From the very first light of morning, Hogwarts was in motion. The usually quiet castle grounds were alive with activity and voices from every direction. The air itself felt different — charged, busy, restless — as if the stones of the ancient castle understood that this was no ordinary day.
Visitors had been arriving since dawn.
Carriages drawn by thestrals rolled up the long path from Hogsmeade Station. The air shimmered with enchantments as Ministry officials, foreign delegates, and reporters from across Europe crowded the grounds. Brightly robed wizards and witches filled every corner, holding enchanted quills and floating cameras that clicked every few seconds. Hogwarts hadn't seen such movement in decades.
Flags of different countries hung between the towers. Banners with the Triwizard insignia fluttered proudly above the courtyard. It was a day of celebration, but to Harry, it felt more like the calm before a storm.
The final task was to happen at night, and the Ministry workers were rushing everywhere to prepare. Spells and wards flashed across the Quidditch Pitch, which had already been transformed into an enormous maze. From the castle windows, one could see flashes of light — greens, blues, and silvers — marking the adjustments and strengthening of the magical barriers. Aurors and enchanted creatures patrolled the edges as part of the setup.
Inside the castle, the mood was both festive and tense. Students ran through corridors whispering about the coming spectacle, while professors moved briskly, making sure that the visitors didn't stray into restricted areas.
But Harry Potter had no interest in the excitement.
He spent most of the morning keeping an eye on the upper floors, watching from corners and corridors few others noticed. His mind wasn't on the final task — it was on Professor Moody and Barty Crouch.
Moody had been in his office since early dawn. The door had not opened once. Every so often, Harry had caught the faint metallic creak of the professor's wooden leg from inside, but no other sound followed. It was as if the man was guarding something rather than preparing for the tournament.
Harry's fingers brushed against the map in his pocket, though he hadn't dared to open it yet. Too many eyes, too many people. He couldn't risk it. But his thoughts circled endlessly around the same question.
Was it Barty Crouch Junior or Senior moving around the castle?
The uncertainty gnawed at him. Every time he thought he was close to understanding the truth, another shadow appeared. One thing, however, remained perfectly clear in his mind — the voice that had cursed him, the power that had struck from behind. Someone inside this school had tried to kill him, and that person was still breathing.
He would find them.
He would end them.
From the high windows, a cool breeze swept through the corridor, carrying with it the faint scent of rain. The sky was overcast, gray clouds drifting over the distant hills. Flags waved softly in the wind, and far below, Ministry workers hurried across the grounds like ants at work.
Harry watched in silence for a long moment, his expression cold and unreadable. Then he turned, the cloak of calm slipping over him again.
There was still time before nightfall — and before the final task began — but he already knew what his night would bring.
Blood, truth, and reckoning.
The clouds hung low over Hogwarts, silver-gray and heavy, casting long shadows over the Black Lake. The air was cool, carrying the faint smell of rain and wet grass. Students moved in clusters across the grounds, whispering about the visitors, about the coming final task, about the champions.
Harry stood near the water's edge, hands in his pockets, when he heard a deep accented voice behind him.
"Harry," said Viktor Krum, his tone tense but friendly.
Harry turned. Viktor stood a few feet away, his posture rigid, his jaw set. He looked tired — not from lack of sleep, but from pressure. The weight of the tournament hung over him like a stone.
"I need to clear my head," Viktor said quietly. "Too much thinking before the task… it makes a man slow. You will duel with me?"
Harry studied him for a moment. "You want to duel today? The task is tonight."
Viktor nodded once. "Yes. Not to win, just to move. To think with the wand again. You are… how do you say it… unpredictable. I need that."
Harry's lips curved slightly. "You think I'm unpredictable?"
Viktor gave a small shrug. "You fight like no one I know. You move before others think. I need that kind of opponent now."
For a moment, Harry said nothing. Then he drew his wand and nodded toward the lakeside clearing. "Fine. But don't worry I will hold back."
Some how word spread faster than magic itself. By the time the two of them stepped into position, dozens of students had gathered around the lake. Then many adults. Some stood on rocks, others on the slope of the shore. Even a few visiting foreign guests wandered over, drawn by curiosity.
