Harry Potter
Fleur Delacour climbed the enchanted stairs on the eastern side of the platform. Not a single strand of her silver-blonde hair had escaped its arrangement. Her wand rested loosely in her right hand.
On the western stairs, Angelina Johnson ascended. She was taller than Fleur by several inches, her shoulders broader, her build that of someone who spent hours every week throwing Quaffles and dodging Bludgers. Her Gryffindor robes rippled in the wind. She rolled her neck once, twice, loosening the muscles there.
"Angelina's one of Gryffindor's best," Cedric said from Harry's left. "She's been playing Quidditch since her second year. She has very good reflexes."
Harry said nothing. His eyes tracked Fleur as she reached the platform's surface and walked to her mark.
"Fleur has been established as Beauxbatons' finest," Luna observed, unwrapping another piece of chocolate. "This should be illuminating."
The two competitors reached their starting positions. Twenty-five feet of empty stone separated them. For a moment, neither moved. Then Angelina inclined her head, a respectful nod, competitor to competitor.
Fleur returned the gesture. Her chin dipped exactly once.
Professional, Harry thought. Both of them.
The crowd noise had dimmed to a low murmur. Even the Slytherin section had stopped its usual jeering.
Ludo Bagman's amplified voice shattered the quiet.
"COMPETITORS READY! WANDS AT THE READY!"
Angelina's wand came up in a textbook duelling stance, arm extended, elbow slightly bent, body angled to present a smaller target. Her feet shifted into a Quidditch player's crouch, weight balanced on the balls of her feet.
Fleur's stance was different. Her wand arm hung at a deceptively relaxed angle, her body turned only slightly. To an untrained eye, she might have appeared unprepared. Harry knew better. He'd seen similar stances in the Black Combat Grimoire, positions that sacrificed initial speed for maximum flexibility.
"BEGIN!"
Angelina moved first.
"Stupefy!"
The red bolt screamed across the platform.
Fleur's wand twitched. A shimmer of air. The Stunner deflected into the containment barrier with a sharp crack.
"Impedimenta!"
Another twitch. Another deflection.
Harry's eyes narrowed. Fleur hadn't moved her feet. Hadn't shifted her weight. Her shields were so efficient that she could maintain them with minimal effort, conserving magical energy while Angelina expended hers.
But more than that, Fleur wasn't attacking. She was watching.
Angelina pressed harder. Her wand carved through the air rapidly.
"Flipendo!"
Fleur sidestepped. The Knockback Jinx passed through empty space.
"Expelliarmus!"
A casual shield. The Disarming Charm fizzled against it.
"Incarcerous!"
Ropes erupted from Angelina's wand, thick and fast. Fleur pivoted on her heel, and the bindings sailed past her shoulder close enough to rustle the fabric of her sleeve.
Luna leaned toward Harry. "She's measuring her."
"I know."
Thirty seconds. Angelina had thrown nine spells. Fleur had thrown zero.
Forty-five seconds. Twelve spells. Still zero.
The crowd was beginning to murmur. From the Gryffindor section, voices called out encouragement. "Come on, Angelina!" "You've got her on the run!" "Show her what you made off."
Harry almost laughed. Fleur wasn't on the run.
Sixty seconds. Angelina's breathing had become audible, her chest rising and falling with exertion. Sweat beaded at her hairline despite the cold air.
Fleur looked exactly as she had when the duel began.
"Confringo!"
The Blasting Curse was Angelina's most powerful spell yet, a bolt of concentrated orange light that screamed across the platform with enough force to crack stone. Fleur dropped into a crouch, the curse passing over her head close enough to disturb her hair, and rose again in one continuous motion.
Seventy-five seconds.
Angelina was getting frustrated. Harry could see it in the tension of her jaw, in the way her spells were coming faster but with less precision. She knew she wasn't landing hits. Knew that something was wrong. But she couldn't stop, couldn't disengage, couldn't do anything except keep attacking and hope that eventually something would get through.
Eighty seconds.
Ninety.
Then Fleur's posture changed.
Fleur attacked.
Her wand carved through the air. "Aqua Serpens!"
Water materialized from the ambient moisture, the same spell Harry had seen Susan use, but faster, more controlled. The serpent that formed was slender, its body coiling through the air toward Angelina.
Angelina dodged left. The reflexes of a Quidditch player.
But Fleur was already casting again.
"Ventus Acutus!"
A blade of compressed air sliced through the space Angelina had just vacated. If she'd been a half-second slower, it would have opened her robes from shoulder to hip.
The crowd gasped. The spell was aggressive.
Angelina tried to counter. "Stupefy!"
The red bolt flew toward where Fleur had been standing. Fleur was no longer there. She'd moved, her feet gliding across the stone as if the surface were ice.
Ballet, Harry remembered. Seven years of lessons.
"Glacius!"
Ice erupted from Fleur's wand, not aimed at Angelina directly but at the platform surface between them. The stone frosted over in a spreading crystalline sheet. Angelina's next step faltered as her boot slipped on the slick surface.
"Incendio!"
Fire. A controlled burst that forced Angelina to shield rather than attack.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The Body-Bind Curse came from an unexpected angle. Fleur had circled during the fire, repositioning while Angelina's vision was obscured by flame. Angelina twisted away at the last moment, the spell grazing her left arm and leaving it momentarily numb.
"She's not even breathing hard," Cedric said, sounding in awe.
