Harry
The corridors were alive with noise.
Harry heard it before they'd even fully closed the Room of Requirement's door behind them, a wall of sound that echoed off the stone walls, dozens of voices talking over each other, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional crack of a practice spell hitting a suit of armor.
"Sounds like ze entire school is out 'ere," Fleur observed.
She wasn't far off. The seventh-floor corridor, usually quiet on Sunday afternoons, was packed with students clustered in groups of three and four, all of them talking about the same thing. Harry caught fragments as they wove through the crowd.
"—heard Moody's going to personally train anyone who enters—"
"—hundred Galleons! Do you know how many Chocolate Frogs that is—"
"—bet Krum wins the whole thing, have you seen him fly? If he duels like he flies—"
"—Potter's entering, obviously. After the first task, who'd bet against him—"
That last comment came from a pair of sixth-year Ravenclaws who fell silent the moment they noticed Harry walking past. He ignored them.
They made their way down to the entrance hall, navigating through the chaos of students moving between common rooms and the Great Hall. The sign-up area, a long table with four parchment sheets laid out side by side, each one bearing a school crest at the top. Two for Hogwarts (the list had gotten so long they'd needed a second sheet), one for Beauxbatons, and one for Durmstrang.
A small crowd had gathered around the table, students jostling for position, craning their necks to read the names already listed. Professor Flitwick stood nearby, presumably on supervisory duty, his tiny frame perched on a stack of books so he could see over the crowd. He beamed when he spotted Harry.
"Ah, Mister Potter! Come to add your name?"
"Yes, Professor."
"Excellent, excellent! I must say, I've been looking forward to seeing what you can do in a proper dueling format. Your work in the Private sessions has been quite remarkable." Flitwick's eyes twinkled. "And Miss Delacour! Will you be signing up as well?"
"Oui, Professor," Fleur said, releasing Harry's arm and stepping forward. "I would not miss it."
The crowd parted for them. Harry noticed a few students staring openly at Fleur, and several more staring at him, but the atmosphere was different from the usual scrutiny. For once, the attention didn't feel hostile.
Harry picked up the quill attached to the Hogwarts sheet and signed his name below a long list that included Fred, George, Ron, Ginny, Dean, Seamus, Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, and at least a dozen others. He noticed Neville's name was there too, written in slightly shaky handwriting but present nonetheless. That made Harry smile.
Fleur took the quill for the Beauxbatons sheet and added her name with an elegant flourish. She was the fourth Beauxbatons student to sign up. Harry glanced at the Durmstrang list and saw five names, but Krum's wasn't among them. Not yet.
"There," Fleur said, setting down the quill. "It is done."
"Welcome to the tournament," Harry said. "Again."
"Harry!"
The voice was warm. Harry turned to see Susan Bones approaching, her auburn hair pulled back in a loose braid, her cheeks pink from what looked like a recent run. She wore casual robes over what might have been exercise clothes, and she was slightly out of breath.
"Susan," Harry greeted. "You look like you've been training already."
"Running," Susan confirmed, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Auntie Amelia always says that fitness is half the battle in a real duel. Doesn't matter how good your spellwork is if you can't dodge." She grinned. "I signed up this morning. First Hufflepuff after Cedric."
"That's brilliant," Harry said with a smile. He'd seen Susan in the Private sessions, she'd improved enormously since September. Her Shield Charm was solid, her offensive spells were precise, and she had a natural talent for reading her opponent's movements that reminded Harry of Quidditch Seekers.
Susan beamed at the praise, her cheeks darkening from pink to red. "Do you really think so? I've been practicing everything you taught us in the Private. The disarming charm, the Shield Charm, that feinting technique you showed us last week..." She stepped closer, her eyes bright. "Would you maybe want to practice together sometime? Not as teacher and student, just... as equals? I think I could give you a decent match."
Harry didn't need to look to know that Fleur was giving Susan a long piercing look, almost like a set of spears, but Harry felt bad to refuse her.
"I'd like that," Harry said. "We could set something up this week."
"Really?" Susan's smile widened until it threatened to split her face. "That's amazing. I mean, that's great. Really great. I'll be ready, I promise. You won't be disappointed."
She touched his arm briefly, and then she was gone, practically bouncing back toward the Hufflepuff table where Hannah Abbott was waiting with raised eyebrows and a knowing smirk.
