CHAPTER 41: BLUE FLAMES AND VENOM
And they were alive.
Harry's wand snapped up instinctively, conjuring a shimmering shield just in time. It barely lasted a heartbeat before Pierre's first three spells slammed into it in rapid succession, shattering it like brittle glass. The force sent a shockwave through Harry's arm, making his fingers tingle.
Fuck, he casts fast.
Harry gritted his teeth, forced onto the defensive as Pierre's relentless barrage continued. Shields upon shields, conjured walls, a flock of enchanted birds, a massive water bubble—Harry threw up defenses with desperate speed, barely managing to keep up with the onslaught. Every time he countered one attack, another was already bearing down on him.
Twenty seconds in, and Harry still hadn't cast a single offensive spell. That realization burned in his gut.
Pierre was toying with him.
A jagged Cutter spell slipped through his defenses, slashing across his upper arm. Hot pain flared, and blood welled up, staining his sleeve crimson. A hiss escaped his lips, but he refused to acknowledge it. The arena's floor gleamed with shattered spells and dissipating magic, and in the distance, he could hear a commentator's voice rising in excitement.
"Ohhh, that's a hit!" someone called. The crowd roared in response.
Harry spat blood to the side, his tongue tasting copper. His gaze flicked upward, catching sight of the ornate chandelier hanging above them, its delicate crystals glinting under the magical lighting.
A slow, savage grin spread across his face.
He was Harry fucking Potter, and he wasn't about to lose to this arrogant French prick.
A sharp flick of his wand—Diffindo—and the chandelier's support chain snapped. With a thunderous crash, the massive structure plummeted to the floor, shards of glass exploding in every direction.
Pierre cursed loudly in French, instinctively leaping back, his footing thrown off.
Harry didn't waste the opening. His wand slashed through the air, and a giant boa constrictor erupted from thin air, its thick coils gliding over the ruined floor. Its eyes glowed an eerie yellow as it locked onto Pierre.
Harry leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into a serpentine hiss. "Bite him."
The snake struck with terrifying speed.
Pierre reacted instantly, slashing his wand down—Sectumsempra! The boa was sliced cleanly into three writhing pieces, its body thrashing violently before disintegrating. But that was fine.
Harry only needed a few seconds.
Another sharp jab of his wand—Serpensortia!—and a much smaller snake materialized, this one darting between Pierre's legs, quick and unpredictable. At the same time, Harry conjured a flock of birds—Avis!—but instead of letting them scatter randomly, he willed them into a frenzied, coordinated attack. The air filled with the sound of furious wingbeats and shrill cries as the birds descended on Pierre like a swarm of hornets.
So far, so First Year at Hogwarts.
But Harry wasn't done.
His lips barely moved as he whispered the incantation—Imperio.
A subtle pulse of magic coursed through the air. One of the birds stiffened, its flight pattern shifting unnaturally. Harry wove his will into it, forcing it to dive toward the tiny snake, scooping it up in its talons before peeling away from the rest of the flock.
Pierre smirked, his wand carving a precise arc. "Confringo!"
The entire flock of birds exploded into fire and feathers—except for the one carrying the snake.
Pierre didn't notice.
But Harry did.
And he grinned.
His Imperio-controlled bird soared high above the chaos, its movements smooth and deliberate, unnoticed by Pierre and the roaring crowd. At the peak of its flight, it released the tiny snake, letting it drop silently behind Du Pont.
Pierre had no idea what was coming.
"Is that all you've got, boy?" Pierre sneered, flicking away the last remnants of Harry's birds with a lazy wave of his wand. "Those are first-year spells!" His smirk was wide, condescending—too confident.
Harry's tongue tingled with a strange bitterness, and an acrid scent burned his nose. His stomach twisted.
Shit.
Pierre's wand moved with sharp precision, and before Harry could react, a thick greenish-black mist billowed into the arena. The air shimmered with something vile—poison, spreading fast.
A Bubble-Head Charm snapped into place around Pierre's face, sealing him in a protective dome of clean air. The Frenchman grinned, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
Then, the shrieking started.
A piercing, mind-numbing wail ripped through the air—a Caterwauling Charm. The sound wasn't just loud; it was chaotic, disorienting, clawing at Harry's senses, making it nearly impossible to focus. The crowd's shouts became distorted, distant, swallowed by the deafening noise. His head pounded as if his skull were about to split open.
Pierre wasn't playing fair.
Harry staggered back slightly, but his brain worked through the noise.
Poison gas, followed by a Confringo. Fire and toxic mist—lethal combination. A big explosion that, even if it didn't kill you outright, would damn well end the duel.
Pierre was trying to finish this.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
Alright, bastard. Let's see how you handle this one.
He knew this tactic.
