Ilvermorny Private Chamber – Salzburg Fortress
The knock came—two sharp taps, deliberate and unmistakable, each sound resonating through the quiet room like a signal. Severus didn't need to look up from his desk; he recognized that familiar rhythm before the door even creaked open.
As it swung inward, there stood Professor Filius Flitwick, a figure both comforting and somehow mischievous. Shorter than most wizards, he wore a deep navy cloak that flowed gently around him, accented by a silver-threaded collar that shimmered faintly in the light. His eyes sparkled with a unique blend of sharpness and warmth, a testament to his keen intellect and genuine kindness.
"Professor," Severus greeted, rising instinctively to his feet, a reflex honed over years of respect for his colleague.
Flitwick paused in the doorway for the briefest moment, taking in the sight before him—Severus's typically stoic demeanor momentarily softening in his presence. Then, with a soft chuckle that filled the room with a sense of ease, he stepped inside. "No need for ceremony, my boy. Not today," he said, his voice imbued with a playfulness that Severus found unexpectedly comforting.
And then, to Severus's surprise—who was not known for welcoming gestures of affection—the professor closed the distance between them and reached up, clasping Severus's shoulder with a touch that conveyed both camaraderie and reassurance.
"It's truly a pleasure to see you," Flitwick said gently, his voice warm with sincerity. "Really, it is."
Severus didn't offer a smile, but a softness crept into his otherwise stoic expression. "And you as well, sir."
Over the past year, they had exchanged a handful of letters—each carefully crafted, with words chosen with precision to disguise their true meaning, thus avoiding potential interception. Yet, none of those carefully penned words could compare to this moment. Here stood the one teacher at Hogwarts who had always seen him not as a burden to be managed, but as a student with untapped potential.
The one who had shown him how to stand firm—if not necessarily to triumph—against overwhelming odds.
Against Potter, with his effortless charm and popularity. Against Mulciber, with his cruel taunts and relentless bullying. Against the suffocating silences that often filled the Slytherin common room, where he felt so painfully alone.
"You held your ground yesterday," Flitwick remarked, drawing back slightly and nodding with approval. "It wasn't just your spells that impressed me. You carried yourself with the confidence of someone who understands his own worth."
Severus met the older man's gaze, feeling a deep-seated gratitude stirring within him. "You taught me how to do that."
Flitwick's face broke into a wistful smile, his eyes sparkling with fond memories. "I taught you the fundamentals—posture, wand form, the technicalities of dueling. But you taught yourself the rest. Every time you entered that dueling chamber with bruises that told stories you wouldn't share, yet emerged with a fiercer determination and sharper focus than before... I knew there was something remarkable developing inside you."
There was a moment of silence that hung in the air, laden with unspoken thoughts and memories.
"Poppy asked about you, you know," Flitwick remarked, his voice imbued with a gentle fondness. "She even sent along a tin of her famous peppermint bark. Said she knew you wouldn't touch it, but she made it anyway, just in case."
The mention of Poppy drew the faintest smile from Severus—an expression so rare that it felt like a flicker of dawn breaking after an interminable night.
"She and you were the only ones who ever really saw me," Severus replied quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Before I learned how to be seen for who I truly am."
Flitwick's voice took on a deeper, more earnest tone. "You've always been worth seeing, Severus. The rest of the world is simply late to the party."
Silence stretched comfortably between them, warm and filled with unspoken understanding.
Then Flitwick's demeanor shifted, the gravity of their conversation evident in his posture.
"But Day Two will not be kind," he said, eyeing Severus with a penetrating gaze. "There are no second chances in this competition. No gentle introductions to ease you in. The judges will raise the bar significantly, and your opponents will be particularly desperate. You'll face spellwork designed not merely to win—but to dismantle your confidence. To rattle you."
Severus nodded, his expression turning serious, resolve settling over him like a cloak. "Then I'll rattle them first."
Flitwick let out a satisfied huff, a glimmer of pride shining in his eyes. "Just what I wanted to hear. And remember this: speed is a weapon, but rhythm serves as armor. Let them chase you into a pattern—they'll inevitably reveal their hand."
He turned to leave but paused in the doorway, looking back at Severus with a warmth that belied his usual stern demeanor.
"Oh, and Severus?"
"Yes, sir?"
"I was proud of you then. I'm even prouder now."
He left without waiting for a reply. For a brief moment, Severus stood motionless—his shoulders squared, his breath measured and calm as he collected his thoughts. Then, with purpose, he turned back to the table where a detailed strategy map floated in midair, its lines and symbols shifting subtly as if alive.