Harry watched her go, slightly bemused. He turned to find Fleur watching him with an expression of pure, undisguised amusement.
"What?" Harry asked.
"Nothing," Fleur said innocently. "It is just... she is very enthusiastic, zis Susan."
"She's excited about the tournament."
"Oui," Fleur agreed, her lips twitching. "Ze tournament. Zat is definitely what she is excited about."
Hermione snorted into her hand. Harry chose to ignore both of them.
"Potter."
Harry turned at the familiar voice. Cedric Diggory was walking toward him, looking considerably better than he had in the days immediately following the First Task. The rope-burn marks around his neck had faded to faint pink lines.
"Diggory," Harry nodded.
"Got a minute?" Cedric asked, glancing at Hermione and Fleur. "I wanted to talk to you about... things."
"Of course."
They stepped a few feet away from the crowd, not far enough to look suspicious but enough for privacy. Cedric ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that looked unconscious but probably wasn't.
"First," Cedric said, "I wanted to thank you again. For the warning about the first task. The Noxlings." He paused, his jaw tightening. "I don't know if I would have been ready without it. I wasn't fully ready with it, but... it helped. Knowing what was coming."
"You survived," Harry said. "That's what matters."
"Barely," Cedric said quietly. Then he straightened, pushing past whatever memory had surfaced. "Have you viewed your memory yet? The one from the task?"
"Just now, actually."
Cedric's eyes sharpened. "And?"
Harry considered how much to say. Cedric wasn't Fleur or Hermione. He wasn't part of their inner circle. But he was a good person. A decent person. And Harry remembered the rope burns on his neck; whatever his nightmare was, it wasn't something Cedric would forget for a long time.
"I can't tell you everything," Harry said carefully. "The clue is personal to each champion's memory, and yours might show you something different. But I can tell you this."
He met Cedric's grey eyes directly.
"Don't bleed."
Cedric blinked. "What?"
"In the second task. Whatever happens, whatever you face, do not bleed. Not a scratch, not a cut, not a nosebleed. Nothing. Seal every wound instantly if you get one. Learn every healing charm you can."
Cedric stared at him for a long moment, his expression cycling through confusion, concern, and finally understanding.
"That bad?" Cedric asked.
"Worse," Harry said honestly. "View your memory. Figure out the rest. But that's the key. Don't bleed."
Cedric nodded slowly. "I will. Thank you, Harry." He hesitated, then added, "You didn't have to tell me. We're competitors."
"We're also still jus students," Harry said. "And whatever's in that dome next, I'd rather all four of us walk out of it."
"Good luck in the dueling tournament," Cedric said as he turned to leave. "Though something tells me you won't need it."
Harry watched him go, then walked back to where Hermione and Fleur were waiting. Both were watching him with expressions that were difficult to read.
"Zat was kind," Fleur said softly, giving him a quick kiss on the lips, earning many looks from jealous boys and girls.
⚯ ͛
⚯ ͛
The Great Hall looked nothing like itself.
The four long house tables had vanished, cleared away by magic and replaced with a single raised dueling platform that stretched nearly the entire length of the room. The platform was perhaps two feet high, with protective wards.
The house banners still hung from the ceiling, but they'd been pushed to the sides, making room for a massive floating scoreboard that currently displayed nothing but the words HOGWARTS DUELLING TOURNAMENT: PREPARATORY SESSION in bold gold letters.
Students filled the space around the platform, standing three and four deep in places, a sea of black Hogwarts robes punctuated by clusters of powder-blue Beauxbatons silk and deep crimson Durmstrang fur. Harry estimated at least a hundred and fifty people, probably more. Not all of them had signed up, some were clearly here to watch, but the energy in the room suggested most were itching to participate.
Harry stood near the front with Hermione and Fleur, Ron a few feet away with Lavender clinging to his arm. Neville was beside Ginny. Susan Bones had positioned herself with the Hufflepuffs, though Harry noticed she kept glancing his way. Cedric stood with Cho Chang nearby.
At the Slytherin end of the crowd, Malfoy held court with Crabbe, Goyle, and a knot of older students. He was gesturing expansively, probably describing all the ways he planned to dominate the tournament. Daphne Greengrass stood slightly apart from the main Slytherin group with a girl who looked like her, but younger.
