AU, so don't ask about plot just yet.
Also I am posting this chapter as a thank you to those who are giving Power Stones, even though we didn't hit the 60-stone goal. Some of you are genuinely supporting the fic, and you deserve the chapter.
Enjoy!
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The real tournament was held in the grand stadium, and the moment Gilderoy laid eyes on it, he understood that this was nothing like the smaller qualifiers he had seen before. This place wasn't built merely to host duels—it was built to impress, to overwhelm, to leave no doubt that what unfolded here mattered.
The French, after all, had never believed in subtlety when it came to displaying magic, and they certainly hadn't started now.
The stadium itself was enormous and perfectly circular, its structure layered with enchanted white marble seating that rose far higher than should have been possible without collapsing under its own weight. Each tier curved gracefully upward, supported by magic so seamless it felt almost arrogant. Along one side of the stadium, a massive white screen hovered in midair, periodically flashing rotating advertisements in bold, shimmering script.
Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans
We mean every flavour.
Available at authorized vendors. Owl orders accepted.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cleansweep Broom Company
Reliable. Balanced. Tournament-tested.
Official broom supplier for the International Quidditch World Cup.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Magical Menagerie
Companions, care items, and approved familiars.
Please leash your Kneazles. Now in France.
The stands were already packed, filled with witches, wizards, officials, and civilians from all over the world, their voices blending into a rolling, restless wave of sound that echoed across the stadium.
Gilderoy adjusted his robes slightly as he took it all in, the small metal badge pinned to his chest catching the light—Britain, etched neatly into its surface.
The opening ceremony began with a sharp crack of amplified magic canon, and the crowd quieted almost instantly. Music swelled through the stadium, far richer and deeper than anything a normal orchestra could produce.
Then came the Veela.
Gilderoy's jaw tightened immediately as they stepped into the arena in a loose, flowing formation, their movements fluid and graceful, every step measured to draw the eye. Their beauty hit like a physical force—sharp, invasive, slipping past reason and crawling under the skin. His breath caught for half a second before he forced it steady.
Focus. Don't be an idiot.
His grip tightened unconsciously at his side, teeth grinding together as he resisted the pull. It wasn't lust, not in any crude or conscious sense; it was something more instinctive, like the automatic urge to react when a cat brushed against your leg and every part of you screamed to reach down and pet it—except this was far stronger, louder, and far more insistent.
He could feel it now or his raven form helped him sense: some kind of aura, invisible yet undeniably present, pressing subtly against the mind. Pheromones, perhaps, or something stranger still. Magic that slipped past defenses before you even realized it was there.
And then he noticed something else.
Not all of them were beautiful.
Some were devastatingly so, but others—when he really looked—were merely pleasant, attractive without being breathtaking. The illusion cracked slightly the moment he recognized it.
That realization did help him. Not enough to erase the effect entirely, but enough to dull its edge. He exhaled slowly, grounding himself as the Veela completed their performance and withdrew amid thunderous applause. Moments later, the announcer's voice rang out to formally begin the championship, and cheers rose once more from the stands.
And then his name was called.
His first match.
Gilderoy stepped forward, nerves buzzing faintly beneath his skin—not fear exactly, but anticipation sharpened to a point. The dueling platform rose smoothly from the ground beneath his feet, wards flaring briefly around its edges as they locked into place.
Then he saw his opponent.
Regulus Black.
Gilderoy blinked once before letting out a quiet huff under his breath.
Of course.
Regulus stood across from him, composed as ever, dark hair neatly in place, his expression calm but sharp. The Britain badge gleamed on his chest, and beside it, unmistakable, was the Black family crest.
"Well," Gilderoy muttered under his breath, "this just got interesting."
Regulus noticed him at the same moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it shifted into something faintly amused. The two bowed in unison and took their positions, waiting for the referee's whistle.
At the sound of it, the duel began instantly.
Regulus moved first, fast and precise, a cutting curse slashing through the air with enough force that Gilderoy felt it pass even as he twisted aside. He responded without hesitation, wand snapping up as a stunner forced Regulus to pivot defensively.
They circled, spells cracking and flashing between them as neither held back. Regulus fought with control and efficiency, every movement minimal and deliberate, while Gilderoy countered with adaptability, chaining magic together and adjusting mid-cast when necessary.
The crowd reacted audibly now—gasps, cheers, murmurs swelling with every near miss.
Gilderoy felt his body respond smoothly, his strengthened muscles and reinforced stamina doing exactly what they were meant to do. The ritual hadn't just been theory; he wasn't slowing down, not yet. Between that and his raven Animagus form, his agility borderline extreme, allowing him to easily dodge spells Regulus clearly expected to land.
Regulus narrowed his eyes as frustration crept in, his spells failing to reach their mark while Gilderoy continued to evade and counter without visible fatigue.
Gilderoy deflected one spell with a shield and immediately retaliated with a chained barrage of his own, forcing Regulus to block—only for Gilderoy to blast the stone beneath his feet.
The ground shattered, and Regulus stumbled.
Just enough.
"Incarcerous!"
"Expelliarmus!"
The ropes snapped into place before Regulus could fully recover, slamming him to the platform as his wand flew cleanly into Gilderoy's waiting hand.
The match was over.
The stadium erupted.
Gilderoy exhaled sharply, heart hammering as he lowered his wand while the referee vanished the ropes. Regulus pushed himself up, brushing dust from his robes, his expression unreadable for a moment as they met near the edge of the platform.
Then he smirked.
"You surprised me," Regulus admitted.
"Oh, did I?" Gilderoy replied with a smirk of his own. "You're good—just not good enough to beat me."
Regulus's smile slipped for a second before returning as he shook his head. "We'll see about next time."
A tall elderly but imposing man approached them, sharp-featured with cold grey eyes and a presence that commanded attention without effort. He wore an elegant black robe embroidered with intricate gold patterns. Pinned to his chest was a badge bearing the words Toujours Pur.
"You are Gilderoy Lockhart," he said, his tone formal and assessing.
"I am," Gilderoy replied, standing straighter.
"You defeated my grandson cleanly," the man continued. "I respect that. You have skills young man. I am Arcturus Black, and you have an invitation—to the Black Yule celebrations. Consider it… an opportunity."
Gilderoy hesitated only briefly before nodding. "It will be my honour to attend, Lord Black."
Arcturus inclined his head once before turning away.
The tournament dragged on through the rest of the day, matches blurring together as Gilderoy advanced steadily. The qualifiers narrowed, opponents grew stronger, and styles varied wildly—from raw power to refined finesse, wandless magic, and strange foreign spells he had never seen before.
And yet, his body held.
The ritual had worked, subtly and consistently, reinforced by his Animagus form. Where others slowed, he didn't; where fatigue crept in, he pushed through.
The semifinals and Finals were scheduled the next day. By then, the atmosphere had shifted as the tournament shifted closer towards the finals.
And then it was his turn again.
Something clicked into place. The background noise dulled, the distant crowd faded, and the world narrowed until there was only the opponent standing across from him.
He stepped onto the stage, the roar of the crowd washing over him—and froze.
Across from him stood a girl dressed in dark robes, her posture rigid, her expression utterly stoic. Black hair framed her pale face, and her dark eyes were sharp and intent, watching him like prey. She wore black earrings, and her lips carried a faint layer of matching black lipstick. A Britain badge was fastened at the swell of her chest.
She was undeniably beautiful.
The announcer's voice boomed.
"From Britain—GILDEROY LOCKHART!"
Polite applause, recognition rippling through the stands.
"And his opponent, also from Britain"
"BELLATRIX BLACK."
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