The Portkey was an old boot that sat innocuously on Professor Hecat's desk.

  At precisely six o'clock on the morning of June first, the Hogwarts dueling team gathered in her office. Rowan, Alexander Sterling, Anastasia Greengrass, and Sarah Bones, along with Hecat herself.

  "Everyone touch the Portkey," Hecat instructed. "Keep hold until we land. Mr. Ashcroft, this will be your first time using international Portkey travel. It's more disorienting than the short-range version. Try not to vomit on arrival."

  "Professor," Sterling spoke up. "How are we able to use a Portkey from inside Hogwarts? I thought the castle's wards prevented unauthorized magical transportation."

  "They do. But Headmistress Mole controls the wards. She's granted specific permission for this Portkey to function within her office. The wards will allow us to depart but will prevent anyone from arriving without her authorization."

  Rowan reached out and placed his finger on the cracked leather of the boot. The moment all five of them had made contact, something yanked him forward from behind his navel.

  Then the world dissolved into a spinning blur of colors and sensations that seemed to go on forever.

  They landed in a heap on smooth marble flooring. Rowan managed to stay on his feet, though his stomach churned violently and his head spun. Around him, the others were recovering with varying degrees of success. Sterling looked mildly nauseated, while Bones was distinctly green.

  "Welcome to Paris," a voice said in heavily accented English.

  A French wizard in elaborate blue robes stood before them, smiling. "I am Jean-Baptiste Delacour, liaison for the International Confederation of Wizards. You must be the Hogwarts delegation. Welcome to the Palais de la Confédération Internationale."

  Rowan looked around, taking in his surroundings.

  Vast entrance hall. Soaring ceilings. Ornate decoration everywhere. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, casting rainbow light through the space. Marble columns rose to support a dome painted with scenes of magical history. And everywhere, wizards and witches in robes of different styles moved with purpose, speaking in languages Rowan didn't understand.

  "The competition begins tomorrow," Delacour continued. "You have accommodations on the third floor. Quarters for students and separate lodging for Professor Hecat. The opening ceremony is tonight at eight o'clock in the Grand Arena. I suggest you rest and explore the Palais before then. Paris itself is off-limits until after the tournament concludes. We cannot have competitors getting lost or injured."

  They were led up elegant staircases to their quarters. A suite of rooms far more luxurious than anything at Hogwarts. Each competitor had a private bedroom with an actual bed, a shared common area with comfortable furniture, and large windows overlooking the Paris skyline.

  "This is incredible," Bones breathed, staring out at the view.

  "Don't get too comfortable," Greengrass said coolly. "We're here to compete, not sightsee." She glanced at Rowan with barely concealed skepticism. "Speaking of which, are we really bringing a first year to an international championship? No offense, Ashcroft, but this seems like madness."

  "He's beaten fifth years consistently," Sterling said. "Trust Hecat's judgment. Ashcroft earned his spot."

  "We'll see," Greengrass said, though her tone suggested she had serious doubts.

  Rowan unpacked his trunk methodically, organizing his belongings with practiced efficiency. He'd brought his wand, his Occlumency book for evening meditation, the journal Iris had given him, and several textbooks for study between tournament events.

  He was here to win. But any downtime was an opportunity to learn.

  The opening ceremony that evening was spectacular.

  The Grand Arena was a massive amphitheater that could easily hold a thousand spectators, with a raised platform in the center where competitors would duel. The ceiling was enchanted to show the night sky. Similar to Hogwarts' Great Hall but somehow more vivid, the stars seeming close enough to touch.

  Students from seven schools filed in, each group wearing robes in their school colors and carrying banners. Rowan recognized some from descriptions in his books: Beauxbatons in powder blue silk, moving with practiced grace. Durmstrang in heavy furs and crimson, looking grim and dangerous. Ilvermorny in cranberry and gold, their delegation unsurprisingly diverse compared to the predominantly white European schools.

  There were also schools Rowan had barely heard of: Castelobruxo from Brazil in bright green, Mahoutokoro from Japan in elegant white and gold, Uagadou from Uganda in robes that seemed to shift color as they moved.

  When the Hogwarts delegation entered, Rowan felt dozens of eyes fix on him.