The Durmstrang contingent had sent about a dozen students, all of them broad-shouldered and serious-faced. Harry scanned for Krum but didn't find him.
"Krum's not 'ere," Fleur murmured, echoing his thought.
"Probably thinks he's above a training session," Ron said from behind them.
"Or 'e prefers to train alone," Fleur countered. "Some fighters do not like to reveal zeir techniques before competition."
The doors at the far end of the Hall banged open before Ron could respond.
Mad-Eye Moody entered like a storm front rolling in over the sea.
His wooden leg struck the stone floor, clunk-clunk-clunk that silenced conversations in a spreading wave, starting from the doors and reaching the front of the crowd within seconds. His scarred face was set in its usual grim expression. He wore his traveling cloak despite being indoors, the heavy fabric adding to his already considerable bulk.
Behind him, Professor Flitwick trotted to keep up, his tiny legs working double-time. McGonagall followed at a more measured pace, her expression suggesting she was present out of obligation rather than enthusiasm.
Moody climbed onto the dueling platform with quite ease for a man with only one leg. He stood at the center, turning slowly, his magical eye cataloging every face in the room.
"Right," he growled, and the word carried through the Hall like thunder. "You're all here because you think you can fight."
Nobody spoke.
"Let me disabuse you of that notion immediately." Moody's real eye swept the crowd. "I've been watching you lot for three months now. I've seen your classwork, your practical exams, your little study groups." His gaze lingered on Harry for a beat. "And I'm telling you right now, ninety percent of you would be dead inside thirty seconds against a real opponent."
A nervous murmur rippled through the crowd. Moody ignored it.
"The problem," he continued, beginning to pace the platform with that distinctive uneven gait, "isn't your spells. Most of you know plenty of spells. Some of you know quite impressive ones." His magical eye spun toward the Beauxbatons contingent, then the Durmstrang students. "The problem is how you think about fighting."
He stopped pacing and faced them squarely.
"You've been taught that dueling is about power. About who can cast the biggest spell, the flashiest curse, the most impressive charm. Your textbooks show you proper form, proper stance, proper wand movements." He spat the word proper like it was poison. "You know what proper form gets you in a real fight? A proper funeral."
Several students looked uncomfortable, but many of them didn't seem to take him seriously.
"Real combat isn't about power. It's about three things." He held up a gnarled finger. "Speed." A second finger. "Positioning." A third. "Unpredictability." He let his hand drop. "You can know a thousand spells. But if you're slower than your opponent, if you let them control where the fight happens, if they can predict what you'll do next, you'll lose. Every time."
He drew his wand. The movement was so fast that Harry barely tracked it, one moment the wand was somewhere inside Moody's cloak, the next it was in his hand, pointed at the ceiling. Nobody had seen him reach for it.
"Speed," Moody said simply. "Not just casting speed. Drawing speed. Reaction speed. The time between recognizing a threat and responding to it. That gap, that fraction of a second? That's where people die."
He began pacing again. "Positioning. Where you stand relative to your opponent determines what spells you can use, what angles of attack are available, what cover you can reach. A smart duelist controls the space. They don't let their opponent choose the ground."
"And unpredictability." Moody's magical eye fixed on the crowd. "The moment your enemy knows what you're going to do, you're finished. Patterns kill. Habits kill. Doing the same thing twice in a row kills." He slammed his staff against the platform. "CONSTANT VIGILANCE means constant adaptation. Every spell you cast should surprise your opponent. If it doesn't, you're already behind."
The hall was silent.
"Now then," Moody said, and a smile grew on his twisted face. "I need a volunteer. Someone who thinks they're ready."
He didn't have to wait long.
"I'll go," Malfoy said, stepping forward with such arrogance that one would think he was the best duellist since Dumbledore. He climbed onto the platform, straightened his robes, and adopted what was technically a correct dueling stance, weight balanced, wand arm extended, off-hand tucked behind his back.
It looked like something out of a textbook illustration. Which, Harry suspected, was exactly the problem.
"Malfoy," Moody acknowledged. "Ready?"
"Of course," Malfoy said, his lip curling with confidence.
