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Harry followed the stream of students flooding into the Great Hall, Hermione at his side as they navigated through the unusually dense crowd. He could hear everyone speculating as everyone found their places at the house tables. Harry noticed that all the professors were already seated at the High Table, their expressions varying from McGonagall's tight-lipped concern to Flitwick's obvious curiosity.
"Over there," Hermione said, pointing to an open space at the Gryffindor table far from where Ron had settled with Dean and Seamus.
Harry nodded, feeling a small tightness in his chest, despite being a prat, sometimes he still missed Ron, but he reminded himself that Ron was the one who choose to do this, he choose to side with everyone else and follow the crowd like a sheep.
The Great Hall was as crowded as it had been the night the other two schools arrived at Hogwarts.
"What do you think this is about?" Neville asked nervously from across the table, fidgeting with his fork.
Before Harry could answer, Dumbledore rose from his ornate chair at the center of the High Table. Unlike his usual welcoming demeanor, the Headmaster's face was solemn, his bright blue eyes lacking their characteristic twinkle. The Great Hall fell silent almost instantly.
"Students and staff of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang," Dumbledore began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the vast chamber. "I have called this assembly to announce an unexpected modification to the Triwizard Tournament. To explain these changes, I present to you the Minister of Magic of United Kingdoms, Cornelius Fudge."
The enormous doors of the Great Hall swung open with theatrical timing, and Minister Fudge strode in, lime-green bowler hat clutched in one hand while the other smoothed down his pinstriped robes. Behind him trailed several official-looking wizards in Ministry attire, including—Harry's eyebrows rose—Percy Weasley, who was walking with such self-importance that he might have been carrying the Crown Jewels rather than a stack of parchment.
"Is Percy actually strutting?" Harry whispered to Hermione.
"He looks like he thinks he's leading the Ministry, not following it," she replied with a disapproving shake of her head.
Percy's chest was puffed out to such an extent that his Ministry badge gleamed prominently in the candlelight. His expression was one of such profound self-satisfaction that Harry half-expected him to announce himself as the new ruler of magical Britain.
Fudge reached the High Table and turned to face the students, his smile broad and politician-perfect. "Thank you, Dumbledore, for that warm introduction!" he proclaimed, though Dumbledore's introduction had been anything but warm. "It is my great pleasure to be here today at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"
Harry noticed Dumbledore's subtle step backward, physically distancing himself from whatever was about to unfold while maintaining his diplomatic facade.
"The Triwizard Tournament," Fudge continued, gesturing grandly, "is a historic competition that celebrates the finest magical education institutions in Europe! But why should only three students have the opportunity to showcase their talents?"
A murmur spread through the Great Hall as students exchanged glances. Harry felt a knot forming in his stomach.
"That is why the Ministry of Magic is proud to announce an exciting enhancement to this year's tournament!" Fudge declared, practically bouncing on his heels with enthusiasm. "In addition to the three traditional tasks, we will be hosting a GRAND DUELLING RACE!"
The words echoed throughout the hall, followed by a moment of stunned silence before excited chatter erupted among the students. Fudge beamed at the reaction, clearly pleased with himself.
"The Duelling Race," Fudge continued once the noise had subsided, "will be open to all students in their third year or above from all three schools! This unprecedented competition will consist of multiple elimination rounds, testing your magical combat skills, strategic thinking, and ability to perform under pressure!"
Harry glanced toward the Hufflepuff table where Cedric Diggory sat looking distinctly uncomfortable with this announcement. At the Ravenclaw table, Fleur Delacour's expression was impossible to read, though she looked pleased with this announcment. And over with the Durmstrang students, Viktor Krum's face had darkened with what appeared to be anger, his thick eyebrows drawn together in a formidable scowl.
"The tournament champions," Fudge added, his voice dropping slightly as if sharing a secret, "will of course be required to participate in the Duelling Race as well, showcasing their skills alongside their fellow students!"
There it was. Harry felt Hermione's hand grip his arm in concern, but strangely, he didn't feel the usual surge of anger or frustration. Unlike the Triwizard Tournament, which had been thrust upon him without warning or choice, this actually sounded like something he might have chosen to participate in anyway.
"The Duelling Race will begin in two weeks' time," Fudge continued, "and will conclude two weeks before the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. This will provide ample opportunity for our champions to recover and prepare for their final challenge!"