Tom had once dated an Italian witch who fancied herself an opera singer in the magical circles of Rome. She had used an obscure offshoot of Sonorus—not to amplify her voice, but to increase her air intake massively for brief moments. It was supposed to help with long vocal performances, but to most people, it was utterly useless.
Except now.
Harry flicked his wand against his throat and cast the spell. His lungs expanded as he inhaled deeply—violently—sucking in the entire toxic cloud in one breath.
The green mist swirled into his mouth, vanishing from the arena in an instant.
The crowd gasped. Pierre's triumphant expression faltered.
Harry felt the poison burn against his throat, but before it could go any further, he cast Anapneo wandlessly, sealing the toxic air in his mouth. It was meant to clear blocked airways and prevent choking—but today, it would serve a different purpose.
Pierre's brow furrowed, just for a second. His wand twitched.
Harry lifted his own wand, holding it upright, the tip igniting with a controlled Incendio—a steady, flickering flame.
Like a lighter held in the dark.
Pierre's lips parted slightly, caught between confusion and growing wariness.
Harry winked at him.
And then—he exhaled.
A torrent of blue fire roared from his mouth, surging through the air like a dragon's breath, the flames igniting with unnatural intensity as they consumed the poison he had inhaled. The sheer heat of it made Harry's skin feel tight and dry, as if standing too close to a forge.
Pierre's eyes widened in alarm.
Now.
He moved to cast a shield, his wand already in motion—but then his body jerked. His breath hitched.
A sharp, piercing pain lanced through his ankle.
Harry's Imperio'd little snake had done its job, sinking its fangs deep into Pierre's flesh. A venomous little beast, quick and deadly, its bite already spreading numbing paralysis through Pierre's leg.
The duellist let out a strangled curse in French, stumbling slightly. Then—
WHOOOSH.
Harry's blue fire roared through the air, slamming into Pierre with unforgiving force. The inferno swallowed him whole.
A collective gasp rose from the spectators as Pierre vanished within the churning smoke and flames. For a moment, all that could be heard was the crackling fire, the heat warping the air around them.
Then—
A shriek of pain.
A twisted, agonized cry tore through the silence, echoing across the grand hall.
Harry staggered slightly, inhaling sharply as he expelled the last remnants of the toxic gas from his lungs. His throat burned, his chest tight, but he forced himself to focus.
Don't get up, you French fuck.
The thick smoke curled away, revealing Pierre once more.
He stood, barely, legs shaky. His shield flickered in front of him, weak, barely holding. His once-pristine tuxedo was now nothing more than a scorched ruin, revealing patches of raw, burned flesh. The edges of his remaining clothing still smoldered, tiny flames licking at the fabric. His eyebrows had been completely singed off, and what was left of his hair was a smoking mess.
But his eyes—his eyes—
Pure rage.
Spittle flew from Pierre's mouth as he roared, his wand snapping forward in an instant.
The counterattack came fast.
Fifteen spells erupted from his wand in mere seconds, launched with impossible speed and precision. His arm moved in a complex series of motions, each flick and jab of his wand weaving an intricate net of destruction.
Harry's shield barely lasted three seconds before it shattered under the sheer force of the barrage. He hit the ground, rolling instinctively to avoid a jet of blue fire that scorched the floor where he had just been standing.
But Pierre wasn't done.
Even as he cast, his free hand flicked toward a small pebble on the floor. With a subtle Engorgio, the tiny rock expanded into a boulder, solid and heavy. And then—
Transfiguration.
The stone twisted, warped, taking on shape and form until—
THUD.
A massive stone golem stood in the center of the battlefield.
Towering at twice the size of the one Harry had once crafted in the Room of Requirement, its body looked impossibly dense, its limbs brutal. Its fists clenched, stone grinding against stone as it moved, each step shaking the floor beneath them.
Harry's stomach twisted.
And Pierre wasn't done.
"Piertotum Locomotor!"
A pulse of magic surged through the room.
Along the walls, the statues—ornate, centuries old—suddenly shuddered to life.
With mechanical, jerky movements, a towering statue of a French military general stepped forward, his long stone sword gleaming as if freshly sharpened.
Beside him, a Veela statue—sculpted to perfection, her stone figure naked and unafraid—shifted, her expression unreadable as she began to move.
Harry swore under his breath.
"Fuck."
Pierre smirked, his lips curled in satisfaction.
Harry flicked his wand forward, hurling a Reducto straight at the golem—only for it to be deflected by a swift shield from Pierre.
Pierre wasn't just attacking. He was playing defense, too.
Harry's mind raced.
A golem.
Two animated statues.
And Pierre himself.
He couldn't match that. Not with brute force, and certainly not with sheer magical power. Pierre was a force of nature, and Harry felt the weight of his disadvantage. No, if he wanted to win, he had to change the environment. He had to make the arena work for him, not against him.