He was right. Fleur's face showed no strain, no effort. She could have been taking a morning stroll through the castle grounds.
Angelina was being dismantled.
Fleur's spells came faster now, each one forcing a reaction, each reaction creating an opening for the next attack. Ice, fire, wind, water, elemental magic woven together in combinations that left no room for counterattack. Angelina blocked, dodged, dodged some more, using her Quidditch reflexes to move fast, but she was always responding, never initiating. Each movement pushed her closer to the platform's edge.
Five feet from the boundary.
Four.
Three.
Then Fleur stopped.
The sudden cessation of attacks was almost more startling than the assault itself. Fleur stood in the center of the platform, her wand raised, her blue eyes fixed on Angelina with an expression Harry couldn't quite read.
Fleur's wand began to move. Not the quick, efficient gestures she'd been using. Something slower. An intricate pattern that traced shapes in the air, loops and spirals that seemed to leave faint golden afterimages in their wake.
Harry had never seen this wand movement in any textbook. Had never encountered it in the Grimoire. Had never heard it mentioned in any class.
This was original magic.
Fleur's voice rang out across the silent arena.
"Flamme Blanche!"
White fire erupted from her wand tip. The fire didn't behave like normal flame. It moved like a living thing, coiling through the air like a living serpent made of light.
Angelina's wand snapped up. "Protego!"
Her shield was solid. Strong.
The white flame didn't try to break through.
It spread.
Harry watched in fascination as the fire flattened against Angelina's shield like water meeting glass, then began flowing around the edges, seeking the gaps, the spaces where the magical barrier wasn't as strong. The shield protected directly in front; the flame came from the sides, from below, from angles that no directional barrier could cover.
The white fire encircled Angelina completely, forming a perfect ring around her feet. Then it began to rise.
Angelina tried to move, tried to step out of the circle, but the flames rose faster, forming walls of brilliant white light that climbed toward the sky. Within seconds, she stood inside a cylinder of fire, trapped.
"It doesn't burn," Cedric breathed beside Harry, leaning forward. "Look at her robes. No scorch marks."
He was right. The white flames licked at Angelina's uniform, curled around her arms as she raised them defensively, but left no damage. No burns. No smoke.
But Angelina's movements were slowing.
Her wand arm dropped slightly. Her defensive stance weakened. Her eyes, visible through the curtain of white fire, grew heavy-lidded, unfocused.
"It's draining her," Harry realized aloud.
The white flame wasn't a weapon of destruction. It was a weapon of exhaustion. Every second Angelina spent inside the cylinder, her magical energy was being siphoned away, consumed by the fire that surrounded her.
Angelina struggled to raise her wand. "Finite... Finite Incanta..."
The incantation died on her lips. Her knees buckled. She caught herself at the last moment, one hand bracing against the stone floor, but her wand slipped from weakened fingers.
It clattered against the stone surface and rolled several inches before coming to rest.
Harry's mind raced even as his eyes remained fixed on the platform.
The spell created an inescapable prison that drained magical reserves without causing physical harm. Standard shields were useless because they only blocked direct attacks, not surrounding containment. To counter something like this, you'd need to extinguish the flames before they could fully form, hit Fleur with enough force to break her concentration, or somehow absorb or redirect the draining effect back toward the caster.
If he faced Fleur in a later round, he would need to remember this.
Fleur lowered her wand. The white flames died instantly, collapsing inward and vanishing as if they had never existed. Angelina remained on one knee, breathing hard, her magical reserves depleted but her body unharmed.
Fleur walked forward, bent down, and simply picked up the wand from the floor.
"FLEUR DELACOUR WINS!"
The Beauxbatons section erupted. Blue silk banners waved. French voices rose in a unified cheer that drowned out the wind. Sophie was on her feet, clapping frantically. Margaret was shouting something French.
On the platform, Fleur lowered her wand. The golden chains dissolved, fading like morning mist, releasing their hold on Angelina's limbs. The Gryffindor staggered slightly as her balance returned, her arms coming down to her sides.
Fleur walked toward her.
She extended her hand.
Angelina looked at it for a moment. Then she reached out and took it, allowing Fleur to help steady her, and accept the wand back from Fleur.
"You're incredible," Angelina said. Her voice was loud enough to carry to the nearby stands. Genuine respect.
Fleur's response was quieter, meant only for Angelina. Harry read her lips more than heard her words.
"You have good reflexes. Work on your spell variety."
Angelina nodded once and made her way toward the stairs. The Gryffindor section greeted her with supportive cheers, no shame in losing to someone that good.
Fleur remained on the platform for a moment longer. Her eyes swept the arena, passing over the cheering Beauxbatons section, the respectfully applauding Hogwarts students, the stoic Durmstrang contingent.
Then her gaze found Harry.
Their eyes met across the arena. Blue and green. Veela champion and fourth-year Ravenclaw.
Harry didn't look away. Neither did Fleur.
The moment stretched. Two seconds. Three. The crowd noise faded into background static. There was only this...this silent acknowledgment between two people who had been avoiding each other for weeks.
She didn't humiliate, Harry thought. Didn't gloat. Just won cleanly and walked away.
Then they both broke the gaze at the same moment, turning away.
Fleur descended the stairs on her side of the platform. Harry settled back in his seat.
"That was interesting," Luna observed, her tone suggesting she wasn't talking about the duel at all.
