The dueling floor was cleared, as the nine erected stages receeded into the main floor leaving the space open once more.
The lights dimmed.
And for the first time since the tournament began, the atmosphere relaxed—not by much, but enough that adrenaline stopped pounding like a drum in Cassius's skull.
The announcer's voice echoed:
"Will the Top Eight Duelists please gather at the center for lot drawing!"
Sirius clapped Cassius on the back so hard he nearly stumbled.
"Top eight at age twelve. I'm buying you a cake shaped like a middle finger to the Montrose clan."
Cassius snorted. "That seems excessive."
"Exactly." Sirius winked. "Perfect."
Flitwick fussed over him, repairing his nose and muttering incantations to dull the forming bruises.
Cassius let him—mostly because if he didn't, the little old professor might actually have a heart attack.
Once healed, Cassius stepped forwards with the other seven remaining duelists.
A circular pedestal rose before them, holding eight carved wooden rods. Each was marked with a faint rune and topped with a colored jewel corresponding to a bracket slot.
A tournament official gestured.
"Draw when your name is called."
Cassius didn't care about the order, or who he might face next.
He had already made it further than any previous twelve-year-old entrant in the history of the under–sixteen competition.
The announcer began reading names.
"From Belgium—Joris Van Aelden!"
The tall Belgian boy stepped forward, drew a rod, and raised it.
Slot 2B.
Polite clapping.
"From Sweden—Elisabeth Hjalmar!"
She picked 1A, looking pleased.
One by one, duelists stepped up.
Cassius stood with hands in pockets, expression unreadable.
Fleur was near the far side of the row, hair like liquid moonlight, posture relaxed but not inattentive.
Her eyes occasionally flicked his way—not predatory nor charming, but analytic.
Finally—
"Cassius Snape of Great Britain!"
He stepped forward.
The pedestal hummed faintly.
Without ceremony, he reached out and pulled a rod.
3A.
A standard quarterfinal placement.
An open, unremarkable slot.
Cassius nodded once and stepped aside.
Fleur's turn came two duelists later.
"Fleur Delacour of France!"
Her name drew cheers that bordered on worshipful.
She glided forward and selected a rod with barely a touch—4A.
The audience murmured.
Cassius blinked.
Sirius muttered, "Well… shit."
Flitwick squeaked.
Because with 3A and 4A drawn…
Cassius and Fleur were now locked into the same half of the bracket.
They would not meet in the quarterfinals.
They would meet—
In the semifinals.
Provided they each won their next match.
Fleur's eyes met Cassius's across the platform.
And when she inclined her head a single fraction of an inch, Cassius did the same.
A quiet acknowledgment:
We will meet soon.
~
SIGHTSEEING IN PARIS — OR: SIRIUS'S INEVITABLE FAILURE
With the ceremony concluded and the quarterfinals scheduled for tomorrow morning, the competitors were released for the day.
Cassius didn't bother returning to the hotel.
Not when Sirius was already tugging him toward the exit, crowing:
"C'mon, pup! Paris awaits! And I've been preparing my revenge."
Cassius blinked slowly.
"I assumed that was the deranged look you've had all morning."
"Oh, it's more than a look. It's a masterpiece."
Cassius sighed. "I will dismantle it."
"You won't even see it coming."
"I always do."
"Not this ti— WAIT WHERE DID YOU GET THAT CAMCORDER?!"
Cassius held up the same device he'd used to immortalize yesterday's debacle.
Sirius's eye twitched.
"Put that away."
"No."
"Cassius."
"Sirius."
"This is intimidation."
"Correct."
They stepped onto a busy Parisian street.
A soft breeze carried the smell of baked bread and something far too sugary for Cassius's taste.
Muggles bustled around them, unaware of the impending chaos.
Sirius led him to a plaza with a fountain.
Cassius narrowed his eyes.
"What is the nature of your attempt?"
"Attempt?" Sirius scoffed. "This is a guaranteed triumph of pranking genius. Observe."
He snapped his fingers dramatically.
Nothing happened.
Sirius waited.
Still nothing.
Cassius raised a brow. "Should something—"
"Shh. Any second no—"
A loud mechanical clatter erupted behind them.
Cassius turned.
A dozen French street performers in gaudy costumes marched into the plaza, apparently mid-show.
Musicians.
Jugglers.
Acrobats.
Several with oversized marionettes.
Sirius whispered proudly, "I paid them to perform a special 'surprise routine' as soon as we arrived. You'll see."
Cassius took one look.
His lips thinned.
The marionettes were shaped like…wolves.
All wolves.
Wolves with exaggerated tails.
Wolves with wide, dopey grins.
Wolves that began dancing in a circle.
Around Sirius.
Cassius murmured, "Your revenge prank… is interpretive lupine ballet."
"It gets better!" Sirius hissed.
The lead performer shouted something in French.
The puppet wolves abruptly formed a heart shape around Sirius.
The musicians began playing something suspiciously romantic.
The crowd turned toward Sirius.
Cassius pressed his lips together to avoid laughing.
Sirius realized—far too late—that he had paid them to perform a surprise routine on the person nearest the fountain.
Not Cassius.
He was standing closest.
And now dozens of Muggles were recording him with their camera's.
Cassius lifted the camcorder.
Sirius's soul left his body.
"No."
Click.
"CASSSIUS!"
The puppet wolves spun.
Confetti rained.
A soprano singer belted a note so dramatic a toddler started crying.
Sirius chased Cassius half a block before giving up and collapsing onto a bench, face in hands.
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"I… might, a little."
"You paid a troupe to humiliate yourself."
"I PAID THEM TO HUMILIATE YOU!"
Cassius patted him on the shoulder.
Dry.
Calm.
Merciless.
"And yet. Here we are."
Sirius groaned into his palms.
Cassius sat beside him, arms folded, watching Paris go by.
"Perhaps your just greiving."
"Greiving? What for pup?"
"You know cause you lost all your Phallic collec-"
"NOT ANOTHER WORD CASSIUS!"
Cassius just burst into cackles once more running for his life from the silver fox trailing behind him.
Sirius even attempted cheating by transforming into his faster dog form, but Cassius simply cast transfiguration upon himself and equally sped up keeping distance from Sirius as the two raced the street of paris.
Tomorrow the quarterfinals would begin.
Victory there meant meeting Fleur—and perhaps the hardest duel of his life.
But for now?
Cassius simply enjoyed the late afternoon sunlight, Sirius's continuing misery, and the knowledge that his camcorder now held yet another priceless video.
All while he thought about what he'd do next to add to his growing collection.