Ten-year-old Peter Harrow lay on the playground gravel with one eye swelling shut and the taste of blood in his mouth. The other children stood over him in the orange evening light, laughing too loudly. Squib-boy. Nothing-boy. Just like your mum. One of them kicked dust onto his shoes. Peter did not cry. He only stared at the sky until his mother’s voice cut across the playground like a spell. The children scattered at once, suddenly remembering they had homes to be in.
An hour later, he was in Diagon Alley with a cone of ice cream almost too large for his hand, walking beside his mother as if the world had not just been cruel. A boy nearby lit a small rocket in the middle of the street. It shot upward, fizzled, and died without bursting. The boy groaned and lit another. Peter watched it rise. His bruised eye narrowed. For one strange second, his pupils caught the light; green, bright, impossible, high above the alley, the rocket exploded into a shower of emerald fire. Peter stopped walking, ice cream melting over his fingers, and smiled like he had just discovered a secret about himself.
“Peter Harrow,” called a voice from beyond the canvas. “To the arena.” Peter opened his eyes in the champion’s enclosure, the roar of the crowd returning all at once. His hand was already around his wand. Outside, the final task waited.
Peter stepped out of the champion's enclosure into cold mist and drizzle.
Night had settled over the arena like a bruise. The sky flashed every few seconds, lightning crawling behind the clouds without thunder, as if the storm itself was waiting for permission. Fire lanterns floated in rings above the stands, their flames bending in the wet wind, casting orange light over thousands of faces: Hogwarts students, visiting delegations, Ministry officials, and clusters of Ivan Karkaroff's fans wrapped in Durmstrang colours, chanting his name like it was already engraved on the trophy.
Peter's stomach tightened, with not fear exactly. More like his body had read the situation and filed a formal complaint. Across the arena, Quicy Bell stood outside her enclosure, bouncing lightly on her feet, rolling her shoulders, smiling at the crowd as if this were a street performance.
Then there was Ivan. Still, dry-eyed and untouched by the noise around him. Peter looked at him, and Ivan looked back. For a few seconds, neither moved and then Ivan gave him a small, grim smirk, just enough to say- "I know something you don't". Peter's eyes dropped to Ivan's wand. It was in his hand, but not quite visible. A decorative case covered most of it, dark, polished, almost ornamental, with silver markings running along the length. It made the wand look ceremonial, expensive, harmless.
Before Peter could think further, the Minister for Magic stepped onto the judges' platform. The arena quieted in waves. Professor Alexander Flamel stood beside him, silver robes shifting in the rain. His expression was unreadable. The minister raised both hands.
"Students, guests, honoured representatives, and champions, welcome to the final task of the Triwizard Tournament." The crowd erupted. "First, allow me to congratulate our three finalists. Quincy Bell of Beauxbatons. Ivan Karkaroff of Durmstrang. And Peter Harrow of Hogwarts. You have survived trials of wit, courage, endurance, and magical control. Tonight, the final task will test the oldest and most respected discipline of competitive magic." He paused.
"Duelling!"
The arena roared again. Quincy grinned, Peter exhaled slowly, and Ivan did not react. "The contest shall be fought in three matches," said the Minister. "First- Quincy Bell against Ivan Karkaroff. Second- Quincy Bell against Peter Harrow. Third- Peter Harrow against Ivan Karkaroff. The champion with the highest total score at the end of all three matches shall be declared the winner of the Triwizard Tournament."
Above the arena, golden letters burned into the mist were acting like the scoreboard, and displaying a message. And now they displayed- The Scoring System. The Minister lifted his wand, and each rule appeared in the air as he spoke. "A clean hit with a legal offensive spell shall earn five points. A partial or glancing hit shall earn two. A successful defensive spell under pressure shall earn two. A counterattack delivered within three seconds of defence shall earn three. Use of the arena or environment to gain a tactical advantage shall earn four points. A successful spell redirection shall earn six. Forcing an opponent to lose balance or fall shall earn six. Forcing an opponent outside the marked duelling zone shall earn eight." The crowd murmured appreciatively.
The Minister continued. "The duel shall be conducted in a total of three rounds. The first and second duels shall last for ten minutes, and the players may use any legal duelling spells during this time. But, for the third round, the players will cast only one single spell against their opponent, and this shall be their final attempt to win the match. A full disarm shall earn fifteen, and rendering an opponent unable to continue shall earn twenty points."
The final rule appeared larger than the rest- ILLEGAL SPELL USE. The Minister's face hardened. "The three Unforgivable Curses are strictly prohibited. Any registered illegal spell, blood curse, necromantic curse, or banned tournament magic will result in immediate disqualification, Minister intervention, and criminal proceedings." At this, the Minister glanced toward Flamel. It was brief, but Peter saw it.
Ivan's fingers shifted around his wand. The Minister stepped aside, and Flamel raised his wand. Behind the Judge's platform, the air shimmered, and the Triward Trophy appeared. It rose from a circle of blue fire, silver and gold catching the lantern-light, three dragons curling around the cup's stern. Rain touched it and turned instantly to steam. The crowd stood. The Minister's voice rang out one final time. "Champions, you have earned your place here. Fight with honour. Fight with skill. And may the best dueller win." The arena thundered.
Quincy rolled her neck and stepped towards the central platform. Ivan followed, slow and smooth. Peter remained where he was for one moment longer. His eyes found Ivan's wand again. That decorative case. Those silver markings. That smirk. Then a tournament official touched Peter lightly on the shoulder. "Mr Harrow. Your enclosure." Peter nodded and stepped back through the canvas flap, leaving Quincy and Ivan beneath the lanterns and the rain. Outside, the bell rang for the first match.
Peter stood alone inside the enclosure, listening to the arena breathe. The canvas walls shivered whenever the crowd moved. Rain tapped softly above him. Somewhere outside, the fire lanterns hissed in the drizzle. He could not see the platform, and that made it worse. The commentator's voice rang through the arena, bright and practised.
"Champions have taken their marks. Quincy Bell of Beauxbatons is facing Ivan Karkaroff of Durmstrang in the first match of the night." The crowd roared. The bell rang, "Begin!"
