still. He couldn't stop.
Not with a god bearing down.
Five.
Bellerose recovered instantly, snapping back to full height as if the moment of weakness had never existed. He didn't stagger — he didn't even pause — just set his gaze back on Harry, unblinking, relentless. His movements were a continuous grind, a machine working at full speed.
Harry's muscles screamed. Blood was dripping now, staining the stone beneath him. Every breath was shallow, forced through the tightness in his chest. But he was still moving, still calculating, still living.
Four.
Harry dropped lower, using the momentum of the fall to push himself forward. The floating slabs shuddered around him, their erratic motion a brief distraction. He couldn't stay still. Couldn't afford to wait. Every second was a step closer to his own death.
But then he saw it.
A glimmer of blue—faint, almost invisible against the shifting stone. His breath caught as his eyes snapped toward it.
There it is.
The final bead, stuck to the slab behind Bellerose, glowing faintly with magical energy. A Sticking Charm had anchored it there, hidden just out of sight.
Three.
His pulse hammered in his ears. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins, the throb of it against his ribs where the earlier injury ached. The bead was in position, but now it was up to him to make it work.
He planted his feet — low and steady — forcing the stone slab beneath him to tilt and spin under the weight of his magic. The shift of stone beneath him threw off his equilibrium for a moment, but he willed his body to adjust, stumbling just slightly before gaining his footing again.
Harry kept his focus, barely noticing the strain in his body as he looked up again. Bellerose was coming closer, barely an inch from the edge of the slab. Was this the right moment?
Two.
His eyes flicked to the bead again. It was there, just behind the floating stone. The trick now would be to keep it hidden until the perfect moment, to let Bellerose think he had one more move before—
He feinted with his wand, a quick movement, a slight misdirection, enough for the judges to believe.
One.
The bead's magic surged, a slow spin now rotating the slab almost adjacent to Bellerose, shifting the position just slightly. The trap was set.
And with the final pulse of magic, the bead erupted in a flash, just as the pressure of Bellerose's feet shifted again.
Harry twisted his wrist, sending his spell through the opening.
"Confundo!"
The spell tore through the air, a bright arc flashing as it sliced toward Bellerose, his shield snapping into place with mechanical precision. But the impact was enough—just enough for Bellerose to stagger, a brief hesitation in his movements as the confusion set in.
It was now or never. Harry's body tensed for the next move.
In a blur of motion, he pushed forward, foot connecting with the stone beneath him, and launched himself straight at Bellerose.
Bellerose's eyes narrowed as he saw Harry moving. The shield in front of him flickered, preparing for another attack. But Harry wasn't aiming at Bellerose directly this time.
Instead, he aimed at the stone beneath the man's feet. A quick flick of his wrist.
"Flipendo!"
The spell shot out, striking the stone with a sharp crack. The slab beneath Bellerose's feet tilted sharply, sending a jolt of instability through his stance. He gasped as his footing wavered, his shield faltering for just a split second.
Harry didn't wait for him to recover.
He followed through with a flick of his wand, moving swiftly.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The binding spell shot out, streaking through the air with deadly accuracy. Bellerose's eyes widened as the magic struck him mid-step, locking his movements in place. He froze, the shock of the spell momentarily immobilizing him.
But just as Harry thought he had him, something inside Bellerose seemed to snap back to life. His eyes burned with a dangerous clarity. His body jerked, not out of weakness, but a sharp, sudden defiance. Bellerose was still alive in that moment, and the duel wasn't finished yet.
Harry's heart skipped a beat. He could feel the strain in his body — pain radiating from his ribs where the jagged stone had sliced into him, his thoughts clouded, but still, something told him that this wasn't over.
In that breathless pause, Harry didn't hesitate. The battlefield spun with shifting shadows, the air thick with magic, but his mind was sharp, focusing on the task at hand. He closed his eyes for a second, pushing aside the overwhelming exhaustion, the blood still slick on his side.
Legilimency.
He reached for Bellerose's mind, felt the pulse of his thoughts — raw, frantic, and fierce. It wasn't just about reading his opponent's mind; it was about controlling him, bending him, finding that fracture in his will.
But Harry had never tried this before — it was new, dangerous. He could feel his mental defences crack under the pressure, pushing back against Bellerose's iron-willed vision blurred with the intensity, but Harry didn't pull away.
He plunged deeper, searching for the vulnerable part of Bellerose's focus. He saw flashes — fleeting images, bursts of anger, regret. He had to make it stop.
