The first round progressed with the clinical, relentless efficiency of a well-oiled machine. From the high vantage point of the champions' antechamber, Harry watched the board shift, mental notes forming in his mind as each match concluded.
Lars Andersen of Norway had dismantled Mikael Johansson's runic defenses by simply denying him the ground to stand on, flash-freezing the Scandinavian's runic boots to the obsidian floor before the first array could be activated. It was a cold, pragmatic victory. Soon after, Annelise Schmidt proved exactly why Harry respected defensive specialists; her flawless, interlocking shielding arrays had slowly ground down Anastasia Petrov's multi-elemental combinations, leaving the Greek champion magically exhausted and forced to yield after ten grueling minutes.
On the other side of the bracket, the results fell into place with equal finality. Gabriella Romano's delayed-trigger spell mines had utterly overwhelmed Elena Vasquez's transfigured terrain, detonating in a synchronized chain reaction that shattered Elena's stone defenses in seconds. Dmitri Petrov had out-pointed Jacques Moreau in a surgical duel of attrition, while Ivan Volkov had spent less than two minutes utterly crushing his opponent, his heavy curses cracking through shields like dry twigs.
Now, only two matches remained in the Round of 16.
"Duel seven," the magically amplified voice of the announcer echoed through the arena. "Fleur Delacour of Beauxbâtons Academy vs. Katrina Volkov of the Durmstrang Institute!"
The crowd's reaction was immediate, a collective intake of breath. As Fleur stood, smoothing her blue tournament robes with an effortless, practiced motion, a quiet hum seemed to wash over the stadium. The silver-gold halo of her hair caught the afternoon light, and even from the high stands, her presence was mesmerizing. Her Veela allure rolled outward in a physical wave, leaving the spectators on the lower tiers visibly dazed, their cheering turning soft and reverent. The crowd viewed her as a sovereign rather than a mere competitor, and they played the part of her willing subjects.
Keeping her eyes straight ahead as she walked toward the door, she allowed her gaze to flicker to Harry's for a fraction of a second as she passed. He gave her a slight, respectful nod, his mind entirely clear of the allure that was currently paralyzing half the foyer.
Harry moved to the glass, his focus entirely on the platform as the two witches took their places.
Katrina Volkov was a sharp contrast to her brother Ivan's brute size, but she carried the same dangerous, coiled energy. She held her wand ready to cast before the duel had even begun. When the gong sounded, she didn't wait.
With a sharp, whipping motion, Katrina unleashed a jagged lance of bright blue lightning.
The spell was blindingly fast, yet Fleur stood ground. She stepped aside, her movement so fluid and precise it looked choreographed, letting the lightning arc harmlessly past her to sizzle against the ward barrier. Before the discharge had even cleared, Fleur's wand traced a delicate, perfect circle in the air.
"Avis."
A dozen silver-winged birds erupted from her wand. Katrina sneered, launching a wide-spread fork of electrical energy to incinerate them, but Fleur was already transfiguring the birds mid-flight. The silver wings hardened, transforming into conductive iron rods that rained down around Katrina, embedding themselves deep into the obsidian platform.
Katrina's next lightning spell was instantly drawn to the iron rods, the electrical current grounding harmlessly into the stone beneath her feet.
It was a beautiful, elegant piece of transfiguration, turning her opponent's elemental strength into a cage. Katrina snarled, realizing she was trapped within her own redirected current, but Fleur moved quickly to prevent her from adapting. With a single, sharp slash of her wand, Fleur sent a whip of pure, crimson flame curling around the iron rods, superheating them instantly.
The heat was immense, warping the air and forcing Katrina to yield as her own grounding cage threatened to scorch her.
"Winner: Fleur Delacour!"
The French crowd went wild, the arena bathed in a shower of blue and silver sparks. Fleur lowered her wand, her posture still perfect, her expression cool and untouched as she swept off the platform.
Harry watched her walk back into the antechamber. Her style was exactly what he had calculated: elegant, flawless, and deeply reliant on perfect execution. She had won without a single wasted gesture.
But his analysis was cut short as the announcer's voice boomed once more.
"Final Duel of the First Round. Harry Potter of Hogwarts vs. Marco Rossi of the Accademia Arcana d'Italia!"
Harry exhaled slowly, checking the weight of his wand in his sleeve. Ignoring the other champions, he strode toward the exit, feeling their eyes on his back: some curious, some dismissive, most assuming they were about to watch a famous sixteen-year-old schoolboy get thoroughly outmaneuvered by an Italian master of illusions.