Quincy's voice came first. "Stupefy!" A crack of red light split the air outside. The crowd cheered. "Excellent opening from Bell, fast and direct" Another blast. "Expelliarmus!" A shield cracked. Then another. "Depulso!" Something heavy struck stone. Peter's fingers tightened around his wand. The commentator kept pace, voice rising with the duel. "Bell is pressing early, quick footwork, good spell variety, and Karkaroff is defending without verbal incantation, remarkable control from the Durmstrang champion-"
Quincy shouted again. "Confringo!" The explosion shook the enclosure. Dust fell from the wooden frame above Peter's head. He flinched despite himself. Outside, the audience gasped, then cheered louder.
"Protego! Flipendo! Reducto!"
Each spell came from Quincy like a thrown punch. Ivan said nothing.
That was what made Peter's stomach turn. No shouted countercurse. No breath. No effort. Stone cracking, air splitting, shields screaming under pressure. The commentator's voice sharpened. "Karkaroff is advancing now, and Bell is retreating toward the eastern mark. Excellent recovery from Bell. Another shield! No, Karkaroff breaks through!"
A Thud. Then another. Then a third, so heavy Peter felt it through the soles of his shoes. The crowd's excitement bent into something else. Quincy shouted, "Protego!" A blast swallowed the word. The commentator stumbled.
"Bell is down... no, she's moving...Karkaroff appears to have fallen as well...unclear from this angle..."
For a strange second, there was only rain. Then Quincy screamed. Peter's eyes opened. The scream went on too long. It was not the sound of someone hit by a stunning spell. Not pain from a clean duel. Not even fear. It was the sound of a body being broken. The commentator stopped speaking, and the arena went silent. The came thuds. Huge and wet. Stone against flesh.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Peter reached the canvas flap and pulled it open just enough to see. The arena had frozen. Quincy lay near the far edge of the platform, one arm twisted under her, blood running from her forehead into the rain. Around her, chunks of broken black stone hovered in the air like waiting executioners. Ivan was on the ground twenty feet away. Flat on his back. To the crowd, he looked injured. But to Peter, he looked deliberate. Ivan's wand hand was hidden beneath his body. His lips were still. His eyes were wide open and focused. The rocks moved when his eyes moved.
One slammed into Quincy's ribs. She jerked and screamed. Peter's breath caught. Another rock rose above her, and that was too large and too slow for everyone to see. It fell on her legs. The sound was worse than the scream. Quincy arched off the stone, mouth open, voice tearing through the arena. Students stood in horror. Professors shouted. The Judges' platform erupted. Flamel had already raised his wand. The Minister's voice thundered over the arena.
"End the match!"
The bell screamed. The runes around the platform flashed red. The rocks dropped lifelessly onto the stone. Healers rushed in from three sides. Two mediwizards rushed for Quincy, wands moving fast, voices low and urgent. Ivan stirred only after everyone was looking elsewhere. He pushed himself slowly onto one elbow, face arranged into pain. Peter saw it.
The scoreboard flickered above the arena.
IVAN KARKAROFF - 30
QUINCY BELL - 8
Quincy was lifted onto a stretcher, blood soaking through the white emergency cloth beneath her. Her hand twitched once at her side. Then the mediwizards carried her away. Peter let the flap fall shut, and inside his enclosure, the world became small again.
Outside, the arena did not recover. Officials moved across the platform in tight groups. Aurors entered through the lower gates, cloaks dark with rain, wands raised not at anyone in particular but at the night itself. The broken rocks were isolated inside a ring of blue containment magic.
An investigator from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement knelt beside one, wand hovering inches above its surface. Ancient markings glowed briefly beneath the stone, then vanished. He looked up at the Minister. "These traces are old," he said quietly. "Very old. Not standard transfiguration. Not ordinary object manipulation." The Minister's face was pale. "Could the arena have malfunctioned?" The investigator hesitated. "That is what the official report will want to say."
Flamel's eyes moved to him. "And the unofficial one?" The investigator swallowed. "The stones were compelled to kill." Rain slid down the Minister's face. He did not wipe it away.
"By Karkaroff?"
"We cannot prove that."
The Minister looked towards the Durmstrang enclosure. Ivan had been taken inside by his handlers, still playing injured. The Minister's voice dropped.
"Alexander." The Minister stepped closer.
"I know" Flamel's expression remained calm, but his eyes were colder than the rain.
"A girl is in the hospital. And if we move without proof, he walks out of here under diplomatic protection before dawn." Flamel continued.
The Minister looked away. That was when Harry Potter arrived. He came through the side entrance with three Aurors behind him, his cloak wet, glasses spotted with rain. He did not waste time with ceremony.
"The Elder Wand," he said. Flamel turned, and Minsiter's face changed. "We traced the buyer who purchased it from Knockturn Alley. It wasn't some wizard who bought it, but an Elf, called Doofus. And Doofus is none other than the Karkaroff family's elf. He showed up in my office last night and spilled it all out."
Flamel's gaze shifted toward Ivan's enclosure. Harry followed it. "I believe Ivan has it." The Minister breathed out. Flamel's eyes narrowed. Harry looked toward the cracked platform. "If he has it, he is not just cheating. He is testing what he can do in front of witnesses."
The Minister asked, "Can you sense it?"
Harry's face tightened. "No, not clearly. Something is not right. Maybe because he is hiding it under a case, that's why I am not able to sense it."
Flamel turned to the lower structure beneath the arena. "The old dungeon passages run under the central platform." Harry understood instantly. "Take your team below. Stay beneath the arena. If Karkaroff reveals the wand, you will have a direct line." The Minister nodded.
"No public intervention until we have proof." Harry looked at Flamel and nodded. He then turned to his Aurors and commanded, "With me." They moved toward the lower archway and disappeared into the darkness beneath the stands. Behind them, the investigators raised their wands together. The broken rocks glowed blue. Then cracked. And then, turned to dust.
A few minutes later, the Minister returned to the Judge's platform. The arena quieted slowly.
"Ladies and Gentlemen. Students. Guests." He paused. "Quincy Bell has been taken to the medical wing under emergency care. Her injuries are severe, but she is alive." A wave of relief passed through the stands, fragile and frightened. The Minister continued. "Due to the seriousness of those injuries, Miss Bell will not continue in the tournament, but she has shown exceptional courage, talent and spirit throughout this tournament. Tonight's result will not diminish that, and on behalf of the Ministry, the tournament committee, we honour her performance."
The applause rose again.