A moment later, Professor Harland strode into the room, flanked by two assistant instructors and his teammates, Evie and Alessandro. Both were dressed in light training gear, their expressions animated as they continued a spirited debate about the optimal angles for disarming an opponent.
"The matchups for Day Two are being finalized," Harland declared briskly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Round One will feature rank-matched duels—top ten against mid-tier competitors. Round Two consists of winners facing off against one another. Two duels in total. There can be no room for mistakes."
With a flick of his wand, Severus conjured a piece of parchment that shimmered into existence before him. Its surface glowed softly, already inscribed with the names, rankings, and brief tactical annotations pertinent to their upcoming matches.
Evie leaned closer to the parchment, her finger hovering over a specific section. "This Uagadou duelist is incredibly fast, but I've noticed he tends to hit a fatigue wall after about two minutes of sustained casting," she pointed out, her brows furrowing in concentration.
Alessandro joined the conversation, his voice thoughtful. "And don't forget about the Beauxbatons charm-weaver. I've observed that she always retreats to the left whenever she feels pressured. That makes her predictable—easy to bait into a mistake."
"Durmstrang boy relies on shield-breaking spells," Harland muttered, his voice laced with disdain. "Brute force, but no grace."
They analyzed every movement, dissecting the opponent's methods as if they were generals plotting a siege against a fortified castle. Each detail mattered, and they committed to memory the nuances of every maneuver.
By the end of the hour, Severus had meticulously drawn three glyphs in the margin of his notes—Distraction. Fatigue. Rhythm. Each word captured a fundamental principle, distilled from countless hours spent honing his craft.
It reminded him of his days in the Hogwarts dueling chamber, where he had stood bruised but unbroken, absorbing Flitwick's whispered corrections like lifelines darting through the chaos of battle.
And now? Now, steely resolve coursed through him. He was ready to weaponize every lesson learned, to turn knowledge into power.
Fortress Courtyard
The courtyard buzzed with energy—contestants warming up, exchanging banter, and recharging in the brief intermissions between their bouts. As Severus finally stepped outside, he was immediately enveloped by a swirling throng of eager spectators and reporters.
Cameras flashed like lightning, capturing every moment, while dictation quills fluttered in midair, tirelessly transcribing the scene. Voices called out from all directions, each question sharper than the last.
"Severus Shafiq! How does it feel to be thrust back into the spotlight so soon after the ICW Tribunal?"
"Is Ilvermorny preparing you for a future in international politics?"
"Did your dueling strategy borrow from the renowned techniques of the Prince family—?"
"Was that bait tactic an expression of arrogance, or a display of confidence?"
Severus felt a twitch in his wand hand, the urge to respond sparking within him, but before he could formulate his replies, Evie stepped in front of him, a protective barrier between him and the throng, her presence a comforting shield amid the chaos.
"Funny," she said crisply, her tone cutting through the chatter, "how none of you bothered to ask what it takes to actually defeat a Mahoutokoro prodigy. Or how many of us endured painstaking months of training before this match."
One of the reporters, with a smirk plastered on his face, leaned in closer. "Are you his spokeswoman?" he taunted, clearly enjoying the attention.
"I'm his teammate," she replied coolly, her expression unyielding. "And if you're searching for a genuine scandal, look no further than Uagadou—one of their duelists accidentally transfigured a judge's robe into a flock of flamingos just yesterday."
Laughter rippled through the group, and the reporters shifted their focus like a flock of crows drawn to fresh bait at the sight of new sensational material.
Feeling the tension in the air, Evie seized Severus's sleeve and pulled him away from the gathering of eager journalists.
"You're welcome," she muttered under her breath, a trace of exasperation in her voice as they moved away.
Severus, usually so serious, offered her a rare smirk. "I'll repay you by hexing your next opponent into a tree," he quipped, the corners of his mouth twitching playfully.
"Tempting," she said with a light laugh. "But I'd much rather you just keep winning."
Duelling Simulator Chamber – Salzburg Fortress
The spell dummy buckled backward under the force of the magical blast, its chest sparking as layers of simulated flesh cracked and smoldered. James stood poised, wand arm extended and chest heaving for breath, beads of sweat trickling down his brow. A dull ache throbbed in his left shoulder, a reminder of the sharp hit he'd taken during his Day 1 duel, but he resolutely brushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.