Harry didn't respond. He reached for the chocolate Luna was offering and bit into it, letting the sweetness distract him from the uncomfortable awareness that his heart was beating faster than it had any right to.
On the pitch below, Bagman was already calling for the next competitors. The Sorting Hat's brim opened wide.
But Harry's mind lingered on golden chains and blue eyes and the strange, electric feeling of Fleur's beautiful blue eyes.
The afternoon stretched on, duel after duel filling the arena with flashes of light and the sharp cracks of colliding magic. Harry watched from the Ravenclaw section, Luna on one side and Cedric on the other, chocolate passing between them as competitors rose and fell.
The Weasley twins fought within an hour of each other, and their matches became instant talking points.
Fred faced a fifth-year Ravenclaw named Duncan Inglebee, a competent duelist with solid fundamentals. It should have been a difficult fight. Instead, it became a masterclass in creative chaos.
Fred opened with what appeared to be a standard Stunning Spell. The red bolt left his wand, crossed half the platform, and then split into six separate projectiles that scattered in different directions before curving back toward Duncan from multiple angles. Duncan's shield caught three of them. The other three caught Duncan.
"What was that?" Cedric demanded, leaning forward. "Stunners don't do that."
"Modified spell," Harry said, unable to keep the appreciation from his voice. "He must have layered a splitting charm into the incantation. That's... actually brilliant."
The rest of Fred's duel continued in similar fashion. Spells that behaved incorrectly. Hexes that changed color mid-flight. A Tickling Charm that somehow produced the sound of a thousand screaming mandrakes. Duncan spent more time confused than fighting, and Fred disarmed him with a cheerful "Expelliarmus" while the Ravenclaw was still trying to figure out why his shoes had started tap-dancing.
George's match came forty minutes later against a Durmstrang fourth-year named Mikhail. Mikhail fought like almost all the other Drumstrangs, all power and aggression, but George met force with misdirection. Where Fred had modified spells themselves, George modified the battlefield. The platform's surface turned to something resembling rubber at one point, bouncing Mikhail's carefully aimed curses back toward him at unexpected angles. By the time George cast his finishing Stunner, Mikhail was so disoriented that he walked directly into it.
"They're terrifying," Cedric observed. "Imagine if they actually applied themselves to academics."
"The world isn't ready," Harry agreed.
Ronald Weasley's duel was less elegant but no less memorable.
His opponent was a third-year Hufflepuff named Elliott Summers, younger, smaller, but genuinely talented. The match should have been straightforward. It wasn't.
Ron's technique was rough. His wand movements were too wide, his spell timing inconsistent, his footwork was...it was terrible. But he was stubborn. Every time Elliott knocked him down, Ron got back up. Every time a spell got through his shield, Ron fired back twice as hard. The duel lasted nearly seven minutes, an eternity by first-round standards, and ended with both competitors exhausted, sweat-soaked, and barely standing.
Ron won by virtue of his final Disarming Charm landing a fraction of a second before Elliott's Stunner reached him. The margin was so close that the detection wards took several seconds to register the result.
"Determination," Luna observed as Ron stumbled off the platform, looking more relieved than triumphant. "He doesn't know when to quit."
"That's not always a virtue," Cedric said.
"No. But sometimes it's enough."
Ginny Weasley's match became legend before it was even over.
She was a third-year facing Antoine Beaumont, a seventh-year Beauxbatons boy who had entered the arena with the confident swagger of someone who expected an easy victory against a younger opponent. His confidence lasted approximately forty-five seconds.
Ginny's Bat-Bogey Hex hit him so hard that her attacking bats multiplied. Antoine spent the remaining minute of the duel running in circles, swatting at his own face, while Ginny calmly walked over and plucked the wand from his flailing hand.
"I think I'm in love," One Beauxbatons announced from three rows down, loud enough for half the arena to hear.
"That's my sister! THAT'S MY SISTER!"
Hermione Granger's duel was the polar opposite of the Weasley chaos.
Her opponent was Graham Montague, a fifth-year Slytherin with a reputation for dirty tactics and a sneer that suggested he considered fighting a Muggle-born beneath him. The sneer lasted until Hermione's third spell.
She fought like she studied. Every spell served a purpose. Every dodge created an opportunity for her next attack. Montague threw increasingly desperate curses; Hermione deflected them with a very good shield, a bit too good.
The finishing blow was a Body-Bind Curse so perfectly timed that Montague was still mid-incantation when it hit him. He toppled like a statue, rigid and frozen, and Hermione retrieved his wand with a smile on her face.
"Textbook perfect," Cedric said.
"She's read every textbook," Harry replied. "Probably twice."
Draco Malfoy's victory was less impressive.
His opponent was a third-year Hufflepuff whose name Harry didn't catch, a small, nervous boy who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world. The duel lasted perhaps ninety seconds, ending when Draco's Disarming Charm sent the boy's wand flying into the stands.
From the way Draco strutted off the platform, chin raised, smirk firmly in place, one might have thought he'd just defeated Dumbledore himself.
"He beat a thirteen-year-old," Cedric observed flatly.
"He'll be insufferable for weeks," Harry agreed.
"He's always insufferable."
"More insufferable, then."
The afternoon wore on. More duels. More victories and defeats. Harry watched all of them, even after he saw many leaving their stands and walking back to the castle. He knew how important it was to know what everyone could do. You never know who can be very dangerous.
"The second round will be interesting," Luna said as the final duel of the day concluded. "All the easy wins are gone now."