"The final task will now be decided by one match between the remaining champions: Peter Harrow of Hogwarts and Ivan Karkaroff of Durmstrang."
The crowd reacted, but Peter barely heard it. His skin prickled, and his mouth went dry. Then the canvas flap behind him moved, and Edward Black stepped inside. He looked at Peter once, and perhaps that was enough to know what Peter had seen. Then he walked over and placed one hand on Peter's back.
A simple pat. Peter breathed in. Outside, the arena called his name. Black's hand remained there for one second longer. Then he stepped aside. Peter picked up his wand and walked across the flap.
ROUND 1
Peter entered the arena and heard nothing. Not the crowd. Not the commentator. Not the rain striking the shield walls. Everything had gone numb, as if the world had been placed behind glass. Ivan was already on his mark, waiting. His robes moved slightly in the wind. His wand rested at his side, still hidden inside that polished decorative case. When Peter stepped onto the platform, Ivan smiled.
Peter walked to his mark. Above them, the scoreboard shifted. Ivan's previous points vanished, dissolving into gold dust. A new score appeared.
PETER HARROW - 0
IVAN KARKAROFF - 0
Fairness. The word looked almost funny now. Flamel's voice reached Peter from somewhere far away. "Champions will bow." Peter bowed. Ivan bowed too. And in that lowered moment, close enough that only Peter could hear, Ivan whispered, "The moment of truth is here." Then he laughed. Softly.
Peter straightened, and for the first time since he entered the arena, sound returned. The crowd, the rain, and his own heartbeat were audible. The bell rang.
"Begin!"
Peter moved first. "Stupefy!" Ivan shielded without speaking. Peter followed immediately, "Expelliarmus!"
Ivan twisted aside. "Depulso!" The blast caught Ivan's shoulder and forced him back two steps. The crowd roared. The scoreboard flashed, Peter Harrow - 7. Ivan's smile faded. Peter did not stop, "Impedimenta!" Ivan blocked. "Flipendo!" Ivan shouted, and Peter was knocked backwards, boots scraping across the wet stone. The crowd rose louder. Ivan Karkaroff - 10.
Peter rose up. Although he was behind, he still felt a pulse of confidence. Ivan was fast and dangerous, and his face had changed. Something colder. Below the stands, hidden near the lower archway, Harry Potter stepped forward, wand half raised. His eyes were fixed on Ivan's hand.
Ivan did not speak. He barely moved. But the air changed. Peter felt the spell before he saw anything. It struck his ribs like a hook made of ice. His breath vanished. The arena disappeared. He was ten again.
On the playground gravel. Evening light in his eyes. A black eye swelling shut. Children standing over him. Squib-boy. Nothing-boy. Just like your mum. Peter tried to breathe. Couldn't. His throat closed. His face burned red. His heart hammered so hard it felt like it was trying to break out of his chest.
The crowd began laughing. Not cheering. Laughter, cruel, huge. All around him. Peter staggered.
His wand shook in his hand. Ivan watched silently, and another spell moved.
The wet mud at the edge of the platform rose in thick ropes, dark and shining. It snapped around Peter's wrists, his chest, his throat. The mud hardened into chains. Then it began to strike him like slaps on his face.
Peter could feel the mud slapping him hard on the face, and the crowd laughing at the scene. Peter cried out despite himself. Some people stopped laughing when they realised that Peter's left cheek was starting to bleed. Peter's wand slipped from his fingers. It hit the stone and rolled away. The scoreboard flashed, Ivan Karkaroff - 18.
Peter tried to reach for his wand, but the mud-chain slapped his hand aside. His face burned hotter than the pain, and embarrassment cut deeper than the spell. He could feel the eyes on him. His friends, his teachers, and his mother were all watching. Ivan raised his wand, still silent.
Harry Potter moved below the stands, but it was too late. A pale curse struck Peter in the chest. For one horrible second, Peter felt something hidden inside him go cold. Not pain, but an empty silence, the same one that he had felt when his magic had once been taken away from him. The force threw him backwards. He crashed outside the marked duelling zone and rolled hard across the wet stone. The bell did not ring. Not yet.
Peter lay on his side, gasping. And the scoreboard flashed again- Ivan Karkaroff - 32. Ivan lowered his wand, and his expression was calm again. He thought it was done, but Peter saw his own wand lying a few feet away. His arm moved before his mind caught up, and he dragged himself towards it. The crowd blurred above him. His fingers closed around the wand. Ivan's eyes narrowed.
Peter lifted the wand, and for a second, nothing happened. Ivan smiled, and then Peter's wand lit. Green and silver sparks burst along the wood. Peter's voice came out broken, but clear.
"Expelliarmus!"
Red light shot across the platform, and Ivan's shield snapped up just in time. The spell cracked against it and burst apart. Ivan did not move, but his face did. The trick had failed. Peter's magic had not left him, and it shall not leave him.
The bell screamed. "Round ends!" The scoreboard settled over the arena-
PETER HARROW - 7
IVAN KARKAROFF - 40
The crowd erupted. Not all of it. Ivan's supporters roared as if they had seen a genius. Even some neutral spectators clapped because the scoreboard told them what to believe. Ivan bowed to the stands. Untouched and Victorious.
Peter pushed himself to his feet. His ribs screamed, and mud slid from his robes. His face stung where the chains had struck him. He looked toward the stands.
Stewart was standing, hands clenched at his sides, no jokes on his face.
Alison looked pale.
Miranda stood beside them, one hand over her mouth, eyes fixed on Peter as if she could hold him upright by refusing to look away. Farther down, Matilda sat very still. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her eyes shone with tears she was trying not to let fall. That hurt the worst of all. Peter looked away and rushed towards the canvas flaps, before Arena could see his face properly.
Peter stumbled into the champions' enclosure with blood on his sleeve and dust in his mouth. The healers moved toward him, but he pushed past them. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong," he said. His voice was low at first, almost calm. Black turned from the tunnel wall, and Peter laughed once, breathless and bitter. "Maybe that's the answer. Maybe I'm not doing anything wrong. Maybe this just isn't meant for me."
"Peter-"
"No, Professor." Peter shook his head, eyes fixed on the floor. "No. I was arrogant, and that's what it was. I mistook surviving things for being ready for them."
Black watched him carefully. Peter's hand trembled around his wand.
"He's a machine!"
