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Chapter 110 - Chapter 107 – Beneath the Surface

Dining Hall – Lunch Break

The dining hall hummed with a palpable tension, an electric atmosphere that hinted at the looming challenges ahead. Scrolls floated gracefully above the round stone table, each one revealing intricately drawn brackets for Round Two of the competition. Magical glyphs shifted and glowed every few seconds, names rearranging dynamically while platforms recalibrated to reflect the latest matchups.

Evie was the first to break the silence. "Spell-dancer from Uagadou," she said, her voice steady. "Known for her quick footwork and an array of indirect spells. She ranked third in yesterday's bout."

Severus leaned forward, his finger tapping a neat mark beside the duelist's name. "You'll need to interrupt her rhythm," he instructed with a calculated tone. "Anchor your stance. Stay alert for those two-second deceleration gaps; that's when she'll be vulnerable."

Evie nodded, a look of determination in her eyes. "You catch patterns like most people catch their breath," she remarked, impressed with Severus's keen analytical skills.

Alessandro, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, chimed in with a hint of frustration in his voice. "I've got the Russian in my match." His tone conveyed his displeasure. "He takes hits like a troll and hits back harder, launching spells like he's smashing granite."

Severus added, his gaze focused. "He burned through two shields yesterday just using physical reinforcement alone," he cautioned. "Your best bet is to overwhelm him with velocity. Don't allow him to settle into a defensive stance; keep the pressure on."

Alessandro muttered a sharp curse under his breath in Italian, clearly displeased with his draw.

Ben, lounging casually at the edge of the table with a casual grin, broke the tension with flair. "And I'm facing James bloody Potter," he announced, his tone laced with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

All three turned to look at him, surprise etched on their faces.

Ben chuckled at their shocked expressions. "Oh come on, don't look so surprised! The draw really hates him more than I do."

Evie's lips curved into a slight smile. "Lucky you," she said, the hint of mischief in her tone.

Ben rolled his shoulders to shake off any tension. "What do I need to know about him?" he asked, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of curiosity.

Severus didn't respond immediately. He focused intently on the scroll in front of him, his fingers tracing the intricate symbols as if seeking deeper understanding before answering. "He's impulsive. Prefers brute force over finesse. He will attack hard and early, hoping to dominate the situation from the very start," he explained, his voice calm and measured.

Ben's grin faded, replaced with a more serious expression. "Anger?" he questioned, sensing the potential danger.

"Always lurking just beneath the surface," Severus confirmed, his tone unwavering. "He flares up quickly if provoked. He struggles with redirection spells and often overcommits himself during high-adrenaline exchanges, leaving him vulnerable."

Evie arched an eyebrow, intrigued. "You say that like you've dueled him a hundred times," she remarked, her interest piqued.

Severus offered the faintest nod, a gesture that spoke volumes without needing words.

Ben tilted his head thoughtfully, trying to decipher more from Severus's inscrutable expression, but found nothing revealing. The stillness in the air was palpable, wrapping around them like a heavy blanket.

Alessandro, feeling the tension rise, wanted to contribute something to the discussion but held back, choosing not to press further.

They all understood that Severus spoke like a tactician, his words carefully chosen to convey strategy rather than emotion. But Alessandro also recognized that familiar tone—the one Severus used when he was retreating inward. It was the tone that transformed vivid memories into calculated strategies, a means to distance himself from the potential sting of past experiences.

The others dispersed to warm-up rooms and briefing stations, each absorbed in their own preparations. Ben slung his wandbelt over his shoulder, the leather cool against his skin, and was about to step out when he felt a firm grip on his arm. He turned to find Alessandro, his expression more earnest than usual.

"Walk with me," Alessandro said, his voice low yet commanding.

Ben arched a brow, a flicker of curiosity igniting within him, but he complied, his boots thudding rhythmically against the ancient flagstone as they moved. They traversed a vaulted corridor adorned with tall, narrow arches that seemed to stretch infinitely above them. Faint beams of sunlight filtered through the slender slits, casting ethereal lines across the cold floor, reminiscent of the bars of a cage, further amplifying the sense of confinement that loomed in the air.

As they advanced, the atmosphere thickened, and they came to a halt near a dimly lit alcove draped in heavy curtains. Alessandro turned to face Ben, his gaze steady and unusually grave.

"I want you to do more than win," he declared, his voice taut with intensity.

Ben tilted his head, a mixture of intrigue and concern etched on his features. "Meaning?"