  He was by far the youngest competitor visible. Most teams consisted of fifth through seventh years. A few students from other schools pointed and whispered to each other, their expressions ranging from amusement to disdain.

  "Look at that," a Durmstrang student sneered in heavily accented English, loud enough for Rowan to hear. "The British brought a child. How desperate they must be."

  "Perhaps they are confused about what tournament they entered," another replied, and several students laughed.

  Rowan kept his expression neutral, his Occlumency training allowing him to ignore the mockery completely.

  Let them underestimate him. It would make victory more satisfying.

  The ceremony proceeded with speeches from various officials. The French Minister of Magic, a portly man named Octave Devereaux, welcomed everyone to Paris and spoke at length about international magical cooperation. The Head of the International Confederation, a stern witch named Helga Hoffmeyer, outlined the tournament's purpose. To strengthen bonds between magical communities and identify promising young wizards for future leadership roles.

  Then came the tournament rules, explained by a witch who introduced herself as the Tournament Master, Perenelle Flamel.

  Rowan's attention sharpened at the name.

  Flamel. Could it be—?

  "The tournament consists of individual duels," Flamel said, her voice carrying easily through the arena despite her apparent age. She looked to be in her sixties, with silver hair and sharp intelligent eyes. "Single elimination bracket, one-on-one combat. Each school has submitted up to four competitors. The brackets will be randomly drawn. You may face students from any school, at any skill level."

  She paused, letting the information sink in.

  "Gold medal is awarded to first place, silver to second, bronze to third. The school with the gold medal wins the championship trophy."

  She smiled slightly. "The duels begin in two days. Tomorrow is for preparation and strategy. Use it wisely. And remember, this tournament is not just about winning. It's about demonstrating skill, sportsmanship, and the values of your respective schools. You represent not just yourselves, but your nations' magical communities."

  After the ceremony, the students were released to socialize. Most gravitated toward students from their own schools, forming tight clusters. A few brave souls approached competitors from other schools to introduce themselves and exchange polite greetings.

  Rowan found himself approached by a Beauxbatons student. A girl perhaps sixteen years old, with silvery-blonde hair and features that were a shade too perfect, the kind of beauty that made you look twice and then forget what you'd been thinking. Rowan's Occlumency caught the faintest pull at the edge of his awareness, like a whisper he hadn't quite heard. Veela allure, or he was very much mistaken. She looked him up and down with obvious skepticism.

  "You are the British first year?" she asked in precise, accented English. "They truly brought such a young student to compete?"

  "I'm eleven," Rowan said calmly. "But age doesn't determine magical ability."

  "Perhaps not. But experience matters in dueling. How many tournaments have you fought in?"

  "None. This is my first."

  She laughed, a tinkling sound that somehow managed to be condescending. "Then you will learn quickly why children your age do not typically compete at this level. I am Apolline Beaumont, fifth year at Beauxbatons. I have competed in seven youth tournaments and won four. You will not last past the first round."

  "We'll see," Rowan said mildly, refusing to be provoked.

  A Durmstrang student joined the conversation. A tall, broad-shouldered boy with a heavy accent and a scar across his cheek. "I am Viktor Koldovstoretz. You are very small for duelist. Why do the British send you?"

  "Because I'm good enough to be here," Rowan replied simply.

  "Good enough?" Viktor snorted. "We will see. At Durmstrang, we train from age seven. We study combat magic, war tactics, strength and endurance. What do you study at Hogwarts? Tea parties and polite conversation?"

  Several nearby students laughed. Rowan felt Sterling tense beside him, ready to defend their school's honor, but Rowan spoke first.

  "We study magic in all its forms. Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, and Herbology. A comprehensive education that makes us versatile rather than specialized. Perhaps that's why British wizards have contributed more to magical innovation than any other nation in the past century."

  The laugh died in Viktor's throat, and his expression darkened. "Careful, little boy. Your tongue may earn you enemies."

  "I'm not looking for friends," Rowan said. "I'm here to compete. Excuse me."

  He walked away before the confrontation could escalate, Sterling following with an approving grin.