She was right. The survivors of today's competition were the skilled ones, the determined ones, the dangerous ones.
Harry would face one of them in the next round.
He found himself looking forward to it.
The sun had begun its descent toward the Scottish hills when Albus Dumbledore rose from the judges' platform.
The arena fell silent. Students who had stuck around to watch all the duels had been gathering their things when they paused, turning toward the Headmaster.
"What a remarkable day," Dumbledore began, his voice carrying across the arena without need for amplification. "What a truly remarkable day."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Today we witnessed not merely magical skill, though there was certainly an abundance of that, but character. We saw courage in the face of overwhelming odds. We saw grace in both victory and defeat. We saw young witches and wizards push themselves beyond what they believed possible."
His blue eyes swept across the stands, seeming to meet every gaze at once.
"We also saw moments that gave us pause. Moments that reminded us that competition, while valuable, can bring forth impulses we would do well to examine." He did not name Daphne Greengrass and a couple of others. "The truest test of character is not how we behave when the world is watching, but what we choose to do when we believe no one can see. Today, everyone was watching. I hope you will carry the same standards of conduct into the moments when they are not."
The arena was still silent.
"The Duelling Race will continue," Dumbledore announced, his tone shifting to something more practical, "but not immediately. The First Task of the Triwizard Tournament approaches in two weeks, and our champions must have time to prepare. The second round of the Duelling Race will therefore take place nine days after the First Task concludes."
"Use this time wisely," Dumbledore continued. "Rest. Train. Reflect on what you learned today, not just about magic, but about yourselves. Consider who you wish to become, and whether your actions are carrying you toward that person or away from them."
He smiled.
"To those who advanced: congratulations. The road ahead will only grow more challenging. To those who did not: take heart. Defeat is not failure...it is education. The only true failure is refusing to learn from the experience."
Dumbledore raised his hands in a gesture of benediction.
"May you all carry yourselves with honor, regardless of outcome. May you find worthy opponents and worthier friends. And may the coming weeks bring you wisdom as well as skill."
He lowered his hands.
"You are dismissed. Mind the stairs on your way out, I'm told some of them have developed opinions about being stepped on."
Scattered laughter broke the solemn mood. Students began to rise, gathering cloaks and bags, filing toward the exits in streams of different house colors. The arena buzzed with conversation, analysis, excited debate about what they'd witnessed.
Harry remained seated for a moment longer, watching the emptying stands.
Two weeks until the First Task. Nine days after that, the second round.
He had work to do.
Hospital Wing
"You look terrible."
Susan Bones raised an eyebrow from her hospital bed. "Thank you, Harry. That's exactly what every girl wants to hear."
"I meant—" Harry stopped, wincing. "That came out wrong."
"It really did," Cedric agreed, settling into one of the visitor chairs Madam Pomfrey had grudgingly provided. "Smooth as sandpaper, that one."
Luna drifted past them both and perched on the edge of Susan's bed without asking permission. She produced a chocolate bar from somewhere in her robes and began breaking it into pieces. "You look exactly as someone who got reminded about such a terrible thing in front of hundreds of spectators. The Wrackspurts around you are purple. That's the color of processing."
Susan blinked. "I... thank you? I think?"
"You're welcome."
The Hospital Wing was quiet in the late afternoon, golden light slanting through the tall windows and painting long shadows across the stone floor. Most of the day's injuries had been minor, magical exhaustion, a few burns, one spectacular case of spontaneous feather-sprouting, and Madam Pomfrey had released the majority of patients before dinner. Susan was one of the few who remained, wrapped in a blanket despite the warming charms, her wand resting on the bedside table.
"Hannah was here earlier," Susan said, accepting a piece of Luna's chocolate. "She had to leave for Herbology tutoring, but she made me promise to eat something."
"Have you?" Harry asked.
"Does chocolate count?"
"Luna seems to think chocolate counts for everything."
"It does," Luna confirmed. "Chocolate is the universal constant. Even Nargles respect chocolate."
Harry pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down, studying Susan's face. She looked tired. Not just physically exhausted but emotionally wrung out.
"I'm fine," Susan said, reading his expression. "Really. Or I will be. I knew I wasn't going to win the whole thing. A fourth-year Hufflepuff against Beauxbatons' finest and Durmstrang's champions? That was never in the cards."
"Then why enter?" Cedric asked.
Susan's smile was small and fragile. "Because I wanted to show what I could do. On my own terms. With magic that was mine, not just textbook spells anyone could cast." She looked down at her hands. "Even if I lost, I wanted people to see that Susan Bones was more than just the niece of Amelia Bones. I wanted to make them proud. I know they are watching me."
"They saw," Harry said quietly. "That modified Patronus will be talked about for years."
Susan's head came up. "You think so?"
"I know so. I've cast the Patronus Charm dozens of times. I've read everything I could find about it. I've never seen anyone do what you did, transform it, weaponize the happiness itself." Harry shook his head. "Daphne won the duel. But you showed the entire arena something nobody's ever seen before. That matters."
Color returned to Susan's cheeks. "It didn't work, though. Not the way I hoped."
"It worked on almost everyone," Luna pointed out. "The ones it didn't work on... that says something about them, not about your spell. You can't give happiness to people who have none to amplify."
Harry thought about Krum's bleeding nose, same for Daphne, the way some students had looked physically ill while everyone else smiled.