It wasn't every day that Viktor Krum, international Quidditch star and Triwizard Champion, decided to duel Harry Potter.
The crowd buzzed with excitement. Bets were whispered. Cameras were prepared. But Harry barely heard them.
He and Viktor faced each other across twenty paces of open ground. No words. No bows. Just silence, and the faint hum of magic between them.
The wind rippled through the lake. A single leaf drifted between them. When it touched the earth, both wands moved.
Krum struck first — a burst of crimson light shaped like a spear, fast and precise. Harry spun to the side, the beam slicing through where he had been an instant ago. His wand flicked once, silent, and a wave of invisible force rolled outward like compressed air. Krum threw up a shield — translucent blue, tight and compact — and the pressure exploded against it with a thundering crack that shook the grass.
The watching crowd gasped.
No shouted spells. No taunts. Only movement — a silent, deadly rhythm of attack and counterattack.
Krum's wand traced sharp angular patterns, his style rigid, military, each motion deliberate. Harry's movements were the opposite — fluid, deceptive, shifting between offense and defense like a tide. The two clashed in perfect contrast, red light flaring against invisible force, sparks scattering into the air.
Harry ducked low, his cloak twisting like smoke as a jet of fire carved through the space above him. He stepped forward into the opening — wand slashing in a quick circle — and the ground beneath Krum's feet rippled violently. The Bulgarian jumped back just in time, landing hard, his boots skidding across the damp grass.
For a moment, they both paused, breathing hard. Neither spoke. The lake's surface reflected their figures — twin shadows of concentration.
Then Harry moved again. Faster.
His wand drew no light this time, only a shimmer in the air — an unseen current of magic. Krum felt it a moment too late. The pull dragged him forward, as though invisible chains had yanked his arm. He twisted, forcing his weight against it, breaking free with a burst of pure magical will that cracked like lightning. The air between them shimmered, vibrating with power.
Students near the front stumbled backward, shielding their eyes from the shockwave.
Krum retaliated instantly, sweeping his wand downward. The earth erupted in a line of jagged stone. Harry leapt aside, landing lightly on one knee. His wand flicked — no sound, no incantation — and the stones shattered into sand. The wind carried the fragments, swirling them into a brief sandstorm that blinded the onlookers.
For a heartbeat, the world was dust and movement.
Then — a flash.
A white burst of energy cut through the storm, striking the ground near Harry's feet. The explosion sent him sliding backward several feet, his boots cutting grooves into the wet soil. He rose slowly, brushing off his cloak, his eyes sharp but calm.
Across from him, Krum lowered his wand slightly, chest heaving. Sweat ran down his temple. He nodded once — respect, acknowledgment, challenge.
Harry gave a small nod in return.
Without warning, they moved again.
The dueling ground became a blur — wand movements, sidesteps, feints, and invisible counters that rippled the air like heatwaves. The crowd could barely follow the pace. Every strike was met with an equal counter, every illusion undone by instinct.
When it finally ended, it wasn't with a winner or a fall, but with both of them stopping at the same time — wands lowered, shoulders squared, eyes steady.
A long silence followed. Then, slowly, applause began to rise.
Krum took a deep breath. "You held back a lot," he said simply.
Harry's expression didn't change. "Today is your special day, I don't want to ruin that."
Krum gave a small grin — brief, almost reluctant. "Maybe after this task, we fight again."
"Maybe," Harry said quietly, slipping his wand into his sleeve.
The crowd dispersed gradually, still talking, still thrilled. But Harry stayed by the lake for a moment longer, watching the water ripple from the shockwaves of their duel. The faint reflection of his face looked back — calm, unreadable, but the Force within him whispered restlessly.
The duel by the Black Lake had ended, but the ripples it created didn't fade with the water.
By noon, word of it had spread through every corner of the castle and beyond. Students were still whispering about the silent clash between Harry Potter and Viktor Krum, and how the air had shimmered with unseen spells and raw power. But not everyone admired what they saw.