Moody didn't bow. Didn't take a stance. Didn't do anything that signaled the beginning of a duel.
Malfoy, taking the initiative, flicked his wand. "Stupefy!"
The red bolt shot across the platform.
Moody tilted his body exactly three inches to the left. The spell sailed past his ear.
Before Malfoy could process the miss, Moody moved his wand in a lazy half-circle. The air shimmered, and Malfoy's own Stunning Spell, which had been dissipating against the ward barrier behind Moody, suddenly reversed course. It hit Malfoy square between the shoulder blades.
Malfoy dropped like a yellow rock.
The Hall erupted. Laughter from everyone, even the Slytherins were laughing at Draco.
Moody awoke Malfoy with a casual Rennervate. The blond boy scrambled to his feet, his face burning scarlet, and retreated to the Slytherin crowd without a word, and his fellow snakes were teasing him and making fun of him.
Moody raised his wand, and there was mostly silence again. "Economy of force," Moody said, as if nothing had happened. "Why waste your own magic when your opponent will do the work for you? Mister Malfoy cast a perfectly adequate Stunning Spell. I simply let him stun himself." He looked at the crowd. "Your opponent's magic is a resource. Learn to use it."
He scanned the room again. "Next. Someone better."
His magical eye settled on Fleur.
"Miss Delacour," Moody said. "The Beauxbatons Champion. I've heard you're the best duelist your school has produced in a decade. Care to prove it?"
Fleur stepped forward without hesitation, climbing onto the platform with grace. She took a dueling stance that was different from Malfoy's, looser, more dynamic, her weight shifted slightly forward onto the balls of her feet. A fighter's stance.
"Whenever you are ready, Professor," Fleur said.
This time, Moody moved first.
His opening spell was a Disarming Charm. Fleur sidestepped it cleanly and countered with a Blasting Curse that cracked the air as it passed. Moody deflected it upward, where it exploded against the ward ceiling in a shower of blue sparks.
Then Fleur got creative.
"Ventus Spiralis!" A cyclone of compressed air spiraled from her wand, not aimed at Moody directly but at the platform beneath his feet. The wood groaned and buckled, throwing off his balance. In the same motion, she cast "Lumos Maxima Fragmentum!" and the air filled with hundreds of tiny light fragments, each one bright enough to dazzle, creating a field of visual disruption.
Through the chaos of light and wind, Fleur's wand moved with elegance, as if she were dancing with the wand. Spells came in rapid succession: binding hexes, tripping jinxes, a freezing charm that turned the moisture in the air to ice crystals. She wasn't just attacking; she was controlling the environment, turning the entire platform into hostile territory.
Moody weathered it all, deflecting what he needed to, dodging what he couldn't deflect, absorbing minor hits with grunts that suggested they annoyed rather than harmed him. But he was working. Harry could see the effort in the set of his shoulders, the increased speed of his wand movements. Fleur was pushing him.
Then Fleur escalated.
Her hair began to shimmer, individual strands catching fire with pale, ethereal flames that cast the platform in silver light. Her features sharpened subtly, her eyes brightening, her skin taking on that luminous quality that marked partial Veela transformation. The temperature in the Hall spiked as her allure rolled outward in concentrated waves.
Many male students in the front row swayed on their feet. Ron's mouth fell open before Lavender elbowed him sharply. Even some of the Durmstrang boys looked dazed.
Fleur pressed the advantage, combining her allure with a vicious Reductor Curse that Moody barely blocked. She followed with a fireball that left scorch marks on the platform, then a rapid chain of hexes that forced Moody backward three steps.
Four steps. Five. She was winning.
Then Moody's wand described a tight spiral, and he muttered something Harry couldn't hear.
A wave of something, not visible exactly, but felt, rolled across the platform. It hit Fleur like a wall. Her allure guttered and died as if someone had thrown water on a candle. The ethereal flames in her hair extinguished. Her features softened from their Veela sharpness back to merely human beauty.
Fleur's eyes widened. She was thrown off. Her next spell came half a second late, and half a second was all Moody needed.
Three spells in rapid succession: a Knockback Jinx that sent her stumbling, a Disarming Charm that ripped her wand from her off-balance grip, and a Body-Bind that froze her mid-stumble.
Fleur toppled backward, rigid as a board. Moody caught her wand out of the air and reversed the Body-Bind before she hit the ground.