Percy stepped forward at this point, handing Fudge what appeared to be an official-looking document. The Minister accepted it with a flourish that suggested they had rehearsed this moment.
"As for prizes," Fudge announced, his voice rising dramatically, "the Ministry of Magic is proud to offer a purse of five hundred Galleons to the winner, along with this magnificent Golden Duelling Cup!"
With perfect theatrical timing, another Ministry official stepped forward, unveiling a gleaming gold trophy that caught the light from the enchanted ceiling. A collective "ooh" rippled through the hall.
"The second-place finisher," Fudge continued, as another trophy was revealed, "will receive two hundred Galleons and the Silver Duelling Cup! And our third-place competitor will be awarded one hundred Galleons and the Bronze Duelling Cup!"
The Great Hall was now buzzing with excitement. Harry glanced around, taking in the various reactions. Many students were practically vibrating with enthusiasm at the prospect of participating in such a high-profile event. Others looked nervous but determined. A few—mostly younger students who couldn't participate—appeared disappointed.
At the High Table, the reactions were more controlled but equally telling. Karkaroff was whispering furiously to one of his Durmstrang colleagues, his face locked in what appeared to be a permanent grimace, though he occasionally glanced up to offer Fudge a tight, political smile. Madame Maxime's expression remained regal and composed, but Harry noticed her large hands gripping the edge of the table with enough force to whiten her knuckles.
"This is completely unprecedented," Hermione whispered, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Adding a secondary competition midway through the tournament? It must violate dozens of international magical cooperation statutes."
Harry nodded absently, his attention caught by Professor Moody, who was standing in the corner of the Great Hall rather than sitting at the High Table. The ex-Auror's magical eye was spinning wildly, pausing occasionally to fix on different students throughout the hall. Harry wondered what Moody was looking for—or who.
As Fudge continued detailing the schedule and registration process, Harry found himself considering the prospect of duelling. Unlike the vague, unknown challenges of the Triwizard Tournament, duelling was something he could at least understand. It was direct, straightforward—one wizard against another, testing skill, speed, and magical knowledge.
"Registration will begin tomorrow morning!" Fudge announced, drawing Harry back to the present. "All eligible students may submit their names to their respective heads of school. The preliminary rounds will begin in two weeks' time, with subsequent rounds occurring every two weeks thereafter!"
Percy was now distributing copies of what appeared to be rule books to the staff members at the High Table. Harry noticed that Dumbledore accepted his with a polite nod, though his blue eyes remained distinctly cool.
"I expect," Fudge concluded, "that this competition will showcase the finest young magical talent in Europe! The Ministry looks forward to witnessing extraordinary displays of magical prowess from all three schools!"
As Fudge finished his speech to scattered applause, Harry's mind was already racing ahead. If he was being forced to participate in this too, at least duelling was something he could prepare for with Tonks. The strange thing was, unlike the Triwizard Tournament, which had filled him with dread and resentment, the prospect of the Duelling Race stirred something different within him—something almost like anticipation.
The memory of that strange silver light he'd produced during practice flashed through his mind. Perhaps this was an opportunity to figure out what that had been about. When his name came out of that bloody cup, he had felt dread, but now, he felt excited.
As the Great Hall began to empty, students poured into the entrance hall and corridors, their voices echoing through the hall like horns of war. Harry, Hermione, and Neville moved with the flow of students, navigating through the crowd as they made their way toward the marble staircase.
"This is mental," Neville muttered, his round face pale with anxiety. "A whole duelling competition with three schools? I bet even the seventh years are nervous."
The entrance hall had become a hub for conversations, with distinct reactions visible among different groups. Near the entrance to the dungeons, a cluster of Slytherins had gathered, their voices carrying with typical lack of subtlety.
"Father's been teaching me advanced duelling techniques since I was nine," Malfoy was saying loudly, surrounded by his usual entourage. "Some of the spells in my arsenal aren't even taught at Hogwarts."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I wonder if Malfoy's 'advanced techniques' include running away and hiding behind his father," he whispered to Hermione, who suppressed a smile.
What caught Harry's attention, however, was that for once, Malfoy wasn't the only Slytherin boasting. Several older students Harry barely recognized were engaged in equally enthusiastic conversations, demonstrating wand movements and discussing strategy with genuine excitement.
"Look at them all," Harry observed. "You'd think Christmas came early for the Slytherins."
"They're probably thrilled to have a sanctioned opportunity to hex other students," Hermione replied dryly.