His wand hand trembled slightly, betraying the tension coursing through him. The silence following the spell was oppressive, wrapping around the training room like a thick fog until it was cut through by his coach's voice—sharp and distinctly unimpressed.
"Sloppy," the man remarked bluntly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You delayed the second incantation. Again. And instead of finesse, you're relying on raw power when precision is what's required. Dueling isn't a pissing contest, Potter—it's war."
James's jaw clenched in frustration as he lowered his wand, feeling a surge of indignation. "I won yesterday, didn't I?" he shot back, the defiance evident in his voice.
"Barely," chimed in his mother's voice from the shadows of the training corner—smooth as winter ice, cutting through the air with an unforgiving chill.
Lady Dorea Potter stood with her arms crossed, her expression a mask of stoicism that revealed none of her thoughts. Beside her, Remus Lupin shifted uncomfortably, his posture betraying his desire to be anywhere but in this tense moment. His robes, slightly too snug for his frame, were clearly hand-me-downs, tailored with a careful precision that only emphasized their inadequacy.
"Come on," Sirius Black interjected, his voice light and casual as he reclined against the practice room railing. His demeanor, infused with youthful confidence, aimed to dissolve the tension hanging in the air. "Everyone starts out a bit rough. Prongs just needs to loosen up and find his rhythm again."
He shot James an encouraging grin, his eyes alight with unwavering loyalty. "You're a bloody Potter. Just let your wand remember what it's capable of."
James's gaze flicked toward Sirius—his best friend, his constant companion, an extension of himself—and then to Remus, who remained silent, his lack of a smile palpable.
Sirius, determined to uplift the atmosphere, clapped his hands once, the sound echoing in the room. "Oi, Coach! Instead of delivering lectures, how about letting the lad duel someone real? He's not just some clerk scribbling forms—he's a fighter at heart."
"He's not fighting. He's reacting." The coach's voice cut through the tension in the air, steady and resolute. "And he's wasting his potential trying to impress shadows."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging in the space, palpable and heavy.
James turned back toward the training dummy, determination etched on his face. "Reset it," he commanded, his voice rising above the stillness.
The dummy shimmered to life once more, adjusting to more intense reaction settings. Its wand-arm glowed faintly blue, signaling an upgrade—it was faster, more intelligent, and utterly unforgiving.
With a fierce intensity, James launched into a disarming sequence. First, a hex crackled from his wand, swiftly followed by a jinx. He raised his shield, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline, but then the dummy struck back. A mirrored charm caught the final spell, sending it hurtling towards him like a vengeance.
In an instant, the floor erupted beneath his feet. Dust swirled into the air as heat from the impact enveloped him, causing him to stumble backward, momentarily disoriented.
"Damn it!" James hissed through gritted teeth, frustration lacing his voice.
"Focus!" barked the coach, his tone sharp, cutting through James's haze of irritation.
From the periphery, Remus stepped forward at last, his movement cautious yet determined. "James… you're not doing this for him, are you?" he asked, concern threading through his voice.
James turned to face him, his eyes blazing with defiance. "Who?" he shot back, confusion and anger swirling within him.
Remus remained quiet, knowing that his silence spoke volumes to Severus.
"You need to win for yourself," Remus said softly, his tone earnest as he glanced at James. "Not out of spite or to chase him. If you don't, you're just setting yourself up to break."
For a moment, it seemed like James might erupt into anger, laugh in disbelief, or perhaps conjure a hex in frustration. Yet, he chose to remain silent, the intensity of his emotions evident in his tense posture.
Behind them, Dorea Potter watched intently, her arms still crossed over her chest. Her sharp and intelligent eyes remained fixed on her son, absorbing the dynamic unfolding before her. She refrained from contributing to the conversation, but her gaze tightened every time Sirius spoke. Memories of laughter shared in hushed tones behind closed doors flashed through her mind. Sirius had always been the one to provoke, to push boundaries, while Remus had tirelessly tried to bring balance to the chaotic energy of their friendship.
This tournament was revealing vulnerabilities in her son—fractures that worried her far more than the prospect of losing any competition.
Sirius suddenly pushed himself away from the railing, an easy grin spreading across his face. "You're fine, mate. Don't listen to all this gloom. You just need to punch through it. Like we always do."
James remained silent, his focus unwavering as he directed his wand at the dummy in front of him. His next spell struck with an intensity that surprised him, causing the dummy to stagger back. However, the force of the spell seemed to rebound on him, and he felt an unsettling jolt of energy ripple through his body.