  "That was well handled," Sterling said quietly. "You didn't back down, but you didn't escalate either. Very diplomatic for someone who claims not to be looking for friends."

  "There's a difference between diplomacy and friendship," Rowan replied. "They want me to be intimidated, to doubt myself. Showing weakness would be worse than being rude."

  The next day was dedicated to preparation. The tournament organizers had set up practice arenas where students could train, and most competitors took advantage to work on technique and strategy.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  Rowan spent the morning in one of the smaller practice rooms, drilling his chain casting and working on the advanced techniques that Hecat had taught him in their private sessions. He ran through wandless drills too, casting without his wand until the familiar frustration settled in. Still only functional under pressure. Still useless when he tried to force it.

  That evening, the brackets were announced in the Grand Arena. Single elimination. Not every school had sent a full team. Of the seven, only Hogwarts and Beauxbatons had brought four competitors. One school had sent three, another had sent two, and the remaining three had sent only one each. Sixteen competitors meant four rounds total. Quarterfinals, semifinals, and the final match.

  Rowan's first match was against a fifth-year from Mahoutokoro named Takeshi Yamamoto. The murmur that went through the crowd when the pairing was announced was audible. Pity for the young British student who'd been matched against one of Japan's top competitors.

  Rowan studied his opponent from across the arena. Yamamoto was tall, composed, and moved with the kind of discipline Madam Kogawa had described when she'd talked about her years training at Mahoutokoro. She'd explained that their combat tradition was built around ofuda, paper strips inscribed with kanji that carried pre-loaded spells. A skilled practitioner could throw several in the time it took a European duelist to cast twice, because the casting was done beforehand.

  She'd also mentioned shikigami, animated paper constructs given temporary life through the wand, though she'd been vague about the details. "Advanced technique," she'd said. "Difficult to counter if you haven't seen it before."

  He would be a formidable opponent.

  That night, Rowan meditated in his room, preparing mentally for the tournament. Kogawa had told him to watch the hands, not the wand. Ofuda had to be thrown physically, which meant readable movement. But shikigami moved independently of the caster, and a fifth-year would have practiced extensively. He couldn't plan for what he hadn't seen.

  He also thought about his own advantages. Yamamoto wouldn't expect a first year to know advanced spells or be capable of chain casting. The surprise factor would be valuable. But only for the first exchange. After that, he'd need to rely on pure skill.

  Rowan cleared his mind, organized his thoughts, and ran through what mental simulations he could manage against a fighting style he'd never faced.

  By the time he slept, he was as ready as he'd ever be.

  The next morning dawned bright and clear. The individual duels would take place throughout the day, with multiple matches running simultaneously in different arenas. Rowan's match was scheduled for ten o'clock in Arena Two. One of the smaller venues, suggesting the organizers expected it to be a quick, unremarkable defeat for the young British student.

  He arrived early, wand in hand, and found the arena already filling with spectators. Most were students from various schools, come to watch what they expected would be an amusing mismatch. Some pointed at him and whispered. Others laughed openly.

  Yamamoto arrived precisely at ten, bowing formally before taking his position at the opposite end of the dueling platform. His robes were pale gold, which Kogawa had told him meant top marks in every subject at Mahoutokoro. His left hand held the fan of ofuda loosely at his side.

  The referee, a stern French witch, positioned herself to the side.

  "This is a regulation duel under International Confederation rules," she announced in English and then French. "There will be no Dark magic, permanent harm, or interference from spectators. The duel ends when one competitor is disarmed, unconscious, or forced from the ring. Competitors, bow to each other."

  Rowan bowed, and Yamamoto returned the gesture with perfect form.

  "Wands at the ready."

  Rowan raised his wand, settling into the dueling stance Hecat had drilled into him over months of practice. His mind was clear, his emotions perfectly controlled through Occlumency, his magic ready to respond.

  Yamamoto raised his cherry-wood wand in his right hand. His left drew back slightly.

  "Begin!"

  Three strips of paper sailed from his left hand in a spreading fan. They ignited with pale blue light the moment they left his fingers and detonated in sequence, three concussive blasts arriving from different angles within a half-second of each other.