The Hufflepuffs had formed a tight cluster around Cedric Diggory, who appeared to be trying to downplay the situation despite looking concerned. Their usual good-natured camaraderie seemed amplified, with many patting Cedric on the back and offering words of encouragement.
"At least you'll have a proper chance to show what you can do," a stocky Hufflepuff boy was saying to Cedric. "Not just those weird tournament tasks."
Harry noticed another Hufflepuff was also getting encouragement from many Hufflepuffs—Susan Bones, whose thick auburn hair made her easy to spot. Unlike her housemates, she seemed to be deep in thought rather than swept up in the group excitement, twirling her wand absently between her fingers with surprising dexterity.
Harry hardly knew her, he had heard her name being brought up every once in a while, but now that he thought about it, he never remembered ever exchanging a word with her.
"Susan Bones looks like she's actually considering strategies already," Harry commented.
"Her aunt is Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Hermione explained. "I wouldn't be surprised if she's had some proper duelling instruction."
The Ravenclaw contingent, surprisingly, appeared the most confident of all the Hogwarts houses. They stood in small, analytical clusters, some already sketching diagrams in the air with their wands, others consulting pocket-sized reference books they'd apparently brought to dinner. Their self-assurance was palpable.
"The Ravenclaws seem pretty confident," Harry pointed out as they passed a group discussing shield charm variations.
"That's not surprising," Hermione replied. "Professor Flitwick is their Head of House, and he used to be a European Duelling Champion before he became a teacher."
Harry stopped in his tracks. "Flitwick? Our Charms professor who needs to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk? That Flitwick?"
"Yes, that Flitwick," Hermione confirmed with amusement. "He was quite renowned in duelling circles. They say he was particularly skilled at combining charms in creative ways during duels."
Harry tried to reconcile the image of the tiny, squeaky-voiced professor with that of a formidable duelling champion. "Well, I guess size isn't everything," he mused, making a mental note never to underestimate the Charms professor again.
The foreign students were equally animated, though in distinctly different ways. The Beauxbatons delegation had formed an elegant huddle near the grand staircase, their blue uniforms setting them apart from the crowd. Most were speaking rapidly in French, though Harry caught snippets of English phrases like "show these English dogs" and "superior magical technique."
Harry knew the only reason why some of them were using English words was because they wanted those from Hogwarts and Drumstrang to understand what they were saying, maybe they want someone to get angry and do something stupid, Harry thought but ignored the french students, except for one of them.
Fleur Delacour stood slightly apart from her schoolmates, her beautiful face unreadable as she stared into the middle distance.
"They don't look too worried, do they?" Neville observed nervously.
"French arrogance," Hermione said with a scowl on her face. "Though I suppose their magical education does emphasize formal duelling more than Hogwarts does."
The Durmstrang students, meanwhile, looked positively eager. They had gathered in a tight formation that reminded Harry of military units he'd seen on Dudley's war documentaries. Viktor Krum was at the center of one group, his heavy brows drawn together as he listened to a stocky blond boy speaking urgently in Bulgarian. Another cluster had formed around a striking black-haired girl Harry hadn't noticed before, who was demonstrating a complex wand movement.
"The Durmstrang lot look like they've been waiting for this opportunity their whole lives," Harry commented.
"Their curriculum is known for emphasizing combat magic," Hermione whispered. "I've read that they start duelling practice in their first year."
As they reached the staircase, Harry overheard a familiar voice behind them. Ron was standing with Dean and Seamus, his face flushed with excitement.
"I'm definitely entering," Ron was saying loudly. "About time we had something where everyone can show what real wizards can do, not just the fancy champions."
The words were clearly meant to carry, and Harry felt their sting even as he maintained his outward composure. Hermione grabbed his arm, trying to steer him up the stairs before he could respond, but Harry found that, strangely, he didn't feel the usual surge of anger or hurt.
"You know what?" Harry said quietly as they climbed the stairs. "I'm actually not bothered about this competition. At least duelling is straightforward—it's just you, your opponent, and what you know about magic."
Hermione studied his face with surprise. "You're taking this remarkably well. I would have expected you to be furious about having another obligation forced on you."
Harry shrugged. "Don't get me wrong—I'm still annoyed with Fudge for making this a requirement for champions. But honestly, I probably would have entered this anyway, given the chance."