"No, he isn't."
"He is!" Peter looked up, and there was panic in his face now. Not fear of pain, but fear of certainty. "He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't get tired. He doesn't even look angry. I hit him with everything clean, everything legal, everything I was taught, and he just-" Peter swallowed, "He just kept coming." The arena roared outside. The sound seemed to press into the enclosure from every side. Peter stepped back.
"I'm done. I'll find Mum, and we'll leave before anyone notices. They can give the cup to him, or Quincy, or whoever still has bones arranged correctly." He turned toward the exit.
"Peter!"
Peter kept walking.
"Peter! Come Here!" The words cracked across the enclosure. Peter stopped, and slowly he turned.
Black had not raised his voice much. "What robe are you wearing?" Black asked. Peter stared at him, "What?" "What robe are you wearing?" Peter looked down at himself. Green and silver. Torn at the shoulder. Burned at the hem.
"Slytherin"
Black stepped closer, "And what does that mean?" Peter's jaw tightened.
"It means everyone expects the worst from you."
"No," Black said. "That's what frightened people decided it meant."
Peter said nothing. Black's eyes did not leave him.
"Who stood in front of hundreds of Dementors and made them obey one spell?"
Peter swallowed, "Me."
"Who faced the last remaining memory of Voldemort and walked out alive?"
Peter's grip tightened around his wand.
"Me"
"Who avenged his father when everyone else told him to be patient, careful, reasonable?"
Peter's breathing changed.
"Me."
"And who stood in the face of Harry Potter himself and made him remember that legends bleed like everyone else?"
Peter looked up, and Black pointed toward the arena. "That boy out there is not a machine. Machines don't cheat. Machines don't panic when their first trick fails." Peter's eyes sharpened. Black saw it and pressed harder.
"Karkaroff is not stronger than you. He is simpler than you. He has one answer to every question: more force." The crowd roared again. Black lowered his voice. "You've spent your whole life being underestimated by people who thought power was supposed to look loud," Peter said nothing. Black leaned in, "You were not meant for this because you are fearless. You were meant for this because you are terrified and still clever enough to use it."
Peter's face changed, not with confidence, but with something better, focus.
"But I did everything right," Peter said quietly. "He's playing dirty."
"So stop fighting like the rules are going to save you." Black placed a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Today, you don't fight like a perfect wizard," Black said softly,
"You fight like a Slytherin."
Peter wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, and a faint smile touched his face, not a happy one, but a dangerous one. He then turned toward the arena, and this time, he did not walk like a boy returning to be beaten. He walked like someone who had remembered where the exits were, where the knives were hidden, and exactly which lie his enemy believed.
The bell rang once, low and heavy. Peter stepped back into the arena. The rain had softened into a thin, cold drizzle, turning the black stone of the platform slick beneath his boots. Mist hung over the sand below. The shield walls shimmered faintly under the falling water, catching every drop like glass catching stars. The crowd did not roar this time.
Peter walked to the centre mark. His robes were torn at the shoulder. Blood had dried near his mouth. His left hand trembled slightly from the curse that had hit his ribs in the first round. His right hand did not.
Across the arena, Ivan Karkaroff stepped onto the platform. Clean, calm, and untouched enough to be insulted. He looked Peter over and smiled. "You came back." Peter stopped at his mark. "I forgot my dignity here. Thought I'd collect it." Ivan's mouth curved faintly, "You are trying to sound brave."
"No," Peter said. "I'm trying not to limp. The bravery is accidental." Ivan glanced at Peter's injured leg, "You should have stayed down." Peter glanced at the cracked stone between them. "You should have made me." Something moved through the crowd.
Flamel's voice rolled over the arena, "Champions will bow." Peter bowed, and Ivan bowed too, barely. A gesture without respect. When they straightened, Ivan spoke quietly. "This round will be shorter." Peter nodded, "I was hoping you'd say that." Ivan's wand rose. Peter rose first.
"Memoriae Ruina." The words cut through the rain. For one second, Ivan did not move. Not because the curse had struck him, but because he heard it. Flamel rose halfway from his chair. Harry Potter's face changed. Ivan stared at Peter as if Peter had just spoken in the voice of a dead man. Then the curse hit.
Dark mist burst from Peter's wand and rushed across the platform like ink spilt into water. It wrapped around Ivan before his shield had fully formed. Ivan's body locked. His face did not twist, not completely. But something inside it slipped. The scoreboard flared Peter Harrow - 12. The crowd erupted in confusion. Ivan slashed his wand sideways. "Finite!" the mist tore apart, scattering into the rain. Ivan stood breathing harder than before. Only slightly. "Where did you learn that?" Peter wiped rain from his cheek.
"You used it on me."
"That does not teach it."
"No," Peter said. "But arrogance leaves fingerprints." A murmur ran through the arena. Ivan's eyes darkened. "That spell belongs to my family." Peter tilted his head. "Then your family should have kept better notes." Ivan's wand snapped up.
"Dolor Mortis." The curse came fast. Black glass, thin, screaming. Peter did not shield. He moved sideways, wand cutting a small arc.
"Speculum Flexa" The curse struck the air beside him and bent. Not back, but around. It curved like a hooked blade and tore across Ivan's left side. Ivan's shield came up too late. The impact drove him back a step. Only one. But the arena saw it. The scoreboard flashed again- Peter Harrow - 21.
Ivan looked down at the torn fabric near his ribs, then up at Peter. Peter smiled, small and polite. "You recognise the feeling?" Ivan's face changed. Not much, but enough, because yes, he did.
"You are not built for these curses."
"No," Peter replied. "You were built around them. That's worse."
Ivan attacked, "Stupefy!" and Peter blocked, "Depulso!" he twisted away, boots skidding on wet stone.
"Dolor Mortis!"
Peter flew upward without a broom, the black-grass curse slicing through the space where his chest had been. The crowd gasped as he rose into the drizzle, robes snapping behind him. Ivan followed, launching himself into the air with brutal speed, wand carving sparks through the mist.
"Confringo!" Peter rolled mid-flight. The blasting curse struck the shield wall behind him and burst orange against the rain. Peter dropped suddenly. Ivan followed too eagerly. Peter pointed downward, "Glisseo." The wet stone below Ivan's landing point turned slick as oil. Ivan touched down and slid half a step. Peter landed behind him.