"I want it public. Controlled. But humiliating." Alessandro's words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Ben blinked, the weight of the request settling uneasily in his mind. "You're not just asking for a victory. You want a message."

Alessandro met his gaze without flinching. "Yes."

Ben crossed his arms, the gesture instinctively defensive, but a softening note crept into his voice. "Is this about Severus?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

Alessandro offered a brief, affirmative nod. "James Potter and his little gang made Severus's life a nightmare at Hogwarts," he explained, his tone laced with lingering resentment.

Ben furrowed his brow, processing the weight of Alessandro's words. "I always assumed they weren't friends, but—"

"They weren't rivals," Alessandro interjected sharply, his intensity heightening. "It wasn't just typical schoolyard dueling or boys being boys. No, it was something much worse—systematic cruelty."

Ben studied Alessandro, sensing the deep-seated pain behind his words.

"He won't talk about it," Alessandro confessed, his voice dropping to a whisper as if revealing a closely guarded secret. "Not completely. Aurora and I—we know fragments, just bits and pieces. It's not enough. There are certain incidents we've pieced together. For instance, there's a corridor he avoids as if it's cursed. And the way he freezes at specific sounds, the way he stops breathing when someone casually mentions the 'cloak prank'... it's haunting him still."

Ben's expression turned grim, a shadow crossing his face as the implications settled in.

Alessandro pressed on, his voice flat yet charged with remembered fury. "The first time I witnessed him flinch wasn't during a fight—it was during a thunderstorm. Aurora somehow learned the details from Severus. He had to go to the Hogwarts infirmary with half his robes melted into his skin. And what's shocking is that not a single teacher acknowledged what happened."

An oppressive silence filled the air, the weight of unspoken horrors hanging between them.

"I didn't know," Ben muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "He never talks about that stuff."

"No," Alessandro replied quietly, his expression somber. "Because he's trying to rise above it. But just because he remains silent doesn't mean he's truly healed."

Ben looked down, his jaw clenching tightly as he wrestled with the revelation. "He carries himself like he's made of iron," he remarked, a hint of admiration mixed with concern lacing his tone.

"He is," Alessandro affirmed, his gaze steady. "But even iron remembers the hammer. The scars can linger beneath the surface."

Ben stared at the floor for a moment longer, lost in thought, before finally lifting his head. "Alright. I'll make sure Potter remembers what it's like to feel small," he declared, a spark of determination igniting in his eyes.

Alessandro nodded once, his expression grave. "Just don't underestimate him. James fights like someone who's been told he's special all his life. And that means he panics the instant someone makes him feel ordinary."

A gleam of mischief flickered in Ben's eyes. "Perfect," he said, a plan forming in his mind.

They parted without exchanging another word, each wrapped in their own thoughts about the challenges ahead.

Duel Arena – Late Afternoon

The air was thick with the electric tension of spectators and the palpable energy of magic, the crackle of residual wards humming beneath the surface like an unseen current. James Potter stepped onto the platform, his jaw clenched tightly in determination, wand poised firmly in his hand, ready for whatever challenge lay ahead.

Across from him stood Ben Hale, a formidable presence with broad shoulders and an air of collected ease. He held his wand casually, as if he were simply indulging in a casual pastime rather than preparing for a duel. James recognized him as the same boy who had been shadowing Severus Shafiq all week—laughing, scheming, and positioned like a loyal guard dog at Severus's side.

James narrowed his eyes, irritation coiling within him. Of course he's one of his.

The announcer's voice boomed through the charged atmosphere, crisp and clear: "James Potter – Independent Candidate, Great Britain. Ben Hale – Independent Candidate, United States."

There was a fleeting pause, just long enough for James to shift his gaze toward the observation balcony. His heart raced as he spotted Severus, wrapped in a throng of supporters once more. Evie stood just beside him, her expression intense, while Alessandro leaned in close, whispering something at Severus's shoulder, further solidifying the alliance that fueled James's frustration.

Not even glancing in my direction, Ben stood poised.

The chime rang, its sound echoing through the arena.

Still, Ben didn't budge.

James initiated the duel with a swift, direct strike—an attack that radiated precision and confidence. It was a hex crafted to immobilize, designed to entrap both the legs and wrists in a single, fluid motion.

With an effortless flick, Ben swatted it aside as if it were nothing more than an irritating mosquito.

And then, surprisingly, he smiled.

The duel had officially commenced.