What kind of life leaves you with no happiness to draw on?
He pushed the thought away. "Speaking of the competition, Susan, do you mind if we talk strategy? I know you're not advancing, but we would like to talk about your duel with Daphne."
Susan straightened slightly, some of the weariness leaving her eyes. "What do you want to know?"
"Threats," Cedric said, leaning forward. "Who should we be worried about?"
Susan considered. "Daphne is dangerous, obviously. But you both saw that." She glanced at Harry. "You probably have opinions."
"A few." Harry ran through his mental catalogue. "Fleur Delacour. Obviously. That spell at the end...Flamme Blanche...I've never seen anything like it. Original magic. And she was barely trying against Angelina. The first ninety seconds of that fight, she wasn't even attacking. Just... observing."
"Cataloguing," Luna agreed. "Predators do that. Study their prey before striking."
"Comforting image," Cedric muttered.
"The Russian girl," Harry continued. "Ekaterina Sokolova. That red rain spell...Krasnyy Dozhd...it drained Julien's magic and consciousness without any visible damage. No pain, no burns, no obvious effect until suddenly he just... collapsed. I don't even know how to counter something like that."
Susan nodded slowly. "I watched that one from here. Madam Pomfrey had the windows charmed to show the arena. It was unsettling. He didn't seem hurt. He just... stopped."
"Krum has raw power," Harry said. "Thornfield has precision. Lyra Nott is impossible to hit, she moves like she knows where spells will be before they're cast. And Alexandre Rousseau worries me. Illusion magic is tricky. You can't fight what you can't see clearly."
"That's quite a list," Cedric observed. "Anyone you're not worried about?"
"Ron Weasley," Harry said without hesitation. "But don't tell him I said that."
Cedric laughed. "Fair enough." He was quiet for a moment, then spoke again with a different tone. More Serious, which was strange to hear from Cedric. "You're right about all of them, Harry. But you're missing someone."
Harry frowned. "Who?"
"You."
"Me?"
"You." Cedric met his eyes steadily. "Out of everyone who fought today, you're the most dangerous."
Harry stared at him. "I didn't even cast an offensive spell."
"Exactly." Cedric's expression didn't waver. "You won without showing anything. Nobody knows what you can actually do. That's terrifying."
"I beat Roger Davies," Harry said. "Roger Davies, who exhausted himself throwing spells at air while I dodged."
"You beat Roger Davies without breaking a sweat, without revealing a single technique, and without anyone understanding how you appeared behind him after that fireball hit you." Cedric ticked points off on his fingers. "You're a fourteen-year-old who learned the Patronus Charm at thirteen. You've been training with an actual Auror. Sirius Black has been giving you books from the Black family library and you've been holed up in that abandoned classroom for weeks doing Merlin-knows-what."
"The Nargles are very confused about you," Luna added serenely. "They can't predict your patterns. That's unusual. Nargles are quite good at patterns."
"Everyone else showed their cards today," Cedric said. "Fleur showed her chains. Ekaterina showed her red rain. Krum showed his power. Even I showed my—"
"Actually, since we are at it, let's speak about your fight." Harry interrupted him.
Cedric's eyes narrowed slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means we need to talk about your fight." Harry held up a hand before Cedric could protest. "You won. I know. But you barely won. Against someone who made a mistake."
"I won," Cedric repeated, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. "That's what matters."
"Is it?" Harry leaned forward. "Cedric, you were predictable. Very by-the-book. Shield-dodge-counter. Shield-dodge-counter. Same rhythm every time. I could have counted the beats."
"By-the-book works. It's reliable."
"It's exploitable." Harry kept his voice even, careful to strip away any condescension. "You telegraph your combinations. A smart opponent could time their attacks to hit you mid-counter, when your shield isn't up and you're committed to an offensive spell."
"But I won."
"Against someone who made a mistake. What happens when your opponent doesn't make mistakes?"
Silence.
Cedric's jaw worked. Harry knew Cedric was getting a little annoyed that Harry was pointing out that his fighting style wasn't exactly the best.
"I'm not trying to insult you," Harry said quietly. "I'm trying to help. You're good, Cedric. Really good. Better than most seventh-years I've seen. But you could be better if you were less predictable. Mix up your rhythms. Throw in feints. Do something unexpected once in a while."
More silence. Susan and Luna watched the exchange without interrupting.
Finally, Cedric exhaled. "Fair point. I'll work on it."
"Good."
"But Harry?" Cedric's expression shifted, a familiar competitive gleam entering his eyes. "If I can choose, I want to fight you in the next round."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Really. I want to see what you're actually capable of. Not this 'win without attacking' thing you did with Roger. I want to see you try."
"Be careful what you wish for," Harry said.
Cedric grinned. "That's what makes it interesting."
Susan had been watching the exchange with amusement. "You two are ridiculous," she said, but she was smiling. "Absolutely ridiculous."
"Probably," Cedric agreed cheerfully.
"Definitely," Harry confirmed.
Luna, who had been silent for the past few minutes, suddenly produced another chocolate bar from the same mysterious pocket as the first. "I think this calls for more chocolate. Important discussions always require chocolate. It's scientifically proven."
"Is it?" Susan asked.
"No. But it should be."
She broke the bar into pieces and distributed them. Harry accepted his portion and bit into it, letting the sweetness spread across his tongue.
"To the second round," Cedric said, raising his chocolate piece in a mock toast.