"But this completely disrupts our preparation schedule!" Hermione exclaimed, her organizational instincts kicking in. "We'll need to shift focus from researching historical tournament tasks to practicing duelling spells. And we'll need to create an entirely new study plan incorporating offensive and defensive magic specifically tailored for one-on-one combat scenarios. Plus, we'll need to account for recovery time between rounds, and—"
"Hermione," Harry interrupted gently, "breathe. This might actually be helpful. At least duelling is something concrete we can prepare for. I already know what to expect, more or less."
Her anxious expression eased slightly. "I suppose that's true. And duelling skills might be useful for the tournament tasks too."
"Exactly," Harry agreed. "So, will you be entering the competition as well?"
Hermione bit her lip, hesitation clear on her face. "I'm not sure. I know the theory, of course, but practical duelling is quite different. I'd need to practice a lot before the preliminary rounds."
"What about you, Neville?" Harry asked, turning to include him in the conversation.
Neville, who had been quietly listening to their exchange, jumped slightly at being addressed directly. "M-me? I don't know. I'm rubbish at most spells, and my wand..." He trailed off, looking down at his wand with uncertainty.
"You don't have to decide right now," Harry said encouragingly. "But for what it's worth, I think you should consider it. Practical experience is the best way to improve."
"Maybe," Neville said, not sounding convinced. Then, with a determination that surprised Harry, he added, "Actually, I think I will enter. Gran's always saying I need to live up to my parents' reputation. This might be my chance to show... well, something."
The quiet courage in Neville's voice impressed Harry. For all his clumsiness and insecurity, there was a core of something solid in Neville Longbottom that many people overlooked—including, perhaps, Neville himself.
.
.
Two hours later, Harry found himself entering a familiar side chamber off the Great Hall—the same room he'd been led to after his name had emerged from the Goblet of Fire. The stone walls seemed to close in around him as he stepped through the doorway, memories of that night's shock and confusion still fresh in his mind.
Professor McGonagall had appeared in the Gryffindor common room barely twenty minutes ago, her face set in that particular expression that meant business and no arguments. "Potter, you're needed in the antechamber off the Great Hall immediately. The tournament officials wish to speak with all champions regarding this afternoon's announcement."
So here he was, the last to arrive judging by the assembled faces that turned toward him as he entered. Fleur Delacour stood near the fireplace, the dancing flames highlighting her silvery-blonde hair as she conversed quietly with Madame Maxime. Viktor Krum occupied a corner of the room, arms crossed and expression stormy, while Karkaroff hovered nearby looking even more displeased than usual—a feat Harry wouldn't have thought possible. Cedric stood with Professor Sprout, who was speaking to him in hushed, concerned tones.
Ludo Bagman, dressed in his old Wimbourne Wasps robes that strained slightly over his midsection, beamed as Harry entered. "Ah! Our fourth champion arrives! Now we can begin!"
Barty Crouch Sr. stood rigidly beside Bagman, his pencil-thin mustache and immaculate parting giving him the appearance of having been drawn with a ruler. His eyes were cold and distant as they swept over the champions without emotion. Dumbledore stood slightly apart, but he didn't seem pleased.
"Excellent, excellent," Bagman continued, clapping his hands together like an overenthusiastic game show host. "I'm sure you're all eager to learn more about the exciting new Duelling Race that Minister Fudge announced today!"
"As you've already heard, the Duelling Race will run concurrent with the traditional tournament tasks," Bagman explained, bouncing slightly on his toes. "All four champions will be required to participate alongside qualified students from each school."
"And why exactly must we participate in zis additional competition?" Fleur asked, her accent more pronounced than usual. "Ze contract with ze Goblet was for ze Triwizard Tournament, not for duelling."
Bagman stepped forward quickly, his jovial face showing a hint of discomfort. "Well, technically speaking, Miss Delacour, you champions are not magically obligated to participate in the Duelling Race." He glanced nervously at Crouch before continuing. "The Goblet's contract specifically binds you to the three traditional tasks and nothing more."
"However," Bagman continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "the Ministry feels—and I'm sure you'll all agree—that it would appear rather... unsportsmanlike if the school champions were to abstain from an inter-school competition of this magnitude. The press would certainly find it noteworthy. Questions might be raised about courage, school spirit, and so forth."
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. Not technically required, but effectively mandatory through public pressure and political maneuvering. The bureaucratic creativity employed to make their lives more difficult was almost impressive.