Bellerose wasn't giving an inch. But Harry fought harder. He reached into the core of his opponent's thoughts, searching for the confusion, the self-doubt. That momentary weakness that could break him. Harry was nearly drowning in the storm of Bellerose's mind, and for a split second, it felt like he might drown with it.
Focus.
Harry clenched his teeth. His wand hand trembled with the strain, sweat beading on his forehead. He couldn't let go. He couldn't fail.
The rage surged up from inside him, hot and consuming. He wanted to break Bellerose — not just beat him, but shatter him. He felt the taste of something darker, a spell rising unbidden to the front of his mind. Something sharp. Something cruel.
One word, and it would be over in a way no one could come back from.
He could do it. He knew the incantation. The magic already crackled at the tips of his fingers, hungry and impatient. He saw Bellerose falter, just for a moment — and in that heartbeat, he could end it.
But the eyes watching him — the judges, the crowd, the Ministry, the orbs — they weren't the reason he stopped.
He was.
Harry swallowed the fire. Forced it down. Let the fury bleed into something tighter, colder.
I have him.
The curse on the edge of his tongue rotted.
He raised his wand, voice strained and hoarse.
"Stupefy."
A clean shot.
The force of the spell was enough to shatter whatever resistance was left. Bellerose's body went rigid, and with a final, echoing thud, he collapsed onto the stone beneath him.
The duel was over.
Harry stood there, chest heaving, his body shaking from the strain. His ribs burned with every breath, his side slick with blood. He had won. Not with fire. Not with vengeance.
But he had won.
And for now, that was enough.
Harry stood there, chest still heaving, blood cooling on his side, while medics scrambled around Bellerose's collapsed form. The other duellists — judges, students, diplomats — all watched from behind the enchanted veil, the magical barrier flickering gently like water disturbed by breath.
The referee stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, face unreadable.
"Combat over," he declared in French. "The victor: Champion Potter."
No score followed.
Harry blinked. "That's it?"
"I will not be assigning a score," he said curtly, voice echoing through the enchanted amphitheatre. "My role here does not pertain to the Triwizard segment. That responsibility lies with the designated adjudicators."
Harry's heart dropped. "And where are they?"
The referee turned. "Conferring, I imagine."
Behind the outskirts of the duelling stages, the judges' silhouettes shifted. Whispers curled in the fog of debris that had yet to clear. Eyes tracked Harry — not just the judges, but the others. Champions, handlers, foreign dignitaries, the world. The silence stretched, until it felt like it might break.
A game. Every second they delayed, every moment they left him in the dark — it was deliberate.
Harry stood alone in the centre of the ruined arena, blood drying on his shirt, and forced himself not to flinch.
His eyes fixed on the magical scoreboard displayed above him.
A moment later, numbers appeared — wine lacquered.
Harry Potter – 4 points. Total: 28.
Applause rang out, scattered but not unkind. Harry didn't smile.
The standings reshuffled before everyone's eyes:
1st – Rosier: 32 points
2nd – Harry Potter: 28 points
3rd – Delacour: 26 points
4th – Diggory: 22 points
And yet, even as the numbers glowed overhead, it felt like more than a competition. The judges' eyes lingered. The whispers grew thicker in the air.
Harry felt it — not just the ache in his side or the sweat cooling against his back. He felt the pressure shift.
He wasn't just second place now.
HeHe was still second place.
Just like the first task. No matter how hard he pushed, how clean his spells landed, how close he came—Rosier stayed ahead. A handful of points, but enough to make it feel like a ceiling. Like something carefully curated.
The scoreboard shimmered for a moment, then pulsed red beneath the lowest name.
Cedric Diggory – Eliminated.
Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by a long, uncomfortable silence.
The British delegation stiffened. Madam Bones pressed her lips together, her expression unreadable. The French press began murmuring in rapid-fire, their quills scratching against enchanted parchment faster than the eye could follow.
Cedric stood in place, chest rising and falling evenly. He didn't look surprised — disappointed, yes, but not broken. His eyes found Harry's across the arena, and for a second, neither of them said a word.
Then he gave a short nod.
Harry returned it, mouth dry.
He already knew he would lose.
From the announcer's platform, a voice rang out — not the French referee, but a Ministry official speaking with artificial brightness.
"Per IDC regulations, the lowest-ranking champion is hereby eliminated following the duelling round. Cedric Diggory will no longer participate in the remainder of the tournament. Thank you for your service to your school and country."
A cold finality to it. Brutal in its formality.
Cedric turned slowly, walking away from the arena floor with measured steps. Not defeated. But done.
Harry didn't look away until he was gone.
And just like that, the field was down to three