"Deprimo!" Harry growled, thrusting his wand forward with all the force he could muster. The floor beneath Pierre cracked open with a deafening roar, a jagged gouge splitting the stone as a massive fissure appeared. Dust and debris filled the air, the force of the spell reverberating throughout the room. For a moment, Harry felt a flicker of hope—he could make this work.
Quickly, he followed up with "Obscuro!" The spell flew toward the golem, which had been attacking from behind, its lumbering form crashing forward into the darkening veil of blindness. The golem, momentarily incapacitated, stumbled forward, its massive limbs flailing about as it tried to regain its bearings. Harry shot a quick glance at the hole, realizing with a sharp pang of guilt that his spell had caused it. Sorry, Jean, he thought bitterly.
The golem, now blind, was too slow to react as it tripped over the jagged edges of the hole. Its legs became trapped in the deep fissure, and despite its best efforts to push itself up, it was too heavy. The golem's arms flailed, but the weight of its massive form kept it grounded. Harry couldn't afford to waste time, though. He turned his attention back to the statues, which were leaping over the hole with unnerving ease.
Pierre kept up a constant barrage of spells, each one more deadly than the last. Harry gritted his teeth and dodged, his heart hammering in his chest.
I need more time, he thought urgently.
With a sharp wave of his hand, the red velvet curtains hanging from the walls began to twitch and stir. Now, let's see how you handle this.
"Duro!" he muttered. The curtains responded instantly, the once-soft fabric hardening into cold stone. With a snap of his wrist, he sent the stone slabs hurtling toward Pierre, each one growing larger and more jagged as they tore through the air. The impact was immense, and for a moment, Harry allowed himself a breath of relief. That should slow him down.
But he hadn't bought as much time as he'd hoped. Through the smoldering debris of the shattered stone curtains, Harry saw a flash of fire. The ground beneath him trembled, and before he could react, a fiery spear shot through the smoke, its edge glowing white-hot.
"Argh!" Harry's scream echoed through the room as the spear buried itself deep into his left shoulder, the heat and pain searing through him like nothing he'd ever felt before. His body jerked involuntarily, and his left arm went completely limp, the muscles turning to dead weight. His breath caught in his throat as the two-foot spear held him in place, the shaft impaling his shoulder completely.
Dammit, Harry thought through the pain. Enough of this. I'm done running.
He was struggling, too worn and too outclassed by Pierre's speed and power. He had a vast knowledge of spells—thousands of incantations, the movements, the theory. But none of it mattered here. Pierre was faster, more powerful, and Harry knew that no amount of textbook magic would be enough. He couldn't summon the sheer raw power that Pierre wielded. He couldn't transfigure matter on the scale needed to combat him, nor could he call on conjurations strong enough to hold him back.
He was outmatched.
No, Harry thought. I'm not done yet.
There was one spell. One that didn't rely on power, but on something far more dangerous: willpower. He'd seen it before. He'd witnessed it firsthand. A spell that required focus, control, and most importantly, an utter lack of fear.
It was a spell Tom had mastered. A spell Harry had learned to embrace.
Through gritted teeth, Harry raised his wand despite the overwhelming pain and focused, gathering every ounce of his remaining strength.
Wandless, he gestured toward Pierre, his mind racing. The fancy rug, once carefully draped over a chair behind Pierre, sprang to life, curling off the floor and folding toward him. Pierre, too preoccupied with maintaining his defense, didn't see the rug move.
It wasn't much. But it was enough to entrap him for just a moment. The rug wrapped around him, suffocating him in its folds, leaving him momentarily disoriented. Harry's pulse pounded in his ears, but he ignored it. This was his chance.
Time. He needed time.
He muttered the incantation, his voice low but steady, the words reverberating in his mind like an ancient summons. He could feel the weight of the magic, the power, the history embedded within the spell.
"Morsmordre."
The air around him seemed to hum with anticipation. A pulse of green light erupted from his wand, soaring upward into the air. The Dark Mark materialized above him, a sickeningly familiar symbol of terror. Its green glow flooded the room, casting long, twisted shadows across the walls. The eerie silence that followed felt unnatural, as though even time itself had paused to acknowledge the ominous presence above.
Pierre wasn't prepared. The atmosphere trembled as the Dark Mark lingered, a silent harbinger of death. It hung in the air, its sinister shape reflecting in Harry's focused eyes.
This is it.
"Fiendfyre."
The room seemed to choke, the very air drawn out as if something vast and hungry were emerging from the depths of the earth. People screamed in terror, their voices piercing the tension. Then, with a roaring crack, the inferno erupted—an enormous serpent of flame coiling through the air, its heat suffocating. The snake, made of living fire, arced toward Harry with deadly intent.