"The technical aspects are straightforward," Crouch continued without emotion. "Champions who choose to participate will enter the preliminary rounds like all other participants, though you will be seeded to prevent champions from facing each other until the later rounds."
"What spells are permitted?" Fleur asked, her blue eyes sharp. "Are zere restrictions?"
"All standard duelling regulations apply," Crouch replied. "Unforgivable Curses are prohibited, as are spells classified as Dark Magic under British magical law. Spells causing permanent physical damage are forbidden. A complete list of prohibited spells will be provided to all participants."
Krum, who had remained silent until now, suddenly spoke up. "What exactly is classified as Dark Magic here? In Durmstrang, our definition may be... different."
The way he said "different" made it clear to Harry what that word meant to Krum.
"For example," Krum continued, his accent thick but his English precise, "is NeckSplinter considered Dark Magic here? Or Bone Crusher? These are standard combat spells in many Eastern European duelling circuits."
Harry tried not to visibly react to spell names that sounded more like medieval torture methods than anything taught at Hogwarts. NeckSplinter? He didn't need to be a linguistic genius to figure out what that spell might do.
Crouch's expression remained unchanged. "Both spells you've mentioned are classified as Dark Magic under British magical law, Mr. Krum. As are Flesh Melter, Organ Rupture, and Blood Boiling hexes, which I anticipate may be your next questions."
Karkaroff made a dismissive noise. "Such restrictions make for weak duellists. In real combat—"
"This is not real combat," Dumbledore interrupted quietly, speaking for the first time. "It is a school competition between students, not a battle between trained warriors to death."
The tension in the room thickened. Harry noticed Cedric shift uncomfortably, clearly disturbed by the casual way Krum and Karkaroff discussed spells designed to cause horrific injuries.
"Rest assured," Bagman said cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to the dark turn the conversation had taken, "the Duelling Race will be spectacularly entertaining while remaining perfectly safe! All duels will be overseen by qualified judges who can intervene if necessary."
"What about point allocation for the Tournament?" Cedric asked, his voice steady despite his obvious concern. "Will our performance in the Duelling Race affect our overall standing in the Triwizard Tournament?"
It was a good question, and one Harry hadn't considered. Would he now need to excel in duelling just to maintain his chances in the main tournament?
"An excellent question, Mr. Diggory!" Bagman exclaimed. "Champion performance in the Duelling Race will not directly affect Triwizard Tournament standings. However, judges may take into account skills demonstrated during duelling when evaluating future tournament tasks."
In other words, Harry thought, it might not officially count, but it would definitely influence how the judges saw them. Great.
Throughout the meeting, Harry had noticed Percy Weasley hovering behind Crouch like an overeager shadow. Percy was taking copious notes on a long scroll of parchment, his quill moving so rapidly it was a wonder it didn't catch fire. Every few minutes, Percy would glance up, a slight smile of self-importance playing at his lips as though he couldn't quite believe his good fortune at being included in such an important meeting.
As the officials concluded their explanation of rules and schedule, Harry caught Percy shooting him a look that was impossible to interpret—part smugness, part something else Harry couldn't quite identify. When their eyes met, Percy quickly looked away, focusing intently on his notes.
"If there are no further questions," Crouch said, "this meeting is adjourned. You will receive detailed regulation documents tomorrow morning."
As they filed out of the chamber, Harry found himself walking beside Cedric in the narrow corridor leading back to the entrance hall. The Hufflepuff champion was quiet, his usual easygoing expression replaced by one of deep thought.
"So," Cedric said finally, breaking the silence between them. "Another competition."
"Seems to be becoming a pattern," Harry replied.
Cedric glanced at him. "At least this time we're all in the same boat." He paused, then added in a lower voice, "Those spells Krum mentioned... I've never heard anything like that at Hogwarts."
"Me neither," Harry admitted. "Makes you wonder what they're teaching at Durmstrang."
Cedric nodded grimly. "Whatever happens in this Duelling Race, Harry... watch your back. I don't think everyone's playing by the same rulebook."
With that, he gave Harry a brief nod of acknowledgment before turning toward the Hufflepuff common room, leaving Harry alone.
Three hours after leaving the champions' meeting, Harry slipped into the unused classroom on the third floor, his mind still buzzing from an intensive research session. The afternoon had dissolved into a blur of dusty tomes from the Restricted Section, practice wand movements with Hermione scrutinizing his form, and even Neville joining them to work on basic shield charms. His arm ached slightly from the repetitive casting, and he was exhausted from all the magic he had used without resting or even eating something but it was a good kind of soreness—the kind that meant progress.