"Ferrum Vitae."
The broken fragments of the platform woke. Stone shards, Metal Splinters, Rune-cracked debris from the first round. They lifted from the ground and turned toward Ivan like a hundred knives remembering their purpose. Ivan spun, and his eyes widened for the second time that night. "Protego Maxima!" The debris slammed into his shield. One shard punched through and cut across his cheek, and the crowd roared. The scoreboard blazed- Peter Harrow - 34.
"You've had all these spells your whole life?" Ivan's jaw tightened on hearing this, and Peter continued, "That's embarrassing." Ivan's calm broke at the edge, and he rose into the air again, higher this time, rain silvering his robes.
"Ferrum Vitae." The drizzle around him stopped falling. Every drop froze midair, thousands of silver points hung between them, sharp like ice. The audience screamed. Peter looked up. "Oh, that's horrible," he muttered, "Credit where due." Ivan brought his wand down. The rain-knives fell.
Peter shot sideways through the storm, twisting between the needles as they shattered against the platform. One cut his cheek. Another tore his sleeve. A third grazed his thigh.
"Protego!" A shield bloomed around him. A glass rain broke against it in bright bursts. Ivan dropped through the storm. "Dolor Mortis!" Peter released the shield and fell. The curse passed over him. He turned the fall into a dive, skimming inches above the stone. His wand dragged through the rainwater gathered in the cracks.
"Accio fragments!" Every broken shard leapt toward him. Ivan laughed from above, "Now you copy me?"
Peter rose, debris circling him like a broken crown. "No," he pointed his wand. "I edit", Peter continued, "Ferrum Vitae!" The shards flew. Ivan prepared his shield, but Peter had not aimed at Ivan; he aimed around him. The shards struck the platform in a circle, embedding themselves upright around Ivan. A cage.
Ivan's eyes flicked down. Peter's next spell came instantly. "Colloportus." Green bands locked the shards together. Ivan slashed at the cage. It held. The scoreboard flashed- Peter Harrow - 48.
The crowd was on its feet now. Peter landed outside the jagged cage, breathing hard. Ivan stared at him through the bars. "You think trapping me wins this?" Ivan shook rain from his hair, and his eyes sharpened. He blasted the cage apart. The explosion threw shards in every direction. Peter shielded.
Ivan came through the debris like a violent wearing a school uniform. "Memoriae Ruina!"
Peter instantly met it. "Memoriae Ruina!" The two dark mists collided with each other. The platform vanished beneath the shadow. For a moment, the arena disappeared, and Peter saw flashes.
A cold room.
A child standing straight while adults discussed him as if he were a wand on a table.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Pain is treated like education. Victory is treated like rent. A boy learned that praise arrived only after someone else failed to get up.
The mist tore apart. Both boys staggered back. Peter was breathing hard, and Ivan was breathing harder. Peter looked at him, "You really don't know, do you?" Ivan's wand lifted, "That's why you cheat." Ivan's face went white with rage. "You cheat because somewhere under all that training, all that family legacy, all those secret curses...." Ivan's hand tightened around his wand, "You are terrified that without them, you're ordinary." Ivan screamed, not a spell, just a rage, and then he attacked with everything.
"Dolor Mortis!" Peter flew over it. "Ferrum Vitae!" Peter shattered the stones midair. "Stupefy!" Peter deflected. "Memoriae Ruina!" Peter split the mist with a silver charm. "Reducto!" Peter twisted away. "Dolor Mortis!" Peter caught it. The black-glass curse struck his wand and screamed along the wood. Peter's arm shook.
"There," Invan hissed. "There you are," his teeth bared. Peter looked up, "Wrong." Ivan's smile vanished when Peter's wand hand turned. The black-glass line snapped sideways and wrapped around Ivan's right arm. Ivan screamed; the sound cut through the arena. Peter released the spell immediately. Not mercy, but control. Ivan dropped to one knee, clutching his arm. The scoreboard flashed- Peter Harrow - 63.
"YES, PETER!" Alison's voice tore the stands. Stewart followed instantly. "MAKE HIM REGRET HIS ENTIRE FAMILY TREE!" A professor shouted, "Mr Stewart!"
"What? Botanically!"
Peter almost laughed, and Ivan heard it, and that made it worse. He rose slowly, and his face lost its calm completely. Ivan lunged at Peter in rage. "Impedimenta!" Peter shot at Ivan, whose body slowed mid-stride, "Petrificus Totalus." Ivan's legs locked, and he crashed to one knee. The scoreboard flashed- Peter Harrow - 77.
The judges' platform erupted in argument. The crowd was no longer sitting; nobody was. Ivan tore himself free with a furious burst of magic, but it cost him. His breathing was ragged now. Blood ran from his cheek to his jaw. His hair clung wetly to his forehead. He looks at Peter as if seeing him properly for the first time. Not as a rival, but as a problem. The rain whispered between them, and then Peter said, "You know what your problem is?" Ivan's eyes narrowed. Peter's mouth curved. "You built your whole life around secret killing curses. And I am beating you with schoolwork." The arena exploded.
The whistle screamed. Round two ended. The scoreboard blazed above them.
PETER HARROW - 77
IVAN KARKAROFF - 51
For a moment, the arena was stunned silent. Then the sound hit. A roar so huge it seemed to shake the rain from the sky. Peter lowered his wand. Across from him, Ivan stood motionless, because for the first time in his life, he looked like someone who might lose.
Ivan entered his enclosure without looking at anyone. The canvas flap fell shut behind him, cutting off the roar of the arena, but not enough. The sound still pressed through the fabric in waves. Peter's name, again and again, became something Ivan could not command. His hands were shaking, which he stared at.
For a moment, he did not recognise them as his own. Rainwater ran from his hair onto his face, down his jaw, into the flood at his collar. His wand lay in his palm, dark and ordinary beneath its polished casing.
Ordinary.
The word moved through him like poison. He had never been ordinary. He had been made against the ordinary. Trained against it. Cut, corrected, sharpened, praised only when someone else fell. And now the crowd outside screamed for Peter Harrow as if Ivan had been the mistake. His fingers tightened around the wand. The casing resisted at first. Then gave. A thin seam opened along the wood. Ivan peeled the outer shell away. Underneath, the true wand waited. Older, Paler, Wrong in the hand in a way no wand should be. Not uncomfortable, not heavy, but aware. The Elder Wand caught the dim lantern-light and seemed to drink it.