Fleur landed on her feet, barely, her cheeks flushed with exertion and frustration. Moody tossed her wand back. She caught it with a snap of her wrist.
"Impressive," Moody said. "Best fight I've had since I arrived at this school. Your spellwork is creative, your combat instincts are sharp, and your environmental control is genuinely dangerous."
Fleur inclined her head, acknowledging the praise but clearly waiting for the criticism.
"But," Moody continued, and there it was, "you rely too heavily on that allure of yours. It's a weapon, and a powerful one, but it's a weapon your opponents will expect. Any dark wizard worth his wand will have trained against Veela magic. When I suppressed it, you lost half a second. In a real fight, half a second is your head leaving your shoulders."
Fleur looked frustrated with herself and nodded. "You are right. I will work on it."
"See that you do," Moody said. He turned to the crowd. "Let that be a lesson to all of you. Every fighter has a signature. Something they rely on, something that feels natural. Your job is to make sure that when your signature gets countered, and it will get countered, you have something else ready."
Fleur descended from the platform. She rejoined Harry and Hermione without a word.
"You were brilliant," Harry murmured.
"I was predictable," Fleur said through her teeth. "He is right. I need to be better wizout ze allure."
"You will be," Harry said. "That's why we're here."
Moody's magical eye was spinning again, scanning the crowd with that constant, restless motion. When it stopped, it was pointing directly at Harry.
"Potter," Moody called out. "Get up here."
The Hall went very quiet. Harry could feel every eye in the room shifting to him; he could feel all their expectations on him.
"I've heard interesting things about you, Potter," Moody said as Harry climbed onto the platform. "From Professor Flitwick. From the other students. Word is you've been running your own little defense group. Teaching students from every house. Shield Charms, Disarming spells, combat basics."
Harry settled into his stance. Not the textbook form Malfoy had used, but the one Sirius had drilled into him over the summer: knees slightly bent, weight centered, wand held loosely at his side rather than extended. A stance that prioritized reaction time over projection.
"I've been helping where I can," Harry said.
"Helping," Moody repeated. "That's one word for it. Another word might be training. Building a small army of competent young witches and wizards who trust you and follow your lead." His real eye studied Harry. "That's not nothing, Potter. A teacher who fights and a fighter who teaches. Rare combination."
Harry wasn't sure if it was a compliment or an accusation. "I just wanted them to be safe."
"Safe," Moody grunted. "Safety's an illusion. But preparation isn't. Let's see what you've been preparing."
This time, there was no warning at all.
Moody's first spell was a Stunner, blindingly fast. Harry's Shield Charm was up faster than anyone else. The Stunner splashed harmlessly against the silver barrier.
"Good reflexes," Moody noted. "Now stop relying on them."
The second spell came from a different angle, Moody had shifted three feet to the left between one breath and the next. A Leg-Locker Curse. Harry dodged rather than blocked, rolling sideways and coming up with a Disarming Charm of his own.
Moody batted it aside like a fly. "Textbook. Boring. Again."
Harry gritted his teeth. Moody was right, he was falling into patterns. Left hand block, right hand counter, dodge left, counter right. The rhythm of Sirius's training was ingrained, effective but readable.
The worst part, he did not want to show his Holy Magic in front of everyone.
He changed tactics. Instead of the expected Shield Charm, Harry cast a Banishing Charm at the platform beneath Moody's feet, copying Fleur's environmental approach. The wood cracked and splintered upward, forcing Moody to jump back.
Harry pressed the advantage, chaining spells in rapid succession. Impedimenta. Expelliarmus. Reducto. Petrificus Totalus. He mixed offensive and defensive, alternating targets between Moody's wand arm, his legs, and the platform itself. He threw in feints, casting with exaggerated wand movements for spells he had no intention of completing, then striking from unexpected angles.
Moody was smiling. It was a terrifying sight.
"You're holding back, Potter," Moody growled between deflections. "I can feel it. You've got more in the tank, and you're rationing it out like a miser with his Galleons." He launched a Blasting Curse that Harry barely dodged. "This isn't a classroom exercise. Fight me."