The classroom door creaked shut behind him. Tonks was already waiting, perched on the edge of the teacher's desk with one leg swinging idly. Today her hair was a vibrant shade of teal that seemed to shift and shimmer in the late afternoon light filtering through the windows.
"There you are," she said, hopping down from the desk. "Heard about Fudge's latest brilliant idea, have you?"
"News travels fast," Harry replied, setting down his bag filled with the notes he'd hastily scribbled during his research session.
"Being an Auror has its perks—like knowing when the Minister is about to do something supremely stupid before it happens." Tonks rolled her eyes dramatically. "Though not early enough to actually stop it, apparently."
She began pacing, her usual clumsiness temporarily forgotten as righteous indignation took over. "It's all politics, you know. Fudge is desperate to make the tournament more exciting because the Prophet's been running articles about declining magical standards in Britain compared to the continent. This is his way of showing that British magical education is just as good as anywhere else and because of the whole Dark Mark during the Quidditch World Cup."
"By potentially getting students hexed into oblivion?" Harry asked dryly.
"By creating a spectacle," Tonks corrected, though her tone made it clear she didn't approve. "Though between you and me, I think it's a load of rubbish. Dangerous rubbish."
She stopped pacing abruptly, a grin suddenly spreading across her face. "But as your unofficial and technically unauthorized trainer, I can't deny it's a brilliant opportunity to teach you some proper duelling skills."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You're not worried about me getting hurt?"
"Terrified, actually," Tonks admitted with surprising candor. "But you're going to be facing dangerous situations regardless of what I do. My job is to make sure you come out of them in one piece or at least two pieces."
She clapped her hands together. "Right then! Let's talk duelling. Not the quick-draw, life-or-death stuff we've been practicing, but formal competitive duelling."
For the next twenty minutes, Tonks walked Harry through the complex and often archaic traditions of wizarding duels. The formal bow, the measured paces, the proper angle at which to hold one's wand before the duel commenced—all of it seemed unnecessarily elaborate to Harry, especially the bow, he remembered Lockhart telling them how a duel was done back at the second year, but Tonks insisted that he needed to hear again.
"Brilliant. I'll be sure to bow politely right before someone tries to blast me across the room, this bow is just a waste of time," he observed.
"Exactly!" Tonks looked pleased. "That's exactly what it is. And like any dance, the steps might seem pointless, but they serve a purpose. The formality keeps things controlled, predictable—reduces the chance of accidents."
She moved to the center of the room, adopting a formal duelling stance. "The psychology is just as important as the spellwork. Most duels are won before the first spell is cast."
"How do you mean?" Harry asked, curious despite his skepticism about all the ceremony.
"Body language, confidence, eye contact—these things tell your opponent what kind of duellist you are." Tonks demonstrated, her posture shifting subtly from casual to intimidating without her casting a single spell. "If you look like you know what you're doing, half your opponents will be questioning themselves before they even raise their wands."
Harry thought about Krum's stoic confidence and Fleur's regal bearing. "So what's my strategy supposed to be? I can't exactly intimidate seventh years with my vast magical knowledge."
Tonks studied him thoughtfully. "Your strengths are different. You're agile, quick on your feet both physically and mentally. You think unconventionally." A smirk played at her lips. "And you've got a particular talent for making people underestimate you."
"That's a nice way of saying I'm small and look harmless," Harry said wryly.
"It's a nice way of saying you've got a strategic advantage," Tonks corrected. "Let them think you're an easy target. Use their overconfidence against them."
She spent the next half hour demonstrating various duelling stances and movements. Classical positions, modern variations, and even some unconventional stances she'd developed herself for "when things get messy, which they always do."
"The key is mobility," she explained, showing Harry how to maintain his balance while shifting positions. "Most duellists get locked into place, focusing so hard on their spellwork that they forget they can actually move. Your Seeker training gives you an edge there."
Harry tried to mimic her movements, finding it oddly reminiscent of Quidditch drills. As he practiced a particularly complex sidestepping maneuver while maintaining his shield charm, he remembered the strange silver light he'd produced days ago. Impulsively, he tried to recreate the wandwork that had preceded it, focusing on the memory of that strange, powerful feeling.