Ivan's breathing slowed, but the fear did not leave him. It changed shape. He slid the discarded casing into the mud beneath the bench, then tucked the Elder Wand inside his robe, close against his ribs. The fabric fell over it cleanly. Invisible.
Then he saw the eye. A narrow crack split the stone floor near the back of the enclosure. Through it, far below, in the dark space beneath the arena, a man was looking up at him. Still, and watching. Ivan did not move; the eye vanished, or perhaps it only blinked. The enclosure felt smaller, and the arena above him felt less like a stage now and more like a trap with applause.
They knew, but not enough, yet enough to be waiting. Ivan stood very still and smoothed his robes over the hidden wand. Outside, the bell began to toll for the final round. Ivan lifted his head and walked toward it.
The arena did not sound like an arena anymore. It sounded like a held breath. The third platform rose from the centre of the broken stage, slower than before, carrying Peter and Ivan upward through the drizzle. The black stone beneath them was cracked from the second round. Thin lines of green tournament magic glowed through the fractures like something alive under the surface. Above them, the scoreboard hovered in the rain.
Peter's body hurt in too many places to count properly. His ribs burned when he breathed. His leg was stiff. His shoulder felt like someone had poured fire into the joint and politely asked it to stay there. But his hand was steady around his wand, and that was enough. Across from him, Ivan stood very still. No smile, no comment, no cold insult waiting between his teeth. And that was worse than all of it.
Flamel stood on the judges' platform, his face pale under the rain.
"For the final round," he said, voice carrying over the arena, "each champion shall cast one spell only. Defensive magic may be used solely in response to a lethal threat. Any concealed wand, external magical instrument, or registered illegal curse will result in immediate disqualification and Ministry intervention."
The words moved across the stands like wind through dry leaves. Peter saw Harry Potter at the edge of the lower archway, closer to the arena's floor. For one moment, something flickered in Ivan's eyes, not surprise, but confirmation, and then it was gone.
Flamel raised his wand. "Champions will bow."
Peter bowed.
Ivan bowed.
Neither of them took their eyes off the other. When Peter straightened, the rain slid down his face and gathered at his chin. He did not wipe it away. Ivan's right hand rested near his side, while Peter's fingers tightened around his wand. The arena became silent. Flamel's voice cut through the cold.
"Begin."
Ivan moved first, but not toward Peter. Up.
His hand went inside the robe and came out holding a wand that was not the wand he had carried into the tournament. The air changed around it. The Elder Wand looked pale in the rain, bone-white in places. Dark in others. Older than the arena.
A sound passed through the crowd, not a scream, recognition without understanding. Harry Potter stepped forward below, "Now!" Ivan raised the Elder Wand into the sky, then pointed it down. Lightning struck upward from the ground, and did not fall from the clouds, but rather erupted from beneath the platform.
Blue-white fire split the stone in half. The stage cracked open with a sound like a mountain breaking its teeth. Runes shattered. Shield walls buckled. The central platform lurched sideways, throwing Peter to one knee. The floor beneath Ivan burst apart.
From the darkness below, Harry Potter and the Aurors surged upward through the broken stage, wands raised, cloaks snapping in the storm-lit air. Ivan turned and lifted the Elder wand.
"Crucio."
The curse did not strike one person. It struck the arena. Red light exploded outward in a ring. It hit Auror's fist, who fell mid-charge, bodies twisting before they struck the broken stone. It hit Harry Potter. It hit judges. Flamel collapsed against the railing. The minister screamed and vanished behind his guards. The professor fell where they stood. Then it hit the stands. Thirty thousand people cried out at once. The sound was too large to be human. It became weather.
Students folded over benches. Parents clutched their children. Champions’ banners tore loose in the sudden panic. The shield walls flickered, not protecting anyone now, only trapping the horror inside.
The curse hit Peter last. Pain took him apart, and his wand fell from his hand. Peter tried to breathe, but there was no breathing; there was only fire in the bones, knives in the nerves, teeth biting down on every thought he had ever had.
Ivan stood above the broken platform, the Elder Wand raised, rain sliding down his face. His voice carried over the screaming.
"This is what you never understood." He turned slowly, looking at the crowd as they writhed under his curse. "All of you. Judges. Ministers. Teachers. Children pretending they will become important one day."
His hand tightened around the Elder wand. "You built your world around rules because you were terrified of people who did not need them."
Peter's fingers twitched toward his wand. Too far. Ivan's voice grew stronger.
"You called him evil because he failed. That is all Voldemort was in the end. A failure with ambition. A man who wanted immortality and could not even keep his own soul intact."
Harry tried to rise. Ivan smiled. "I will not repeat his mistakes." The crowd screamed beneath him.
"I will not hide in forests. I will not whisper through servants. I will not split myself into pathetic little relics and pray no child finds them." Peter dragged himself forward an inch. Ivan did not see him yet.
"I will be whole. I will be visible. I will be obeyed in daylight." The Elder Wand glowed red in his hand. "And anyone who stands against me will not die as a martyr. They will beg first. They will understand first. Then they will die."
Peter's fingers brushed the end of his wand. Ivan turned, and finally he saw him. The red light faltered for the smallest fraction of a second, and then Ivan's face twisted.
"You."
The word was full of hatred. Ivan lowered the Elder Wand slightly, and the massive Cruciatus Curse vanished, all at once. The arena collapsed into an aftermath. People gasped, sobbed, coughed, and retched. Aurors lay sprawled across the broken stage, shaking. Flamel clung to the judges' railing.
Peter's body was still screaming with leftover pain when his hand closed around his wand, and Ivan saw it. His expression went blank, and he pointed the Elder wand at Peter.
No hesitation. No theatre now.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A green light burst from the Elder Wand. Peter did not stand. He did not have time. He rolled onto one knee, lifted his wand with both hands, and shouted the only thing that came to him.
"Expelliarmus!"
Red light met green, and the collision cracked the air. The two spells locked between them, red and green twisting together above the broken platform. Rain hissed where it touched the light. The shattered runes around the arena flared and died, flared and died.
Ivan leaned into the curse, both hands around the Elder Wand.
Peter's knees slid backwards across the wet stone. His arms shook.