He stepped onto the obsidian platform. The heat of the arena, the smell of burnt ozone, and the deafening roar of tens of thousands of voices washed over him. It was a massive, intimidating wall of sound, but Harry closed his eyes, let his Occlumency slide into place, and silenced it all.
When he opened his eyes, the world was sharp, cold, and quiet.
Marco Rossi stood thirty feet away. He was eighteen, tall, and dressed in stylish, dark green robes. He gave Harry a sweeping, theatrical bow, his wand twirling lazily between his fingers.
"The famous Harry Potter," Rossi said, his voice amplified by the arena's charms. "A pity we must play so soon. I promise to make it beautiful."
Harry remained silent, shifting his footing and holding his wand in a relaxed, low guard.
The gong sounded.
Rossi moved instantly. With a grand, sweeping gesture, the Italian vanished, replaced by five identical copies of himself that scattered across the platform. At the same time, the obsidian floor beneath Harry's feet seemed to dissolve into a dark, yawning abyss, filled with the hissing of spectral serpents.
It was a masterpiece of sensory overload. The crowd gasped as Harry was seemingly surrounded, the illusions incredibly detailed, carrying the scent of sulfur and the physical chill of the abyss.
Harry stood firm, his magical senses registering the environment. Rossi's illusions were exceptionally vivid, yet Harry understood their structural weakness. They relied on cool, still air and precise light projection to maintain their perfect clarity.
Instead of trying to bypass the phantoms mentally, Harry decided to destroy the physical medium that supported them.
Leveraging his mastery of Fire magic, Harry swept his wand low in a fluid, circular motion. He unleashed a highly controlled wave of intense thermal energy across the thirty-foot platform.
The sudden, extreme heat superheated the air, creating violent atmospheric turbulence and thermal currents. Just like a desert mirage, the dramatic temperature gradient bent and warped the light. Rossi's cool-air illusions glitched, distorted, and instantly shattered into meaningless static, exposing the real Italian standing twenty feet away.
But the illusions had been a distraction.
Before the glittering static had even faded, the stone floor beneath Harry's feet groaned. Dark, jagged obsidian chains erupted from the platform, snapping upward to anchor his legs. He managed to twist his body to avoid a complete bind, but the heavy stone links wrapped firmly around his right ankle, pinning him to the spot.
Rossi capitalized on the opening instantly. With a vicious, downward slash of his wand, he unleashed a concentrated crescent of silver light, a piercing curse aimed directly at Harry's chest.
With his mobility compromised, Harry was forced to react on pure instinct. He raised a non-verbal shield to meet the oncoming curse. The kinetic impact was immense, the concussive force rattling his bones and forcing his knees to buckle. His barrier held, but the sheer strain of holding it while anchored to the spot left him entirely on the defensive, his shoulder aching from the magical backlash.
He pointed his wand directly at the base of his stone shackles.
"Reducto!"
The obsidian links shattered into a cloud of fine, harmless gravel. He twisted his body to the side a split second later as a second cutting curse from Rossi cratered the obsidian platform exactly where he had been pinned.
Rossi was already executing his next sequence, his wand a blur as he prepared another illusion to regain control.
Harry did not give him the chance. He charged forward, using the momentum of his recovery. With a sweeping slash of his wand, he conjured a localized gust of wind to scatter the rising magical mists, exposing Rossi once more.
Before the Italian could adjust his guard, Harry unleashed his disarming charm.
The red bolt of light shattered Rossi's hasty Shield Charm and tore the wand from his grasp, the impact knocking the older boy flat on his back.
Harry caught the spinning wand in his left hand, his own wand pointed steadily at Rossi's chest.
The silence that fell over the arena was absolute.
It had taken less than thirty seconds.
The judges stared. The crowd, which had been prepared for a long, theatrical duel of illusions, was frozen in collective disbelief. The sixteen-year-old had survived a devastating surprise attack, overcome a physical trap, and ended the match with flawless, brutal reflexes.
"Winner: Harry Potter!" the announcer finally stammered.
Harry tossed Rossi's wand onto the older boy's chest, gave the judges a polite, curt nod, and walked off the platform. His expression was calm, his breathing steady, as if he had done nothing more than complete a simple practice run.
As he re-entered the antechamber, the atmosphere had completely changed. The previous indifference and condescension from the other champions were gone, replaced by a tense, wary silence. They stared at him with an entirely new expression: fear.
Harry ignored them, his eyes finding Fleur Delacour. She was standing by the glass, her arms crossed. Her silver-blue eyes were fixed on him with a sharp, burning intensity, showing the deep analytical focus of a brilliant duelist rather than simple shock.
Harry offered her a quiet, knowing smile. The real tournament had finally begun.