Nothing happened. No silver light, no surge of power—just the standard translucent shield of a properly cast Protego.
He tried again, varying the movement slightly, but still nothing unusual occurred. After several more attempts, Harry couldn't hide his frustration. He let out a sigh of exasperation and lowered his wand.
"What's going on?" Tonks asked, her keen eyes missing nothing. "You keep changing the wand movement like you're looking for something specific."
Harry hesitated. He hadn't told anyone about the silver light phenomenon, not even Hermione. It had felt strangely personal, almost private—like a secret between himself and his magic.
"A few days ago," he began slowly, "something weird happened when I was practicing. I was working on the Shield Charm, and when I moved my wand, there was this... light."
Tonks tilted her head. "What kind of light? Spells produce light all the time."
"Not like this," Harry shook his head. "It was a line of silver light, about three feet long. It stayed in the air for a few seconds, pulsing like it was alive. And it felt... different. Powerful. But I haven't been able to make it happen again."
He expected Tonks to look concerned or confused, but instead, a thoughtful expression crossed her face. "Silver, you said? Not the usual blue-white of a Shield Charm?"
Harry nodded. "Pure silver, like liquid moonlight."
"Interesting," Tonks murmured. She didn't seem alarmed, which Harry found oddly reassuring. "Sometimes magic responds to our needs in unexpected ways. Especially in young wizards still growing into their power."
She tapped her wand against her palm thoughtfully. "We should explore this further, but not today. Trying too hard to force it will only make it more elusive. Magic like that often comes when you're not looking for it."
Changing tack, she pointed to Harry's notes. "What else did you dig up in your research today? Anything useful?"
Harry flipped through his hastily scrawled notes. "There was one spell that caught my attention. Percussio Denso. It's supposed to create a sonic pulse that temporarily disorients opponents without causing permanent damage."
"Good find," Tonks said approvingly. "Non-damaging but effective. Perfect for tournament conditions."
Harry raised his wand, trying to recall the correct movement. "The book described it as a sharp jab followed by a quick circular flick."
He attempted the spell, focusing on the Latin incantation. "Percussio Denso!"
Nothing happened.
Harry tried again, and again, adjusting his pronunciation and wand movement slightly each time. After the seventh failed attempt, frustration began to build.
"I don't understand what I'm doing wrong," he muttered, staring at his wand as if it had personally betrayed him.
Tonks watched him for a moment, then set her wand down on a nearby desk. "Can I tell you something about me, Harry? Something not many people know?"
Surprised by the sudden shift, Harry nodded.
"I nearly failed my practical exams during Auror training," she said, leaning against a desk. "Three times. My trainers were convinced I'd never make it because I kept tripping over my own feet or dropping my wand at critical moments."
She smiled ruefully. "Everyone thought it was a joke that someone as clumsy as me wanted to be an Auror. My own friends took bets on how long I'd last before washing out."
Harry stared at her, finding it hard to reconcile this information with the capable witch who had been training him.
"What changed?" he asked.
"I did," Tonks replied simply. "I stopped trying to be the kind of Auror everyone else was and figured out how to be the kind of Auror I could be. I worked with my clumsiness rather than against it, developed my own style that played to my strengths."
She stepped closer, her eyes meeting his directly. "If someone like me can become an Auror—passing the same training that wizards twice my age failed—then you can master this spell. Or any spell, for that matter."
Something in her words resonated with Harry. Not empty encouragement, but genuine understanding from someone who'd faced real doubt and overcome it.
He raised his wand again, focusing not on the technical details but on the intention behind the spell—a pulse of sound meant to disorient, to create a moment's advantage. "Percussio Denso!"
A visible wave of compressed air burst from his wand, accompanied by a sound like a thunderclap. The force of it rattled the windows and sent loose parchment flying from the desks.
"You did it!" Tonks exclaimed, her face lighting up with genuine delight.
Harry couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. The spell had worked perfectly—better than he'd expected, actually.
Tonks bounded over to him, grabbing his shoulders in excitement. "That was brilliant, Harry! On your first real try, too!"
As she kissed his cheek, maybe it was a reward. Harry noticed something he hadn't noticed at first.
The way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. The delicate line of her jaw. The vibrant energy that seemed to radiate from her. The way her lips moved, the way her eyes shinned like brown stars, and her pink hair that he found himself liking.
The thought came to him before he could stop it, and it made his face go all red: She is beautiful.
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