The moment her name was announced, a dozen questions slammed into Gilderoy at once, rooting him where he stood.
Bellatrix?
Why is she here? The timelines don't match. If she's eligible, she must be twenty-one by now.
The cheers that followed were louder than the ones he'd received. It wasn't just national pride. It was popularity.
And then he truly looked at her.
She was gorgeous—but not softly so. Nothing about her presence was delicate. She was dark, striking, controlled. Gothic without trying to be. She didn't draw attention; she held it. The stillness in her posture, the sharp awareness in her eyes, the severe composure of her expression—everything about her felt deliberate.
For a brief second, his mind betrayed him.
She's on par with Amelia.
A flicker of guilt surfaced. He already had Amelia. He had no business comparing anyone else to her.
But the thought had come uninvited.
Focus.
He pushed it down. Attraction meant nothing unless he acted on it.
The stadium quieted in that peculiar way that only happens when anticipation overtakes noise. Tens of thousands of enchanted seats rose beneath the open Parisian sky, protective charms shimmering faintly along the stone arches to contain sound and magic alike.
This wasn't the qualifiers with their wooden partitions and scattered spectators. This was the semifinals of the Under-21 World Dueling Championship. Everyone here understood that this match would carry weight beyond a simple bracket.
Across from him, Bellatrix Black stood utterly still.
She didn't fidget. She didn't acknowledge the crowd or the judges. Her dark robes were cleanly cut, unadorned. Long black hair framed her pale face, and her eyes rested on him—not with hostility or curiosity, but assessment.
She didn't duel to impress. She dueled to win.
The announcer's amplified voice echoed again across the stadium.
"Semifinal Match Two—Britain versus Britain. GILDEROY LOCKHART versus BELLATRIX BLACK."
A murmur rippled through the stands. Two competitors from the same country reaching this stage was rare. The contrast between them made it even more compelling.
Lockhart—the meteoric rise, the crowd favorite, the agile duelist whose stamina bordered on unnatural.
Black—the quiet climb, clean victories, opponents dropped before they understood what had happened.
Bellatrix inclined her head in a formal bow and raised her wand. Gilderoy mirrored the gesture without breaking eye contact.
The judge lifted his wand. A sharp crack split the air.
Bellatrix moved first.
A narrow curse shot toward him at punishing speed, aimed to catch hesitation.
Gilderoy twisted aside, boots scraping marble as his shield snapped into place mid-motion. The curse burst against it in sparks, and he was already transitioning, sending a retaliatory hex not at where she stood—but where she would be.
She wasn't there.
Bellatrix pivoted smoothly, her counter forming into a constricting spell. He felt it graze his shoulder as he stepped forward instead of back, deliberately closing the distance. If she wanted space, he wouldn't give it to her.
The platform became a web of crossing magic.
Shields flared and broke. Hexes skimmed past by inches. The crowd gasped more than it cheered as the exchange tightened, neither duelist willing to concede ground.
Bellatrix fought with precision. Every spell narrowed options, redirected movement, punished inefficiency.
Gilderoy answered with speed and adaptation, linking spells in unconventional chains.
Minutes passed and her eyes narrowed slightly—not in frustration, but interest. He wasn't folding.
Then she changed her approach.
Instead of searching for a single decisive strike, Bellatrix began increasing the force behind her casting. The spells came heavier now. Not faster—stronger. Each impact struck with force.
Gilderoy tried to hold steady. His movements stayed sharp, his breathing even, no sign of fatigue creeping in.
But the pressure kept building.
A curse struck his shield and didn't disperse immediately. It pressed against the barrier, straining against it.
He moved to counter—but a banishing spell slipped through the weakened shield and caught him mid-motion.
The impact threw him backward hard onto the platform, breath driven from his lungs as his wand spun out of his grasp.
The judge raised his wand, and bursts of colored sparks exploded overhead.
"The winner is—Bellatrix Black."
Applause rolled through the stadium.
Gilderoy pushed himself up, steady despite the impact. Bellatrix didn't celebrate. She stepped closer instead, studying him with a look that had shifted—slightly.
"You lasted longer than expected," she said quietly. "Your endurance is… impressive."
"Experience tipped the balance," He met her gaze. "You are too good, Miss Black."
An awkward pause stretched between them neither willing to say something.
"Another year," she said at last, inclining her head, "and perhaps you would have won."
"I heard my grandfather invited you to the Black Yule Ball," she added. "I will see you there."
She turned and walked toward the exit.
Gilderoy found himself watching her retreat. Just before disappearing into the tunnel, she paused and glanced back, as though sensing his gaze.
Their eyes met.
A faint smirk touched her lips—brief, deliberate—before her expression settled back into composure and she vanished from view.
This version of Bellatrix is different. I don't know where her loyalties stand—or what's already happened in this timeline.
Maybe the ball would give him answers.
At the very least, she was willing to speak with him.
Later, away from the stadium's roar, he found Lei Ling standing in a quieter courtyard beneath a floating lantern. Faint scorch marks along her sleeves marked her own semifinal victory, but she looked energized rather than drained.
"So," she said, eyes flicking over his robes before returning to his face, "Bellatrix Black advances."
He nodded. "You'll be facing her. And congratulations on winning your own semi-final match yeaterday. "
"Thanks." She tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement. "She's aggressive. Let's see if that's enough."
Lei's smile sharpened. "I look forward to facing a worthy opponent."
He placed a hand over his chest. "You fought me too, Lei. Am I not a worthy opponent?"
She stuttered, "No—that's not… I mean—" before catching the smirk forming on his lips.
Without warning, she flicked her fingers and a focused burst of air slammed into his side, drawing an undignified oof as it stung against his skin.
"Ahhh! My lady, I apologize for teasing you, please don't hit me," he said lightly, reaching for her hand and grasping it. Color rushed to her cheeks. She pulled away at once, huffing as she turned aside—but not before a small smile betrayed her, a faint blush still lingering on her face.
Gilderoy watched her go, amused.
Inside the stadium, enchantments and protection wards were getting rechecked and recasted, and officials were repairing the platform for the final match.
One thing was certain.
When Lei Ling and Bellatrix Black faced each other, the outcome would be more than a simple victory.
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