"To the second round," Harry agreed.
"To Wrackspurts," Luna added. "And chocolate. And friends who visit you in hospital wings."
Susan's smile was the warmest it had been all day. "To all of that."
Fleur Delacour
The Beauxbatons carriage smelled of lavender and warm bread, a deliberate enchantment meant to remind its occupants of home. Outside, Scottish wind howled against the powder-blue walls, but inside, the temperature was like they were still in France.
Fleur sat in her usual spot near the window, a cup of tea cooling in her hands. The common area was full tonight, nearly every Beauxbatons student crammed onto the silk cushions and velvet settees, their voices overlapping in rapid French as they dissected the day's events.
"—and the way he caught her wand! One-handed! Like it was nothing!"
"Thornfield? He was impressive, but cold. Too cold. Those eyes..."
"I thought Viktor Krum would be taller."
"He's taller than you, Margaux."
"Everyone is taller than me. That's not the point."
Sophie had claimed the largest settee, her dark curls bouncing as she gestured emphatically. Margaret sat beside her, more reserved but equally engaged. Amélie had draped herself across an armchair like she was boneless, while a cluster of students occupied the floor cushions, legs tucked beneath them.
Fleur listened without contributing. She'd fought today...won decisively...and that granted her a certain immunity from the expectation of constant chatter.
"Julien was so gallant," Sophie sighed, pressing a hand to her heart. "Even in defeat. Did you hear what he said to her? 'If I am to lose, at least it will be to someone who makes defeat look like a privilege.' So romantic."
"He lost in under two minutes," Margaret pointed out.
"Romantically! He lost romantically."
"Is there a romantic way to collapse face-first into a puddle of magical blood rain?"
Sophie waved a dismissive hand. "You have no appreciation for poetry."
The conversation drifted, as it always did, toward the boys of the other schools. Fleur had witnessed this ritual dozens of times, the attractive features, the debates over who was most handsome, most mysterious, most worthy of attention.
"Cedric Diggory," Amélie announced, as if settling a long-standing debate. "The Hufflepuff champion. He's the most handsome."
"His jaw could cut glass," Sophie agreed.
"And he's polite. Have you noticed? Actually polite, not the fake English politeness where they're secretly judging everything. Even the cat here was judging me."
"He smiled at me in the corridor yesterday. I nearly died."
"You nearly die every time a boy smiles at you, Margaux."
"That's because boys have very nice smiles!"
Margaret shook her head. "Viktor Krum. That's the obvious choice. Famous, talented, those dark eyes..."
"He never smiles," Sophie objected.
"Mysterious."
"He always looks like he's thinking about something sad."
"Brooding. It's very attractive."
"It's very depressing."
Fleur sipped her tea and said nothing.
Then Sophie's voice changed, taking on a different quality.
"What about Harry Potter?"
Fleur's cup paused halfway to her lips.
"The fourth champion?" Margaux asked. "The one who—"
"Did you see his duel today?" Sophie interrupted. "He didn't even attack. Not once. Roger threw everything he had, and Harry just... stood there. Dodging. Waiting."
"That thing at the end," Margaret added, leaning forward. "With the fire. The huge fireball hit him and then suddenly he was behind Roger. How did he do that?"
"No one knows. That's what makes it interesting."
"He's quite good-looking, isn't he?" This from Amélie, who had propped herself up on her elbows. "Those green eyes. And his hair is ridiculous, but in a charming way. Like he doesn't care what anyone thinks."
"He probably doesn't," Sophie said. "He's been accused of cheating for weeks, and he just... carries on. Attends classes. Trains. Doesn't hide."
Fleur found herself listening more intently now, though she kept her expression neutral.
"I thought he was charming during the tour," Sophie continued. "Remember? The way he spoke, the jokes he made. Even when I didn't understand all of them, I could tell they were clever."
Margaret nodded slowly. "He certainly didn't need to cheat today. Whatever Roger was saying about him being a fraud—that looked like the opposite of a fraud."
"Maybe he didn't cheat at all," Amélie mused. "Maybe someone really did put his name in the Goblet without his permission. It would explain why he seemed so... resigned about it. Not excited. Not proud. Just... dealing with it."
Several girls murmured agreement. Three weeks ago, these same voices had dismissed Harry Potter as an attention-seeking cheat. Now they were reconsidering.
"Fleur."
She looked up to find Amélie watching her with sharp brown eyes.
"You fought Angelina Johnson. You've seen the most combat today." Amélie sat up properly, her earlier languor replaced by genuine curiosity. "Who should we watch out for? In the next round?"
The common area quieted. Everyone turned toward Fleur, recognizing that the champion's assessment carried weight.
Fleur considered the question carefully before answering.
"The Russian girl," she said. "Ekaterina Sokolova. That spell she used...Krasnyy Dozhd. I've never seen anything like it. No pain, no visible damage, just... collapse. Very dangerous, very difficult to counter."
Several girls nodded, remembering the crimson rain.
"Viktor Krum. Pure power. His duel lasted less than a minute because he doesn't waste energy on anything unnecessary."
"The Slytherin boy, Thornfield."
"The girl with the exceptional footwork...Lyra Nott. Almost impossible to hit."
Fleur paused. Took a slow breath.
"And Harry Potter."
Sophie's eyebrows rose. "You think he's that dangerous? He only fought Roger."
"That's exactly why he's dangerous."
