"Don't you think it's too difficult for them?" Selene asked, seated by the window of the east tower. The sun hadn't yet risen, but the sky already glowed with the first pink hints of dawn. Her white fur seemed to drink in the soft light, and her sapphire-blue eyes reflected a rare worry.
Sabine, standing by the ancestral desk, didn't look up from the scrolls before her. But her voice, when she replied, was firm.
"It's necessary," she said. "We need the best. Not the fastest. Not the strongest. The one who can remain calm in chaos. The one who, even in the middle of a battle that isn't theirs, can think as a single mind with their companion."
Selene nodded slowly. She knew Sabine was right. The Tournament wasn't a game. It was a selection. And Williams's disappearance allowed no mistakes.
"Besides," Sabine continued, "I've increased the difficulty of the second trial. It won't just be physical coordination. It will be coordination under extreme stress."
"And if someone can't exit the simulation?" Selene asked.
"The chests from the first trial have already tested them," Sabine said. "If they were chosen, they have the mental strength to endure it. And if not… the stadium will extract them before any damage becomes permanent."
Selene fell silent for a moment. Then she changed the subject.
"A barn owl was seen leaving Newt Scamander's room before dawn. It carried a letter."
Sabine wasn't surprised.
"Should we intercept it?"
"No," Sabine said, with a faint smile. "Newt is a secret guest to the public, yes. But we all know who he is. And we all know his closeness to Albus Dumbledore."
"Do you think it's for him?"
"I'm certain. And it's not bad that Dumbledore knows what's happening here. On the contrary. Let him know that the Grauheim family isn't weak. That we cannot be used, manipulated, or underestimated."
Selene purred softly.
"Then let the letter fly."
----------------------------
Hours Earlier — In Newt Scamander's Room
The room was modest—stone walls, a window overlooking the ancestral forest. On the table: a bottle of magical ink and a parchment faintly lit by a floating lamp.
Newt wrote in clear, precise script:
Dear Albus,
I arrived yesterday in the Grauheim valley, and I must confess my expectations were high… yet I was surpassed at every turn. This is not a family like those we know at the Ministry. It isn't a pureblood dynasty boasting of lineage. It is something deeper. Older.
The companions—especially the cats of the main branch—are not mere magical animals. Their bond with their humans goes beyond loyalty. It's as if they share one soul split between two bodies. I've never seen anything like it—not even in my travels to the temples of Nepal or the jungles of Brazil.
And Nathael Grauheim… I fulfilled your request. I observed him discreetly during the first trial, as you asked. He used no unnecessary magic. He sought no glory—only understanding. And when he opened his chest, it wasn't with force, but with respect. I saw no darkness in him. Quite the opposite. I saw a young man who understands that true power lies not in domination, but in protection.
The Tournament has only just begun. But if what you need is someone who can navigate the unknown without losing their way… he may be that person.
With affection and admiration,
Newt
He folded the letter carefully, sealed it with red wax, and tied it to his owl's leg.
"To Hogwarts," he whispered.
The bird lifted off silently, vanishing into the night.
--------------------------------
At Dawn
The sun began to peek over the mountains, bathing the valley in soft gold. The fresh air carried the scent of wet grass, cold ash, and something slightly burnt.
The previous night's celebration had left its mark.
By the extinguished bonfires, an uncle from the secondary branch slept with half a meat pie still in his mouth. Two younger cousins snored, curled up under a shared cloak. A house-elf, looking resigned, gathered empty mugs and food scraps.
Then… the drum sounded.
It wasn't an ordinary drum. It was an ancestral tam-tam, forged from dragonhide and wood of the sacred oak. Its deep, steady beat echoed through the entire valley.
One by one, the sleepers awoke.
Near a nearby fire, Mira and Tobias sat up abruptly.
"The drum!" Mira said, rubbing her eyes. "It's the second trial!"
"And we're a mess!" Tobias cried, seeing his griffin-sauce-stained robe. "We shouldn't have stayed up so late listening to Uncle Albert's story about battling Mayan spirits in Mexico."
"But it was very entertaining," Mira admitted, already tugging Tobias toward the nearest stream, where several cousins were splashing water on their faces and combing their hair with emergency grooming charms.
"We have to look presentable!" Mira said, conjuring a magical brush. "We're the commentators!"
----------------------------------
In the Competitors' Quarters
Karl was already standing, Orin beside him—both silent, as if they'd never slept.
Ingrid reviewed her protective runes while her cat licked her paws with surgical precision.
Elias watched the sky, as if reading omens in the clouds.
Lukas stretched his muscles, ready to run.
Clara brushed her hair, murmuring focus charms under her breath.
Anneliese meditated, Lysander curled at her feet, breathing in perfect rhythm with her.
And in Nathael's room…
"Wear light clothing," Celestia said from the windowsill. "The bond trial will be exhausting. You'll need to move without restriction."
Nathael nodded. He removed his linen shirt and pulled on a sleeveless magical cotton tunic—plain, unadorned. Light boots. Fingerless gloves.
"Nervous?" he asked, adjusting his belt.
"Never," Celestia said. "But alert. Always."
8:00 a.m.
The eight competitors entered the stadium in formation. The crowd was already seated, the magical mirrors floated in place, and house-elves prepared to broadcast every second.
Sabine and Selene stepped into the center of the field.
"Welcome to the second trial of the Tournament of Ancient Blood!" Sabine announced, her voice magnified by magic.
Silence fell instantly.
"This trial is called Bond with the Companion."
She paused.
"Before you stand eight doors—one for each competitor and their companion."
Behind her, eight black stone arches rose from the ground, each inscribed with glowing runes that shifted constantly.
"Upon crossing your door, you will be transported into a magical simulation. Each of you will face a different—but equally dangerous—scenario. These may include battles from magical history: the Goblin Wars, Giant Rebellions, the First Wizarding War, conflicts from Grindelwald's era… real events, reconstructed through ancestral magic."
"Within the simulation," Sabine continued, "you and your companion will appear in separate locations on the battlefield. Your mission is not to win the battle. Your mission is to exit the simulation."
A murmur rippled through the stands.
"How?" someone called out.
Sabine smiled.
"That you must discover yourselves. But I'll give you a hint: you may only exit if you are perfectly synchronized with your companion. Not with words. Not with commands. With unified intention."
"The simulation will last until you succeed," Selene added, stepping forward, "or until the stadium removes you due to extreme exhaustion."
"And if we can't get out?" Clara asked, her voice trembling.
"Then your bond with your companion still has a long way to go," Sabine said, unblinking.
The silence grew heavy.
"Any questions?" Sabine asked.
No one answered.
"Then… let the second trial begin."
The eight competitors approached their doors. Nathael looked at Celestia. She nodded.
"Together," she said.
"Always," he replied.