Initially, James relied on sheer force—unleashing powerful blasts, ricocheting projectiles, and arcs of raw magical energy that crackled in the air. Yet, Ben evaded them all with an elegant grace. He toyed with the onslaught, sidestepping and dodging when he didn't have to, parrying just enough to redirect spells into wild, dramatic trajectories.

The crowd held its breath, their eyes fixed on the spectacle.

But for Ben, this was not a performance.

He was dismantling his opponent's every move with calculated precision.

James lunged forward, unleashing a flurry of fire and pressure hexes—intended to rattle even the most stalwart adversaries. But to Ben, they posed no threat. He countered with a series of water spells, each one expertly cast to extinguish flames mid-air. Allowing James to build a false sense of momentum, Ben methodically dismantled the barrage, spell by spell, stance by stance, showcasing a mastery of magic that transcended mere tactics.

James's frustration mounted as beads of sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision. Determined to regain control, he shifted his strategy, unleashing a series of illusion-based distractions, smoke screens, and rapid rebounding volleys. But Ben, with an uncanny instinct, adapted seamlessly, reading James's rhythm as if it were an open book.

As the minutes ticked by, the toll of the duel became evident. By the fifteenth minute, James was panting heavily, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. By twenty minutes in, his shirt clung to his skin, damp with sweat and his movements grew increasingly sluggish, as fatigue set in and he fought to maintain his concentration. Ben, in contrast, remained composed and unflustered, seemingly unaffected; not a single droplet of sweat had formed on his brow. He flashed a confident smile, further fueling James's mounting irritation.

Then came the moment of humiliation. With a flick of his wrist, Ben cast a movement curse that caused James's foot to become temporarily glued to the ground—just long enough for the audience to notice the awkwardness. Laughter erupted around him, echoing in the space between them. He allowed James to free himself before repeating the same curse with razor precision five minutes later, leaving James crimson with embarrassment.

Fuming, James retaliated by hurling a barrage of advanced spells, desperation fueling his attacks. However, his aim faltered under pressure, the fatigue evident in his trembling hand as he struggled to focus amidst the mounting frustration.

Ben countered one of the incoming spells, not through traditional magic but by stepping forward with confidence. He extended his hand and caught the spell on a brilliantly polished reflective ward, executing the maneuver with such precision that the bolt of light ricocheted upward, bursting like a firework in the air above them.

A collective gasp rippled through the audience, a mix of awe and surprise at the display of skill.

James's mother watched intently, her face a mask of concern transformed by moments of pride. His father leaned forward in his seat, his eyes narrowing, taking in the unexpected turn of events, although he remained silent, allowing the tension to build.

From the sidelines, Sirius shouted something supportive—his voice infused with encouragement, perhaps—but Remus chose to look away, grappling with his own mixed emotions.

James staggered back, disoriented but still resolute, determination etched on his features.

Yet Ben, despite the advantage he had gained, did not press the attack. Instead, he held his ground, a steady gaze fixed on his opponent, waiting patiently.

With unwavering focus, he allowed James to try again, pushing through the frustration and fatigue.

And again.

And again.

As the clock ticked past the thirty-one-minute mark, it became clear that James was barely standing, his energy waning, yet the fire within him refused to extinguish.

Finally, Ben lifted his wand and, with a graceful flick, cast a disarming charm that flowed like a whisper through the air, so smooth and understated that it felt as if the duel had relinquished itself without a struggle. In an instant, James's wand was wrenched from his grasp, soaring away into the atmosphere.

A heavy silence enveloped the arena.

Then, as if waiting for the tension to erupt, thunderous applause erupted from the crowd.

But to his dismay, the applause was not meant for him.

Ben acknowledged the crowd with a slight bow—not a deep, ostentatious gesture, but just enough to convey respect and recognition of his victory.

James stood paralyzed, caught in a moment that felt like an eternity. He could sense the heat of countless eyes fixed upon him, could feel the rapid thudding of his heart echoing violently in his skull, drowning out the roar of the audience.

When his gaze finally flicked up to meet Severus's, he found the other boy watching him intently. Severus's expression was inscrutable, a mask of calm that revealed nothing. His posture was relaxed, exuding an easy confidence that contrasted sharply with the turmoil inside James. Yet, there was not a hint of malice in Severus's demeanor—only an unnerving indifference that stung even more.

James Potter left the platform in silence, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, the weight of defeat heavy on his shoulders.