"Die." Ivan's teeth bared. The green light crawled toward Peter, closer and closer.
Then the Elder Wand trembled. Ivan felt it. His eyes widened. Peter felt it too. Not power, recognition.
The red light strengthened. Ivan's grip tightened. "No." The Elder Wand shook harder.
Peter rose one inch from his knee, and then another. The red light drove forward. Ivan's face changed from rage to disbelief. "No."
The green light flared. For one terrible second, it seemed enough. Then the Elder Wand tore itself from his hand.
The green light vanished.
The wand spun through the rain, end over end, pale and ancient and suddenly weightless. Peter caught it in his left hand.
The arena froze.
Ivan stared at his empty fingers. His knee hid the stone. Almost embarrassing. "No," he whispered.
Harry was already moving. The Aurors rose around him, battered but alive, wands trained on Ivan from every side. Ivan looked up at them. The fear returned.
"No." Ivan said again, louder, "Wait." Binding spells struck him, and Ivan struggled. The ropes that captured him tightened. "Please." The word slipped out before dignity could stop it.
Peter stood unsteadily, Elder wand in one hand, his wand in the other. Ivan looked at him like mercy might still be a door. Peter said nothing.
"Bind him", said Harry, with a hard face but not triumphant. The Aurors dragged Ivan to his feet. Chains appeared around his wrists, bright silver and rune-marked.
"No," Ivan said, twisting against the Aurors. "No, you cannot, I am..." His voice cracked, "I am..." They pulled him across the broken platform. Past Harry. Past Flamel. Past the judges.
For a few seconds after he disappeared, no one moved. Peter stood in the centre of the ruined platform. Rain misted around him. His arms hung at his sides, and Elder Wand felt wrong in his hand. Not evil, just tired. The scoreboard flickered once. Then reformed through sparks and rain.
PETER HARROW - WINNER
TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT CHAMPION
The whole arena broke open, and the cheers rose. People rose. Students shouted his name. Professors clapped with shaking hands. Matilda cried. Harry Potter looked at Peter with something unreadable in his eyes.
Peter heard all of it. And none of it. He looked at the scoreboard, at his name, and at the word winner. It did not feel real. The cheers rolled over him like thunder from very far away. He placed his Elder Wand beside him and sat on a cracked stone.
He closed his eyes.
The mist fell softly on his face.
Cold.
Gentle.
Real.
Peter breathed in.
Once.
Twice.
And somewhere beneath the pain, beneath the shock, joy finally found him. Not loud. Not triumphant. Just warm. Just enough.
Peter Harrow smiled.
Peter opened his eyes to sunlight. For a moment, he did not move. He simply lay there, staring at the ceiling of the Slytherin dormitory, listening. No thunder, no screaming crowd, no spellfire cracking through rain. Only birds somewhere beyond the windows, and the soft, ordinary breathing of the castle waking up. Outside, the spring had returned as if it had been waiting politely for the violence to end. Pale gold light spilt through the tall windows. The lake shone under the morning sun. Peter sat up slowly; every part of him hurt. But it was a clean hurt now. He looked at his bedside table; his wand lay there. Beside it, wrapped in dark cloth, was the Elder Wand. Peter stared at the bundle for a long moment, and then he got dressed.
The great hall was already full when he entered. Conversations lowered, then rose again, softer this time. People looked at him differently now. Not like a rumour, not like a problem, not even like a champion, but like someone who had come back from somewhere they were not supposed to come back from.
Alison and Stewart had saved him a seat. Stewart had also saved him toast, eggs, sausages, and what appeared to be half a pie. Peter sat down when Alison looked at the plate. "Did you rob the kitchen?" Stewart looked offended. "I rescued the food from uncertainty." Peter picked up a piece of toast.
"Do you understand it now?"
Peter did not pretend not to know what Alison meant.
"The wand?"
Stewart nodded quickly.
"Because I've got three theories, and one of them involves Harry Potter accidentally losing a wand duel to a coat rack."
Peter took a breath.
"Last year. Room of Requirement."
Alison's expression sharpened.
"Black."
Peter nodded.
"Professor Black diarmed Harry Potter."
Stewart blinked.
"Unknowingly?"
"Completely unknowingly," Peter said. "Harry didn't even think of it as a proper defeat. Black probably didn't either."
Alison sat back.
"But the wand did."
Stewart's face slowly changed as the pieces arranged themselves.
"So Black became master of the Elder Wand because he disarmed Harry Potter."
Peter nodded.
"And then..."
Alison finished quietly.
"At the beginning of this year, when you lost your powers."
Peter's fingers tightened around the toast.
"Black gave me his."
Stewart stopped chewing. Peter continued. "He sacrificed his entire wizarding power. Everything his magic recognised as his passed through that act." Alison's voice was soft.
"Including mastery."
Peter nodded again.
"So all this time..." Stewart stared at him. "You were the master of the Elder Wand."
Peter looked toward the staff table, where Professor Black sat alone near the end, reading a paper upside down and pretending very hard not to notice them looking. Peter smiled faintly.
Then the doors of at the back of the Great Hall closed. Professor Alexander Flamel rose from the centre of the staff table. The hall quieted at once. Flamel did not use a goblet or a charm to call for silence. He did not need to. He stepped onto the raised platform. Sunlight fell across his silver robes.
"My students," he began.
"Another year at Hogwarts has come to an end. It would be dishonest to call it a happy year. It would be ungrateful to call it only a tragic one." His gaze moved to the Gryffindor table. "This year, we lost George Smith." The hall became very still. "George was kind without needing applause for it. Brave without announcing it. Funny in a way that often arrived three seconds later than expected, which somehow made it better." A few wet laughs moved through the hall.
"He should have had many more mornings like this one. We remember him today not because grief requires ceremony, but because love does. And Hogwarts loved him." Silence followed.
"There is another matter which must be spoken of plainly. Ivan Karkaroff has been removed from magical custody." A murmur broke out. Flamel raised one hand. "He will not return to Durmstrang. He will not return to public life. By order of the Ministry, and under international magical supervision, his wizarding powers have been stripped from him using the very magic his family concealed and weaponised for generations."
Peter felt the words land across the hall.