As the crowd drifted away, a group of Ministry officials and a few older wizards wearing golden pins — guests of the British delegation — had lingered near the path, whispering among themselves.
One of them, a plump wizard with a rolled-up newspaper in hand, muttered loudly enough for Harry to hear,
"Potter, of all people, dueling with that Durmstrang boy! Our national hero should be supporting Diggory, not training the competition!"
Others nodded in agreement, their faces sour.
It didn't stop there. By the time Harry entered the castle again, a handful of Hufflepuffs were waiting near the main staircase, faces red with indignation. One of them — Ernie Macmillan — stepped forward, his voice trembling between accusation and self-righteousness.
"So, that's how it is, Potter?" he said. "Helping Durmstrang's champion just before the final task? Don't you think it's a bit unfair — training a foreigner when our own champion could use the support?"
Harry stopped. The corridor quieted. Several students nearby turned to watch.
He looked at Ernie for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, very calmly, he said,
"Weren't you the one who called me a cheater when my name came out of the Goblet? Weren't you the one who said I was disgraceful — that I cheated Cedric and the school?"
Ernie's face flushed. "That was different—"
Harry's eyes narrowed. "How?"
Ernie opened his mouth, but no words came out. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably long.
Harry took a single step forward, his voice quiet, cold, and steady. "You accused me then without proof, and now you accuse me again for training with someone who asked for help. Maybe you should decide what you actually believe before you start talking."
Without waiting for an answer, he walked past them, the echo of his boots fading down the corridor. The students parted as he passed, most of them avoiding his eyes.
He didn't look back. He didn't need to.
By late afternoon, the sky had turned a deeper gray, the light soft and dim as evening approached. Hogwarts was still buzzing — the Ministry workers setting final wards around the maze, the reporters preparing their stands, and foreign guests crowding every hall.
Harry sat alone in one of the castle alcoves, the cool air drifting through the open window beside him. The enchanted mirror in his hand shimmered faintly. He hadn't expected a call now — not with all the chaos surrounding the final task.
Then Sirius's voice came through, rough and urgent.
"Harry! Can you hear me?"
Harry's eyes focused on the reflection. "Yeah, I hear you. What's happened?"
The image shifted, showing Sirius's familiar face, pale but alert, with Remus Lupin standing just behind him. They were inside a dark, weathered room — wooden beams, cracked stone walls, and broken furniture half-covered with dust.
"We're at the Shrieking Shack," Sirius said quickly. "We couldn't reach you this morning — too much interference from the Ministry wards around Hogwarts. But it's clear now. You need to come. We've got something important to show you."
Harry frowned. "Now? During the tournament?"
Remus leaned into view, his calm voice steady but serious. "It's safer now than it will be later tonight, Harry. Everyone's focused on the maze and the guests. If you move quietly, no one will notice you leaving the grounds."
Harry's gaze shifted toward the window, where he could see the maze glittering faintly in the distance. Hundreds of people moved across the fields — Aurors, students, reporters — chaos everywhere.
"Alright," he said after a moment. "I'll come. No one will see me."
Sirius nodded. "Good. Bring your cloak. We'll wait."
The mirror dimmed.
Harry slipped the mirror into his robe pocket and stood. The castle hummed with noise, but none of it touched him. He felt the familiar stillness settle over his mind — that quiet focus that came before action.
The Invisibility Cloak was already folded in his satchel. With the noise outside and the distractions everywhere, it would be easy enough to slip through unnoticed.
From somewhere behind him, Dobby's voice spoke softly, "Master Harry is leaving?"
Harry nodded. "Sirius and Remus are waiting for me. Stay here. Keep watch near Moody's office. If he leaves, follow him — but don't be seen."
Dobby's eyes burned faintly in the dim light. "Dobby understands. If bad man moves, Dobby and Winky will know."
"Good."
Harry pulled the cloak over himself. The fabric shimmered and swallowed him whole, until the corridor was empty once more.
He stepped through the castle silently, merging with the rush of footsteps and chatter, slipping between students and guests like a ghost. No one noticed the faint ripple of movement that glided past them, heading toward the secret path beneath the Whomping Willow.
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