Confusion rippled across several faces. Fleur set down her teacup and turned to face the room more fully.
"Think about it. When we first arrived...the welcome feast...Harry created that display with the Silver Stag and the stars. Beautiful magic. Impressive magic. He wanted us to see what he could do."
She saw understanding beginning to dawn on some faces.
"During the castle tour, he was charming. Well-spoken. Engaging. He made jokes, showed off interesting locations, demonstrated clever spells. Everything calculated to make a good impression."
"He was nice," Sophie said, sounding slightly defensive.
"He was strategic." Fleur held up a hand before Sophie could protest. "I'm not saying he wasn't genuine. I'm saying he understood that first impressions matter, and he worked to ensure his was favorable. That takes intelligence."
"But today..." Margaret prompted.
"Today, he showed nothing." Fleur didn't speak for a second. "No offensive spells. No impressive techniques. No demonstrations of power. He won his duel without revealing a single thing about what he's actually capable of."
She could see them processing this, connecting the dots she was laying out.
"Roger has been talking badly about Harry for weeks. He insulted Harry's friend, the girl with the dreamy eyes. They had personal history, personal grievances. This duel was personal."
"So?" Amélie asked.
"So a lesser wizard, knowing he was more powerful than Roger, knowing the entire school was watching, knowing this was his chance to prove everyone wrong, would have used the moment to humiliate Roger publicly. Would have unleashed his best spells. Would have shown the arena exactly how wrong Roger was about him and to also stroke his own ego a little, to show everyone that he is powerful."
Fleur shook her head slowly.
"Harry was calm the entire fight. Completely in control. He let Roger exhaust himself. And then he won without showing anything and using Roger's recklessness against him."
She met Sophie's eyes directly.
"He achieved two things today. He humiliated Roger completely, everyone saw Roger collapse from his own magical exhaustion, unable to cast even Lumos by the end. And he revealed absolutely nothing of his true abilities. We have no idea what spells he knows, what techniques he favors, what his limits are."
Silence held the room.
"So you're saying he's... strategic?" Sophie asked slowly.
"I'm saying he's very intelligent. And controlled. And that makes him unpredictable."
Margaret spoke quietly, almost to herself. "That's actually quite attractive."
Fleur didn't respond. Couldn't respond, because the same thought had crossed her own mind.
The conversation resumed around her, the other girls discussing Harry with even more interest, comparing him to Krum and Diggory and the various Hogwarts boys they'd encountered. Fleur withdrew from the discussion, turning back toward the window and the darkness beyond.
Intelligent. Controlled. Unpredictable.
She'd meant every word of her analysis. Harry Potter was dangerous, more dangerous than most of her classmates realized. He thought before he acted. He planned. He understood that victory sometimes meant hiding your strength rather than displaying it.
But there was more than just professional respect stirring in her chest, and she knew it.
She remembered the tour. The way he'd looked at her when she solved the riddle in the puzzle room, not with the dazed admiration she usually received from boys, but with surprise and intellectual appreciation. The way he'd made her laugh despite herself with his dry observations about Hogwarts' medieval plumbing. The way he'd met her eyes on the Astronomy Tower and said, "Not bad for a primitive British castle," with that slight smile that suggested he was laughing at himself as much as at her.
She remembered the moment in Hogsmeade, when she'd called Roger Davies a coward and walked away. Harry's voice behind her, asking why she'd stepped in. The brief, honest exchange that had followed.
"I do not hate you, Potter. I dislike you."
She'd meant it then. Or thought she had.
Now, watching the darkness outside the window, she wasn't sure what she felt. The certainty she'd carried for three weeks, that Harry was a cheat, an attention-seeker, someone who took shortcuts rather than earning his place, had cracked somewhere along the way. Today's duel had widened those cracks into something that looked uncomfortably like doubt.
Maybe he didn't cheat.
Maybe I was wrong about him.
Do not be foolish, Fleur. You were fooled once. Do not get fooled again.
Yet, deep inside, there was something stirring in her chest like a fire. A wish. A hope.
That the brief friendship from those first days, the conversations, the sparring, might somehow return.
Before the Goblet. Before she'd decided he was a fraud.
Fleur pushed the thoughts away. Focused on her breathing. On the competition ahead.
She was Beauxbatons' champion. She had a Tournament to win. She didn't have time for complicated feelings about green-eyed boys who made her question her own judgments.
But as the evening wore on and her classmates' voices faded into background noise, she found her thoughts drifting back to the arena. To the moment after her victory, when she'd looked across the stands and found Harry looking back.
Neither of them had looked away. Not immediately.
What did that mean?
.
.
One week later, Fleur Delacour stood before the small mirror in her private chamber, brushing her hair in long strokes.
The room was modest by Beauxbatons' standards, a narrow bed with beautiful blue sheets, a writing desk with her correspondence neatly stacked, a wardrobe containing her uniforms, and a few personal items. The walls were the same powder-blue as the carriage exterior, enchanted to glow softly in the evening hours.
She counted the strokes absently. Seventy-three. Seventy-four. The repetitive motion helped quiet her mind after long days of training.
Tomorrow would be another early morning. Another session with the practice dummies Madame Maxime had conjured in the clearing behind the carriage. Another afternoon of spell refinement, pushing her limits, preparing for whatever the First Task would throw at her.
Seven days remained. Seven days until she faced the unknown.
Eighty-one. Eighty-two.
A knock at the door.