"He now resides in a secure Muggle juvenile institution, monitored by both magical and non-magical authorities." A colder silence followed him. "Ivan Karkaroff sought power without responsibility. He used secrecy as a shield, law as a loophole, and fear as proof of greatness. Magic is not a crown. It is not a birthright. It is not permission." His voice hardened, "And anyone who treats it as such will one day discover how small they are without it."
No one moved. And then Flamel turned.
"And now, to the champion of this year's Triwizard Tournament." The hall shifted. Peter's stomach dropped. "Try not to look like you're about to be sick," Stewart whispered. Flamel smiled faintly.
"Peter Harrow entered this school at a time when the return of Slytherin house was treated by many as a mistake waiting to happen. He has been doubted, tested, accused, praised, feared, and occasionally given detention for reasons I still believe were technically valid." A ripple of laughter moved through the hall. Peter looked at his plate. Alison smiled despite herself. Flamel's voice warmed.
"Last night, Peter Harrow won the Triwizard Tournament. More than that, he defeated Ivan Karkaroff, the reigning world duelling champion, and in doing so became the youngest dueller in modern history to claim that title." For half a second, the hall stayed silent. Then it erupted. Benches scraped, students shouted, and hands clapped against tables. Peter sat frozen when Stewart grabbed his arm and lifted it. Flamel waited until the sound softened. "There is one final announcement." Peter already knew.
"Peter Harrow will not be continuing his studies at Hogwarts next year."
The hall quieted in waves.
"He has accepted professional standing as a full-time duelling champion and will begin formal international competition under Ministry and League supervision." Flamel looked at him. "Hogwarts does not lose him today. Not truly. A school does not lose the students who carry it forward."
This time, the applause was different. Less wild, more heartfelt. Peter looked around the hall. At the green and silver banners. At the faces turned towards him. His eyes burned, and he did not wipe them.
Flamel found him later near the entrance hall. Or perhaps Peter found Flamel. Peter stood with his trunk beside him, the morning light spilling through the great doors. Students were already leaving in clusters, voices echoing against stone, trucks bumping down steps, owls complaining with theatrical bitterness.
"Leaving without saying goodbye?" Flamel approached Peter.
"I was hoping to avoid making it dramatic."
Flamel smiled and replied, "You chose the wrong life for that."
Peter smiled. He reached into his cloak and withdrew the Elder Wand, still wrapped in the dark cloth.
"I should give this to you."
Flamel looked at the bundle and said, "No."
"No?"
"No." Flamel continued, "It is yours."
Peter stared at him.
"That feels like the sort of sentence that starts wars."
"It has," Flamel said, "Many times. You won it."
"I don't want to be controlled by it,"
That made Flamel smile, "Which is why you may be the safest person to keep it," he replied. Peter looked down at the wrapped wand.
"You have earned many things this year, Peter. Victory, grief, enemies. A title you are too young to understand. And trust." Flamel held his gaze, "Do not waste the last one." Peter nodded slowly and said, "I'll try."
Peter smiled and picked up his trunk. "Good luck, Mr Harrow," said Flamel.
At the doors, he stopped. The grounds stretched beyond him, bright with spring. The lake glittered. The trees moved gently in the warm wind. Far behind him, the castle breathed with voices, footsteps, memory. Peter turned.
One final glance. Hogwarts stood there as it always had. Impossible, Infuriating, Home. His eyes filled, and this time he let them.
Then Peter Harrow smiled through the blur, turned toward the sunlight, and walked away.
Peter woke at four in the morning. The house was dark. For a few seconds, he lay still and listened to it. A low hum of the refrigerator downstairs. The old pipes are clicking somewhere behind the wall. A car passing far away on the London street outside, its tyres whispering over wet road. Home it was. He sat up.
His truck waited at the roof of the bed, half-packed from the night before. Peter moved quietly, folding clothes, wrapping books, tucking spare socks into corners where they absolutely did not fit but were going anyway. His wand went into the inside pocket of his coat. The Elder wand stayed wrapped in dark cloth at the bottom of his trunk.
By the time he came downstairs, the kitchen light was already on. Matilda Harrow stood at the counter in her dressing gown, packing food into a cloth bag with the intensity of a woman preparing her son for war, famine, and possibly poor railway catering. She wrapped sandwiches in paper, and Peter stood at the door with his coat over one arm, and morning waited outside the window. At last, she tied the cloth bag and handed it to him.
She looked at him properly then. Her eyes were already wet, though her face was trying very hard to be practical. She stepped forward and pulled him into her arms. He hugged her back at once. For a while, he was not a champion, but just her son. Matilda held his face in both hands, "My brave boy," she whispered. Peter's throat tightened. "I'll write." "Properly?" He smiled. She kissed his forehead. "I'm proud of you," she said.
Peter picked up his trunk, slung the food bag over his shoulder, and opened the front door. The morning air was cold and blue. He looked back once. Matilda stood in the hallway, one hand pressed to her mouth, smiling through tears. Peter smiled back. And he left home.
He walked.
At first, through London while the city was still half-asleep, past shuttered shops, bus stops, wet pavements, and windows glowing gold above quiet streets. Then farther. Through Muggle towns. Through the railway stations and the market square. Past petrol pumps, laundrettes, school gates, kebab stores, churches.
He walked through wizarding villages tucked behind bends in roads. Villages with crooked chimneys, floating lanterns, post owls, arguing portraits in shop windows, and children who stopped playing to stare as he passed. Some recognised him.
Peter kept walking.
Summer opened around him. He crossed empty fields under white-hot skies, where the grass scratched at his boots, and the air shimmered above the road. He slept under trees, in inns, once in a hayloft that smelled aggressively of goat.
Day blurred. The road changed him slowly. In the evening, he reached a forest. It was beautiful in a way that made him stop before entering. Tall trees rose on either side of the path, their leaves bright with late summer green. Sunlight fell through them in broken gold. The air smelled of rain, moss, wildflowers, and earth warmed all day, then cooled by evening.
He walked deeper. A stream murmured nearby, hidden behind the ferns. Then he saw her.
Miranda sat on a rock beside the path, one knee drawn up, a travelling bag at her feet. She looked as if she had been there for hours. Peter stopped. Miranda looked up.
Peter's mouth curved slowly. Not the smile he gave the crowds. Not the one he used to hide fear. This one was quiet. Full of love. And then Miranda smiled.
The path curved into green shadow and golden light.
Unknown.
Unwritten.
Waiting.
And together, they walked on.
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