  Rowan's wand slashed downward. "Protego!" The silvery shield materialized just in time, curving slightly in front of him. The first blast splashed against it like water against glass, dissipating into sparks. The second hit from the left and the barrier absorbed it without rippling. The third came low, aimed at his feet, and broke against the shield's lower edge.

  Across the platform, Yamamoto's eyes widened fractionally. The first crack in his composed expression. A first year shouldn't be able to produce a shield that strong or that stable against a triple-angle assault.

  He adjusted immediately, his stance shifting forward. Two more ofuda appeared between his fingers. He threw the first at the platform between them, and it erupted on contact, orange flame spreading across the wood in a rushing line. Before Rowan could react, the second strip hit the flames. Water burst from the paper in a controlled torrent, and the collision produced exactly what Yamamoto wanted. A massive cloud of scalding steam billowed across the platform, obscuring everything.

  Through the white fog, Rowan could hear movement. Soft footsteps shifting position.

  He dropped his shield. Maintaining it blind would waste magic. Instead he fired through the steam, spacing his spells to cover different angles. "Stupefy!" Aiming left. "Expelliarmus!" Center. "Incarcerous!" Right. Three spells in rapid succession, his chain casting smooth and practiced.

  The steam began to clear. Yamamoto had moved during the confusion. The Stunner struck an ofuda that hung in the air before him, glowing faintly, and the spell died against it. He sidestepped the Disarmer with fluid grace.

  But the binding spell's conjured ropes caught his right leg mid-dodge, wrapping tight around his calf and ankle.

  Yamamoto's wand sliced downward through the ropes and they fell away, severed without a word. Silent casting from a fifth-year who didn't need incantations for utility work. But it cost him a crucial second of positioning. A second Rowan didn't waste.

  "Flipendo!" The Knockback Jinx, modified with the counterclockwise twist he'd developed, curved through the air in an unexpected arc. It caught Yamamoto in the chest before he could raise another defense, and the impact sent him stumbling backward three full steps. "Petrificus Totalus!" The Body-Bind followed immediately, racing toward the off-balance duelist.

  Yamamoto's wand swept up and a shield flared to life, catching the Stunner with a flash of light.

  They both paused for half a heartbeat, reassessing.

  Yamamoto's breathing had changed, shallower on the left side. The Knockback had done more than it appeared. Rowan himself was breathing harder than he'd like, the rapid chain casting depleting his reserves faster than normal practice.

  Then Yamamoto drew a longer strip of paper from inside his sleeve. Wider than the others, covered in dense brushwork. His wand touched it once, and it left his hand.

  The paper folded itself in midair. Impossibly fast, creasing and twisting and growing until it was no longer paper at all. What landed on the platform was a hawk the size of an eagle, wings spread wide, its body rippling with pale light. It shrieked and launched itself at Rowan's face.

  Shikigami.

  He ducked the first hawk and didn't fire at it. Kogawa had warned him about this. Shikigami were sustained by the caster's concentration, and any Mahoutokoro student worth their gold robes would ward the paper against fire and basic spells. Destroying them one by one was exactly what Yamamoto wanted him to waste his energy on.

  The second and third shikigami took shape and joined the first. Three paper hawks wheeled above the platform in a tight formation, their movements coordinated with predatory intelligence. Yamamoto stood behind them with his wand raised, conducting.

  They dove together.

  "Protego!" The spherical shield formed around him, the dome-shaped modification he'd perfected during months of practice with Iris. The hawks struck the barrier from three directions at once, talons raking across the silvery surface. The shield held, but each impact sent shudders through it. They pulled away, circled, and dove again.

  Maintaining the spherical shield against repeated aerial assault was draining his magic fast. He had seconds before it failed. But the hawks weren't the problem. Yamamoto was.

  He dropped the shield and threw himself flat as the hawks overshot. In the half-second before they wheeled around, he ignored them entirely and fired at Yamamoto.

  "Flipendo!" The curved Knockback forced the fifth-year to sidestep, and two of the hawks faltered in the air, their flight paths stuttering as his concentration split. "Expelliarmus!" Yamamoto deflected it, but the motion cost him another fraction of focus.