Ben Hale hadn't just bested him in this duel; he had laid bare his vulnerabilities, exposing secrets that James had fought so hard to keep hidden.

James couldn't recall stepping away from the platform. His legs were on autopilot, carrying him off the dais and down the grand marble steps, into the cool, shadowy corridor that wound beneath the majestic stands of the fortress. The echoes of applause still buzzed in his ears, a mocking sound that felt like a personal affront.

He didn't catch the moment when a silent attendant returned his wand to him, nor did he take notice of the murmurs of the staff or the reporters lurking behind enchanted glass, their eager faces pressed against the barriers as if waiting for a glimpse of his reaction. All he felt was a deep, desperate desire to vanish from it all.

Just then, a door slammed shut behind him, jolting him from his reverie. He turned around sharply to see his tutor standing there, arms crossed tightly over his chest and lips drawn into a thin, disapproving line.

"Thirty-two minutes," the man stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "You lasted thirty-two minutes, and not once did you take control of the match."

James opened his mouth, ready to offer a defense, but the words caught in his throat, leaving him speechless.

"I told you to study Hale's style. You saw how he fought yesterday. Did you really think brute force would be enough?"

James muttered under his breath, his teeth clenched in frustration. "He humiliated me."

"No, you humiliated yourself," the tutor retorted sharply. "You believed you were the hero of your own story, that dueling was all about pride. You lost your composure. You lost your tempo. Most importantly, you lost—"

"—to a thug!" James interjected, his voice rising in indignation. "He's not even a proper—"

The tutor's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "If you say that again, I will recuse myself from your sponsorship."

A cold chill ran through James, freezing him in place.

Silence stretched awkwardly between them, thick with tension.

Then—

"James."

His mother's voice cut through the stillness.

Dorea Potter stood in the archway, impeccably dressed, her expression carefully controlled, and her eyes unreadable. Her gloved hands were folded neatly in front of her, a posture reminiscent of someone attending a somber funeral.

Behind her, Sirius lingered, hovering awkwardly in the shadows. "It wasn't that bad," he offered, attempting to sound reassuring but coming off as contrived. "You held your own for a long time—he just caught you off-guard. It was more of a… strategy thing."

Stepping closer, Remus spoke in a hushed tone, the weight of his words heavy with meaning. "He didn't just win, James. He played the long game. You handed him the script to follow."

James's chest heaved with a mix of anger and despair. "He did it for him, didn't he? For Severus."

No one answered, the silence hanging heavily in the air. Sirius turned his gaze away, feeling an uncomfortable swirl of emotions. Remus's jaw tightened in frustration, the tension radiating from him palpable. Even Dorea, usually composed, blinked slowly, her gaze deliberate as if trying to process the moment fully.

"Why is everyone acting like I deserved this?" James spat, his voice hushed yet fierce. "He's his friend. Of course, he targeted me, it was obvious!" The indignation in his tone barely masked the vulnerability beneath.

"Then why couldn't you stop him?" his tutor replied, the coldness in his voice cutting like a razor. Each word felt like a blow, deeper than any curse could inflict.

Dorea's voice emerged softly into the charged atmosphere. "Do you know what frightened me most, James?" She broke the silence, her expression a mixture of concern and pity.

He looked up sharply, intrigued despite the turmoil swirling within him.

"That boy didn't hate you," she continued with a serene yet haunting intensity. "Not one spell he cast came from a place of anger. He beat you because you weren't worth hating." Her words hung in the air, a chilling realization that struck at the very core of James's being.

James recoiled as if he had been physically struck, the shock of her departure sending a jolt through his entire body. She turned and walked away, her silhouette growing fainter against the dim light of the hallway. Sirius lingered for only a brief moment, his expression torn between loyalty and concern, before hastily following her, the sound of his footsteps echoing softly behind him.

Remus remained where he was, his eyes fixed on James. "I'm still your friend, James," he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the chilly silence. "But you've got to stop chasing ghosts. If you walk into the next stage of your life thinking of revenge—"

James's voice broke, a tremor betraying the turmoil within him. "I'm not thinking of revenge," he insisted, but the words felt hollow even to him.

Remus tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowed with concern. "Then what are you thinking of?" he pressed gently, searching James's face for answers.

But James had no answer. He was still standing there, frozen in the cold hallway, wand clutched tightly in his hand. The shame he felt was a fierce, pulsing heat, burning hotter than any spell cast by Ben Hale, a weight that felt almost unbearable.

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