Harry felt the pull of Holy Magic, golden warmth stirring in his chest, begging to be released. He clamped down on it ruthlessly. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Instead, he dug deeper into his conventional arsenal, pulling out spells he'd practiced but never used in combat.
"Obscuro!" A blindfold of dark fabric materialized around Moody's head. The scarred Auror ripped it away in an instant, but it bought Harry a second, enough to close distance and fire three rapid stunners at chest height.
Moody deflected two and absorbed the third with what appeared to be a personal Shield Charm worn like armor. He counterattacked with a Reductor Curse that Harry dodged by inches, feeling the heat of it pass his face.
They exchanged another dozen spells, the pace escalating with each volley. Harry was sweating now, his arm aching from the rapid casting, his legs burning from the constant movement. But so was Moody. The older man's breathing was heavier, his movements slightly less crisp.
Then Moody flicked his wand in a tight, whipping motion, and a cutting hex sliced through the air faster than anything he'd thrown before.
Harry's Shield Charm caught most of it. The spell's edge grazed his left forearm, slicing through his sleeve and opening a thin line of red across his skin.
Harry felt anger boiling inside him; he wanted to use any of his very powerful spells. If he did, he would win, and he would make him bleed, too.
"Enough," Moody called, lowering his wand.
Harry stopped mid-cast, his wand still raised, adrenaline singing through his veins. The Hall was silent for a beat, and then erupted into applause.
Moody's magical eye fixed on the cut on Harry's arm. Harry looked down and noticed that it wasn't a shallow cut; it was bleeding, his hand was red, and drops of blood were falling on the floor.
"Adequate," Moody pronounced. "Better than I expected from a fourth-year. Your reflexes are excellent, your training shows, and you know how to adapt mid-fight." He paused, and his real eye found Harry's. "But you're predictable, Potter. You've trained with one person, and it shows. Your combinations follow his patterns. His feints, his rhythms. A smart opponent will study those patterns and break them."
Harry nodded, accepting the critique. Moody was right. The fingerprints of Sirius's dueling style were all over Harry's technique, the preference for speed over power, the reliance on chained spells, the tendency to dodge left.
"Fix it," Moody said. "Train with different people. Expose yourself to different styles. You've built a solid foundation, I've heard from Flitwick what you've built with those students. But foundations aren't enough. You need to be unpredictable when the real fight comes. Vary your combinations. Break your own patterns before someone else breaks them for you."
"Yes, sir," Harry said.
"And heal that cut," Moody added, nodding toward Harry's arm. "No sense bleeding on my training floor."
Harry glanced down at the cut and knew he needed to talk with Madam Pomfrey about it.
"That," Moody said, pointing at the spot where Harry and he had been dueling, "is what preparation looks like. Potter's been training for months, and he still has weaknesses. Gaps. Patterns that could get him killed." He swept his gaze across the assembled students. "All of you have worse ones. The tournament starts in three weeks. I suggest you use every minute."
He clunked off the platform and disappeared through a side door, leaving behind a Hall buzzing with excited conversation and the lingering energy of magic recently cast.
Harry descended from the platform and was immediately engulfed by his friends. Ron reached him first, clapping his shoulder hard enough to sting.
"Mate. That was incredible. You went toe-to-toe with Mad-Eye bloody Moody!"
"He was holding back," Harry said, though he was breathing hard and his arm still tingled. "He could have ended it whenever he wanted."
"Maybe," Hermione conceded, appearing at his side. "But you lasted longer than anyone else. And your adaptation in the middle of the duel that was impressive."
Fleur was waiting just behind Hermione, her arms crossed and her expression a complicated mixture of frustration and admiration. "You did well, 'Arry. Better zan I did."
"You were incredible," Harry protested. "That environmental control, the way you turned the whole platform against him—"
"And zen 'e suppressed my allure and I folded," Fleur cut in, her voice clipped. "Do not dress it up. 'E found my weakness and 'e exploited it. Zat is exactly what a skilled opponent would do."
"So we fix it," Harry said practically. "That's why we're training. To find the weaknesses and address them."
Fleur exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Oui. You are right." She paused, then added with a hint of competitive fire, "But I intend to be ready when ze tournament begins. If we face each ozzer in ze bracket..."
"You'll give me everything you've got," Harry finished.
"And more," Fleur promised.
Harry smiled. "I'd expect nothing less."