"No." Harry's voice was sharp, his jaw clenched as he steeled himself against the unbearable heat. The inferno shifted direction, its fiery maw turning toward Pierre, who stood frozen in fear. The flames licked the air, threatening to consume everything in their path—audience, walls, the very space around them. Harry fought to keep it contained, beads of sweat pouring down his forehead, his entire body drenched in the intense, suffocating heat. The flames howled like creatures starving for blood.
Let me kill them all, the fire seemed to whisper in Harry's mind, a seductive voice that promised victory.
"No." Harry growled, pushing the thought away. He could feel the flames' feral hunger, feeding on his emotions—his anger, his hatred, his desperation to win. But this—this was not the way.
Tom had controlled Fiendfyre. Tom had made it bend to his will, had tamed the flames as though they were nothing more than a tool to be wielded. And if Tom could do it, so could Harry.
He pushed harder, trying to corral the flames around Pierre, but the fire was growing more erratic, more desperate. It wanted to kill. It wanted destruction.
"No!" Harry shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. He yanked his wand downward, forcibly canceling the spell. The flames vanished in an instant, leaving only a trail of scorched air behind them. The room seemed to exhale, the heat dissipating, though the lingering sense of danger remained thick in the air.
Pierre stood there, pale and trembling, his eyes wide with shock. He was alive—barely—but he knew how close he had come to losing everything.
Harry's eyes burned with the need to end it, and without hesitation, he whispered the next spell.
"Oppugno."
For a brief moment, nothing happened. The tension in the room stretched on, everyone holding their breath, waiting for the next move. The audience was still in stunned silence, the air thick with disbelief.
Then, Pierre's voice rang out in fury. He charged forward, his wand raised high, ready to strike. His expression was wild with rage as he propelled himself into the air, jumping over the hole in the ground that Harry had created. But he never landed.
Pierre's eyes widened in confusion as his ankle was caught in a vice-like grip. He looked down, only to see the golem's massive hand wrapped tightly around his leg. The golem, the very creature he had thought out of the fight, had returned, and it was holding him in place.
Oppugno. It had been a simple spell, but effective. Harry had used it to send his golem, the one Pierre had cast aside, to attack its master.
Pierre's face twisted with disbelief, his hand still clutching his wand, but it was useless now. He couldn't break free. He had lost control—his own creation had turned against him.
The realization hit him with crushing force. He had let his concentration slip, assuming that the golem was no longer a threat. But Harry, always calculating, had seized the opportunity.
Pierre roared in frustration, struggling against the golem's grip, but it was no use. The golem, under Harry's influence, held him firmly, preventing him from escaping.
Harry stood tall, his heart racing but his mind steady. He had taken the advantage, and now there was no turning back. Pierre was at his mercy, and Harry knew it. The fight was over.
The room fell silent once again, the audience waiting to see what Harry would do next, knowing that the battle had just tipped in his favor.
The room was still ablaze with the aftermath of the fight, and the walls seemed to tremble from the intensity of what had just transpired. Harry's mind felt foggy, his body drained. Every muscle screamed in protest, the adrenaline still rushing through him, but now his victory felt hollow, not entirely satisfying. He had survived, yes, but at what cost? The fight, the spell choices, everything felt like a blur, a frantic dance of power and desperation.
Pierre Du Pont lay sprawled on the floor, his blood staining the once-pristine marble tiles, a sickening contrast to the grandiosity of the room. The death had been swift, his arrogance having sealed his fate, but Harry couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease. He hadn't won that duel through sheer skill—he had taken risks, pushed boundaries, and, if he was honest, cheated. Fiendfyre had been a reckless gamble, and the Unforgivable he'd used on his bird had been desperate.
Harry blinked as the chaotic rush of the crowd surged toward him. Fleur's excited shout broke through his thoughts, her voice cutting through the haze. The pain in his shoulder shot through him, and he winced involuntarily.
But Fleur... Fleur was there. She had witnessed it all, her eyes wide with awe. She looked radiant, almost ethereal in her excitement. Her scent of vanilla and oak filled his senses, grounding him for a moment as she rushed to him, practically throwing herself into his arms. Despite the battle raging within him—the exhaustion, the aches, the adrenaline that was fading too quickly—he couldn't help but feel a surge of attraction. There was something raw, something primal in this moment. She was there, and he had just conquered the impossible.
Fleur's words were a blur, but her smile was unmistakable, that glint of something both playful and intrigued dancing in her eyes. Harry couldn't help but indulge himself for a moment. He allowed his hand to roam just a little too low, pulling her closer, letting her feel the evidence of the battle he had fought and won.
"How about I show you something else amazing?" he whispered, his voice husky from both exertion and desire.
Fleur's breath hitched, but she was quick to cover it with a playful smile, her lips curling sensuously. She bit her lip, clearly entertained by his audacity, but she was quickly pulled away by the overwhelming crowd. Harry barely registered the slaps on his back, the congratulatory shouts from all directions, his mind still spinning from the fight.
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