The fourth circle flared. The winged creature symbol blazed.
Round Four: Harpy.
The creature that materialized was half-woman, half-bird, its feathers black as coal, its face beautiful and terrible. Its eyes were empty pits, and its mouth was open in a silent scream. Then the scream came—not silent, but deafening, a sound that pierced the mind, that blurred vision, that made her want to drop her wand and curl into a ball.
The Harpy's scream was not sound. It was magic. It attacked the mind, not the body.
Colette staggered, clutching her head. She cast a silencing charm—"Silencio!"—but the scream continued, because it was not sound. It was thought.
She fell to her knees. The Harpy advanced, its claws extended, its beak open.
The crowd screamed. Barnaby Fingle's voice was strained. "The Harpy's scream is overwhelming her! She cannot defend herself!"
Colette thought of her mother. She thought of the day she had been chosen as champion, the pride in her father's eyes, the way he had hugged her for the first time in years. She thought of the warmth of that moment, the joy, the hope.
"Expecto Patronum!"
Silver light exploded from her wand—not a corporeal Patronus, but a shield of pure joy, a barrier that pushed the Harpy back. The creature shrieked again, but the Patronus held. Colette rose, advanced, and cast a Disarming Charm that tore the Harpy's magic from its core. The creature dissolved.
"Round four! Colette Marchand has defeated the Harpy with a Patronus! She is bleeding, she is poisoned, she is exhausted—but she is still standing!"
The Beauxbatons section was on its feet, screaming her name. Colette did not hear them. She was already moving toward the fifth circle.
---
The fifth circle flared. The armoured figure symbol blazed.
Round Five: Wraith Knight.
The figure that materialized was a knight in black armour, its face hidden behind a visor, its hands gripping a greatsword that glowed with a faint, red light. It was tall, broad-shouldered, and utterly without mercy.
The Knight charged.
Colette raised her Shield Charm, but the greatsword shattered it like glass. She rolled, barely avoiding the second swing, the blade passing so close that she felt the wind of it on her cheek.
The Knight was fast, relentless, its movements precise. It had been a warrior in life, and death had not dulled its skill.
Colette cast a Blasting Curse at its feet—"Confringo!"—and the stone exploded, staggering the Knight. It recovered quickly, raising its sword for another strike.
She cast a Disarming Charm—"Expelliarmus!"—but the Knight's grip on its sword was magical, unbreakable. The blade did not waver.
She needed something else. She remembered a spell from Beauxbatons, a technique that disarmed by attacking the weapon's enchantment, not the wielder. She had never used it in combat.
"Praecantio Frangere!"
Silver light shot from her wand, striking the greatsword. The blade flickered, its red glow fading, and then it vanished. The Knight stumbled, confused, its hands closing on empty air.
Colette cast a Stunning Spell, and the Knight fell.
"Round five! The Wraith Knight is down! Colette Marchand has survived half the Gauntlet!"
Half. She had survived half. Her arm was bleeding again, the wound from the Tentacula reopened. Her head pounded. The poison was spreading, reaching her chest, making it hard to breathe. But she was still standing.
---
The sixth circle flared. The hooded wizard symbol blazed.
Round Six: Dark Wizard Construct.
The figure that stepped out of the light was not a creature. It was a man—or the memory of a man. His robes were dark, his face hidden behind a hood, his wand held loosely at his side. He radiated malice.
The Dark Wizard raised his wand and cast a Killing Curse. Green light shot toward Colette.
She dove, rolled, came up with a Shield Charm. The curse struck the shield and dissipated, but the shield cracked. She reinforced it.
The Dark Wizard cast again—a Cruciatus Curse. The pain was blinding, all-consuming. Colette fell to her knees, her wand falling from her hand. She screamed.
The crowd screamed with her. Barnaby Fingle's voice was strained, almost breaking. "The Dark Wizard has cast the Cruciatus Curse! Colette Marchand is down! This is not—this is not supposed to be—the construct is too powerful!"
The Dark Wizard advanced, his wand raised for another curse.
Colette reached for her wand. Her fingers brushed the wood, but she could not grip it. The pain was too great. She thought of her mother, dying alone. She thought of her father, turning away. She thought of all the times she had been told she was not good enough, not strong enough, not worthy.
She thought of the day she had been chosen as champion. The pride. The hope. The dream.
She grabbed her wand.
"Protego Maxima!"
A dome of silver light exploded from her, throwing the Dark Wizard backward. He crashed into the edge of the arena and lay still, his robes smoking.
Colette stood, trembling, bleeding, her breath ragged. Her legs threatened to give way. Her vision blurred.
"Round six," she whispered. "I'm still here."
The crowd erupted. Barnaby Fingle's voice was a shout. "Colette Marchand has survived the Cruciatus! She has thrown back the Dark Wizard! She is barely standing, but she refuses to fall!"
---
The seventh circle flared. The mirror symbol blazed.
Round Seven: The Doppelgänger.
The figure that emerged from the light was not a wizard, not a creature, not a plant. It was a mirror image of Colette herself—same height, same build, same dark hair. But the eyes were hollow, and the smile was cruel.
"You are tired," the Doppelgänger said. "You are broken. You will not survive the next round."
Colette raised her wand. The Doppelgänger mirrored her movement.
"You are not real," Colette said.
"I am as real as your fear," the Doppelgänger replied. "Surrender. The Void will take you. You will not feel pain anymore."
Colette looked at the Doppelgänger—at herself, hollow and cruel. She saw the exhaustion in her own face, the fear in her own eyes. She saw the poison spreading through her veins, the blood on her robes, the tremble in her hands.
She thought of her mother, who had died fighting a curse. She thought of her father, who had turned away because he could not bear to lose anyone else. She thought of the dream that had brought her here—the dream of proving herself, of being more than the sum of her fears.
"I am not my fear," she said.
She raised her wand and cast a spell she had never used before—a spell of self-dispelling, a technique that shattered illusions by rejecting them. It was a spell of pure will, a declaration that the illusion had no power over her.
"Revelio Veritas!"
The Doppelgänger screamed, its form dissolving, its hollow eyes widening in shock. The mirror shattered, the pieces falling to the stone like broken glass.
"Round seven! Colette Marchand has defeated the Doppelgänger! She is barely standing, but she refuses to fall!"
The Beauxbatons section was weeping. The Durmstrang students were applauding, slowly, respectfully. The Hogwarts students were on their feet.
---
Colette looked at the remaining three circles. The skull, the crown, the question mark. She could not go on. She knew it. Her body was failing. The poison was spreading. The pain was unbearable.
She raised her wand toward the sky—the signal for surrender.
A golden light enveloped her. The mediwizards rushed onto the arena, lifting her onto a stretcher. The crowd applauded—not for her victory, but for her courage.
Barnaby Fingle's voice was thick with emotion. "Colette Marchand has surrendered after seven rounds. She has given everything. She has nothing to be ashamed of. Let us applaud the Beauxbatons champion!"
The Beauxbatons section rose, their banners waving, their voices raised in a song of honour. Colette wept as they carried her away.
The arena fell silent. Two champions remained.
---