Despite the turmoil within, he remained mute, his thoughts racing as he processed the whirlwind of emotions.
Remus observed him closely, his fingers fidgeting anxiously at his side, an unmistakable tension radiating from him. It was evident that he longed to voice his concerns, to reach out to his friend in a moment of evident distress. Yet the weight of unspoken words hung heavily in the air, stifling his resolve.
He understood all too well the precariousness of his situation—the delicate balance he needed to maintain, mindful of the sacrifices his friends had made to protect his secret. For now, he decided against pressing further.
Not when James appeared like a tempest, teetering on the brink of chaos, held together only by sheer determination, sweat glistening on his brow betraying his inner turmoil.
In the corner of the room, Dorea watched silently, closing her eyes for a brief moment as she channeled her hopes. She silently wished that someone—anyone—could reach her son, to penetrate the storm that consumed him before it spiraled beyond control.
Noble Lounge – North Wing
The parchment arrived carefully folded, its wax seal unbroken yet unmistakably familiar. Alessandro unfolded it with deliberate slowness, his eyes scanning the elegant and meticulous penmanship that filled the page.
"Whispers among the sponsor elite suggest that the order of Day Two's draws is… negotiable. Some houses have already made 'suggestions' to the adjudicators. Be ready. Not everyone believes in fair sport."
– Benedetta
He let out a weary sigh, watching the flames consume the note until all that remained was a wisp of smoke. Later, in the dim light of Severus's chamber, he conveyed the alarming message he had received.
"They're trying to rig the matchups," Alessandro stated with a steely resolve, his expression unyielding. "Someone's scared."
Severus regarded him thoughtfully, tilting his head slightly. "Then they should be," he replied, his voice steady.
"But if they target you in Round One—" Alessandro's concern seeped through his words, a hint of urgency in his tone.
"I'll survive," Severus interrupted firmly. "I've prepared for worse than mere games."
"Just don't trust the schedule. Or the smiles that come with it," Alessandro advised, his brow furrowing as he thought of the deceptions at play.
"I don't," Severus murmured, a shadow passing over his face. "Not even yours."
Alessandro snorted, a flicker of amusement breaking through his serious demeanor. "Good."
Fortress Rooftop Terrace
The stars above Salzburg shone brightly, indifferent to the secrets held beneath their gaze. Severus sat cross-legged on the cool ground, a blank sheet of parchment resting against his knees, quill poised in his hand. Before him lay a letter destined for Arcturus—coded and layered, yet deeply personal.
He poured his thoughts onto the page, carefully weaving words about battle rhythms and feints, the intricate dance of tactical maneuvers. He spoke of the relentless pressure of their adversaries, the icy resolve he saw in James's eyes contrasting sharply with the fierce warmth radiating from Evie's defense. Each word was a brushstroke, painting a vivid picture of strategy and emotion.
He concluded with a poignant reflection: "If Day One was the opening move, then Day Two is when they'll try to corner me. I intend to let them. Only fools rush to close a trap before it's set." The resolve in his voice echoed in the quiet night as he folded the letter with care. After a swift incantation, he enchanted it, infusing it with a protective charm, then tucked it securely away in his robes.
Eva? Severus called in his kind.
"Here" Her voice emerged, crisp and analytical, cutting through the stillness like a knife.
" Any observations?" Severus asked.
"Seven of the top fifty reuse spells after four moves. Three are reliant on visual line of sight. One is terrified of constriction. Pattern archive updated"
Severus closed his eyes, absorbing her insights like a sponge, processing the information.
Somewhere below him, laughter echoed through the night air—a sound filled with warmth and camaraderie. But it was not his laughter that mingled with the stars.
Far across the fortress, Isadora Zabini sat at her sturdy oak desk, a quill poised delicately in her fingers. The flickering candlelight cast shadows around her, illuminating the latest page of "Project Orbis." With a focused determination, she inscribed three words beneath Severus's name.
Emotionally contained.
Predictive thinker.
Dangerous when patient.
With a deliberate motion, she circled the last line in a vivid red ink, the color symbolizing both caution and menace. The tension in the air felt palpable, charged with unspoken possibilities. Under the silvery glow of the moonlight filtering through the window, two prodigies—each a master of strategy in their own right—penned their thoughts about one another.
They were not just preparing for a tournament; they were readying for an impending war that stretched beyond the boundaries of any competition, one that the tournament had never intended to test.
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