Fleur's brush paused mid-stroke. Visitors to her private chamber were rare. Sophie sometimes came by to gossip, Margaret to discuss strategy, but both would have just walked in through the door rather than waiting for permission.
"Entrez."
The door opened, and Madam Olympe Maxime ducked, significantly, to fit through the frame.
Fleur set down her brush immediately. Maxime did not make casual visits.
"Madame." Fleur rose from her seat at the vanity. "Has something happened?"
Maxime straightened as much as the ceiling would allow, which still left her stooped at an uncomfortable angle. Her dark eyes swept the small room before settling on Fleur's face.
"Nothing urgent. I simply wished to speak with you privately."
Fleur gestured toward the room's single chair, too small for Maxime, but the offer of hospitality mattered more than its practicality.
Maxime declined with a shake of her head. "I will stand. This will not take long."
She paused, seeming to gather herself. Fleur waited. She had learned long ago that Maxime would speak in her own time, and pushing would only delay matters further.
"For the last month," Maxime began, "I have been... speaking with the keeper of keys here at Hogwarts."
Fleur blinked. The keeper of keys. She searched her memory of the castle staff, faces glimpsed during meals, figures seen at the edges of events, and found him. The enormous man who lived in the small hut near the forest. Wild black hair. Kind eyes. Hagrid, the students called him.
"The groundskeeper?" Fleur asked. "The one who lives in the—"
"Yes."
In that moment, Fleur noticed something about the way she talked about it. Her voice sounded softer.
Oh.
Oh.
A small smile tugged at Fleur's lips before she could suppress it. "Speaking with him, Madame? You seem quite... fond of this keeper of keys."
Maxime's expression hardened instantly. "This is not a joking matter, Fleur. You should take things more seriously. Just as you were taught."
The rebuke felt like a slap. Fleur felt herself straightening automatically, shoulders squaring, chin lifting. She remembered everything Madam Maxime and her mother had taught her.
But as her face turned serious, she remembered something...
Harry Potter, walking beside her on the castle tour. They had been discussing Hogwarts traditions, the moving staircases, the talking portraits, the peculiar British obsession with house competition. He'd said something about the Ravenclaw common room, about the riddles required for entry and she had asked why he didn't seem like the other Ravenclaws, more carefree.
"Some students spend their entire time here treating everything like a test," he'd observed. "Working, studying, preparing. They get all the achievements, all the titles. But they forget that school is supposed to be fun too. If one refuses that side of life, they will get all their titles, but they will be left alone."
She'd dismissed it at the time. English sentimentality. The kind of soft thinking that had no place in serious magical education.
Now, looking at Maxime's stern face, Fleur found the words rising in her throat.
It was just a bit of fun, Madame.
She swallowed them.
"You did not come here just to tell me this," she said instead.
Maxime seemed pleased. "No. I did not."
She moved closer.
"Two days from now," Maxime said, her voice dropping, "Hagrid has promised to show me the creatures they have captured for the First Task."
Fleur understood immediately.
"I thought you should know," Maxime added. "As Beauxbatons' champion."
"Non."
The words were out before she could breathe. Fleur didn't need to think about it.
Maxime's brow furrowed. "Fleur—"
"I do not need a hint. I will not cheat."
"This is not cheating. This is strategy. The other champions will most likely know by then, Karkaroff has his ways, and the Hogwarts champions have home advantage. You would simply be leveling the playing field."
"I do not care what the others do."
Fleur's voice had gone cold.
"I have been taught that one must earn their victories," she said. "Through talent. Through dedication. Through hard work. If I win because I knew what was coming while others did not, that is not victory. That is theft."
"The Tournament has never been fair," Maxime countered. "Politics, favoritism, information trading—"
"Then I will be the exception."
Silence stretched between them. Fleur did not look away. Did not soften her stance.
"I will go into this task blind," she said without a hint of doubt. "And I will win still."
Maxime studied her for a long moment. She seemed annoyed, then she shook her head like Fluer was a very naive girl.
"You are very stubborn, Fleur."
"I learned from my father, you should know that better than most, Madame."
"Very well. I will not force you. The choice is yours."
She turned toward the door, ducking again to fit through the frame. She was gone before Fleur could respond.
The door clicked shut. Fleur stood alone in her chamber, the silence pressing in around her.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The calming technique she'd practiced since childhood.
She didn't regret the decision. Couldn't regret it. Everything she was, everything she had worked to become, depended on knowing that her victories were earned. That no one could ever say Fleur Delacour had cheated her way to success.
No shortcuts. No compromise.
She thought, suddenly and without warning, of Harry Potter.
His face when he'd insisted he hadn't entered himself in the Tournament. The frustration. The resignation. The absolute certainty that no one would believe him.
"I didn't cheat, Delacour."
She'd dismissed those words. Assumed he was lying. Everyone cheated, everyone took shortcuts, everyone looked for advantages wherever they could find them.
But she hadn't taken the shortcut. She'd refused it without hesitation.
What if he had done the same?
What if he really hadn't put his name in the Goblet?
The question settled into her chest.
What if I was wrong about him?
She turned back to her mirror. Picked up the brush. Resumed counting.
Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.
Tomorrow, she would train harder. Push herself further. Prepare for whatever the First Task would bring.
One hundred.
Fleur set down the brush, extinguished the magical lights with a wave of her hand, and went to bed.
That night, she dreamed of that day again.