  The third hawk dissolved mid-dive, its paper body unfolding and fluttering to the platform in loose strips. "Incarcerous!" The binding spell came low, aimed at Yamamoto's feet. The conjured ropes wrapped around both ankles before he could react.

  The two remaining hawks dove at Rowan's back. He heard the wingbeats, spun, and threw himself sideways. One set of talons raked his shoulder, paper edges sharp enough to draw blood. But Yamamoto was bound and scrambling, his concentration fractured, and the hawks were losing coherence. Their movements turned jerky, uncoordinated. The second hawk clipped the platform and tumbled apart into scraps.

  The last one came around for another pass, but it was slow now, the light in its paper body flickering. Rowan let it come, waited until it committed to the dive, then sidestepped and let it crash into the platform where it skidded and went still.

  Yamamoto was already cutting at the ropes, but bound and off-balance, his options had narrowed.

  "Stupefy! Expelliarmus! Petrificus Totalus!" Three spells in under two seconds. The Stunner forced a hasty shield. The Disarmer cracked it. And the Body-Bind, delivered with his modified curve, bent around the weakened barrier's edge and caught Yamamoto in the shoulder.

  His body went rigid. His wand clattered to the platform.

  Silence fell across the arena for one long heartbeat.

  "Victory to Ashcroft of Hogwarts!"

  The arena erupted. Genuine shock, disbelieving exclamations in half a dozen languages. The duel had lasted perhaps two minutes, and the result was the opposite of what every spectator in the stands had expected.

  Rowan lowered his wand, breathing hard but steady.

  He walked over and picked up Yamamoto's cherry-wood wand, then cast Finite to release the Body-Bind. Yamamoto blinked, rolled his shoulders, and accepted his wand back.

  "You went for me instead of the shikigami," Yamamoto said quietly. "Most duelists try to destroy them first. That's what they're designed to make you do."

  "I was told they're sustained by your concentration. It seemed more efficient to break that than to fight three warded constructs one at a time."

  Yamamoto studied him, then gave a single precise nod.

  The tournament Medi-wizard was waiting at the edge of the platform, a stocky man with a close-cropped beard. His diagnostic charm traced a pale blue arc over Rowan's torso, then flared amber at his right shoulder where the shikigami's talons had torn through his robes.

  He pulled the fabric aside, examined the shallow cuts, and tapped them with his wand. The skin knitted shut, leaving faint pink lines. "Paper constructs always leave residual magic in the wound," he said, moving on to Rowan's wand arm. "I've cleaned it out. You'll be stiff by evening but it won't slow you down. You're cleared for your next match."

  "Thank you." Rowan rolled his shoulder once, testing the range, and headed for the corridor. The stares followed him out of the arena. The mockery from the previous evening had been replaced by shock, reassessment, and in some cases, calculation. Students were whispering urgently to each other, pointing at him, already spreading word of the upset victory.

  The Hogwarts team was waiting in the corridor outside.

  Sterling clapped him on the shoulder, grinning broadly.

  "That was extraordinary. You demolished him. Yamamoto's been competing for three years. He was favored to make the quarterfinals at minimum. And you beat him in under two minutes with chain casting that some fifth years can't match."

  "He was good," Rowan said honestly, letting his Occlumency shields down slightly now that the immediate pressure was gone. His hands were shaking slightly from adrenaline. "Better than most of the students I've fought at Hogwarts. But he expected a standard first-year duelist. By the time he realized what he was actually facing, I'd already broken his defensive positioning."

  "The other schools are going to start taking you seriously now," Hecat observed, her expression pleased but calculating. "That was a very public victory against a strong opponent. Your next match won't have the element of surprise. They'll come prepared."

  "Good," Rowan said, meaning it. "I'd rather face opponents at their best. It's more educational."

  Greengrass, who had been silent until now, studied him with new eyes. "I take back what I said yesterday. You've earned your spot on this team."

  The acknowledgment from the skeptical fifth year meant something.

  Rowan nodded his thanks.

  As they walked back toward their quarters, Rowan's mind was already moving ahead to the next round. The tournament would have eight competitors remaining from the sixteen who'd started. His next opponent would be drawn from that pool. Students who'd also won their first matches, who were also skilled enough to advance.

  And now they would all know to take him seriously.