"Mens Acuta Maxima!" He overcharged the mental enhancement spell, pouring more magic into it than recommended. His mind accelerated dramatically. The world seemed to slow to a crawl. He could see every movement Apolline made, could track the remaining duplicate, could calculate a dozen spell trajectories in the span of a heartbeat.
But it was draining his magical reserves at a terrifying rate. He had perhaps ten seconds before he'd be too depleted to maintain it.
Ten seconds would have to be enough.
Time seemed frozen from his perspective. Rowan's wand moved through what felt like thick air, but in reality, he was casting faster than he ever had before. "Stupefy! Expelliarmus!" The first two forced shields up. His wand added the practiced counterclockwise twist. "Flipendo!" The modified Knockback curved around Apolline's shield, forcing her to dodge. "Petrificus Totalus! Incarcerous! Immobulus! Confundo! Stupefy! Expelliarmus!"
Nine spells in what the crowd would perceive as two seconds. Each one perfectly aimed at either Apolline or her remaining duplicate, with the curved Knockback disrupting her defensive positioning exactly as intended. A sustained barrage that no single opponent could fully defend against.
The duplicate shattered under the assault, unable to shield. Apolline herself managed to block the first three spells, but the fourth, the Body-Bind, caught her right leg. The fifth wrapped binding ropes around her torso. The sixth froze her left arm.
She was still fighting, still trying to cast with her free right arm, but she was severely hampered.
Rowan raised his wand for the final Disarming Charm, victory within reach.
And his overcharged mental enhancement collapsed.
The magical drain hit him like a physical blow. His vision blurred, his knees buckled, and his wand arm dropped. He'd pushed too hard, sustained Mens Acuta Maxima for too long. His magical reserves, already depleted from yesterday's semifinal, simply ran dry.
Apolline seized the moment with the ruthless precision of a veteran competitor. Even bound and partially frozen, she forced her wand up with her free hand. "Expelliarmus!"
The spell hit Rowan's weakened grip perfectly. His wand flew from his hand, spinning through the air before clattering across the platform.
Silence fell across the Grand Arena.
Then Perenelle Flamel's voice rang out, clear and carrying. "The winner, and Gold Medal Champion of the Youth Dueling Competition, Apolline Beaumont of Beauxbatons!"
The arena erupted. The French delegation's cheers particularly thunderous, celebrating their champion's victory.
Rowan stood in the center of the platform, breathing hard, his magical reserves completely depleted, his body aching from the lightning strike and the backlash of the overcharged enhancement. He'd come so close. One more second, one more spell, and he might have won.
The Medi-wizard reached him with a second healer in tow before the crowd's roar had fully settled. The diagnostic charm flared an angry orange over his chest and left shoulder where the lightning had struck, and the second healer pressed a vial of something warm and bitter into his hand. "Drink all of it," the Medi-wizard said, already muttering an incantation over the burn on Rowan's shoulder.
Rowan drank. The potion flooded through him, dulling the sharp ache in his muscles and steadying the tremor in his hands, though it did nothing for the hollow feeling where his magical reserves should have been. The raw skin on his shoulder knitted itself smooth under the healer's wand.
"You'll feel the magical exhaustion for another day or two," the Medi-wizard told him. "I don't want you casting anything until tomorrow at the earliest, and even then, nothing strenuous."
"Understood," Rowan said. The Medi-wizard gave him a firm look that suggested he'd heard that from competitors before and rarely believed it, then moved off to check on Apolline.
She had been the better duelist today. Or rather, she'd been the smarter one, conserving her strength while he'd burned through his too quickly.
Silver medal. Second place in an international tournament, at eleven years old, against opponents years older and far more experienced.
It should have felt like victory. It felt like defeat.
Then came the announcement that made the crowd murmur with interest.
"In addition to their medals," Perenelle declared, her voice carrying through the arena, "the medallists will receive prize money. Bronze: two hundred and fifty Galleons. Silver: five hundred Galleons. Gold: twelve hundred and fifty Galleons."
Five hundred Galleons. A substantial sum, though less than half what gold would have earned him. Combined with his existing funds, it would transform his plans from theoretical to possible. But the twelve hundred and fifty he'd missed stung.
The crowd applauded again, and Rowan caught Hecat's eye in the stands. She was beaming with pride, tears still on her cheeks.
Apolline's bindings fell away as the spells' durations expired. She retrieved Rowan's wand and walked over to him, her expression complex. Relief, respect, and genuine sympathy.
"You fought with extraordinary skill," she said, handing back his wand. "You very nearly defeated me. Had you not overextended with that final enhancement, I believe you would have won."
"You were the better duelist," Rowan replied, forcing graciousness despite the bitter taste of defeat. "Those spells. The duplicates, the lightning. I'd never seen anything like them. And you recognized when I'd overextended and took advantage perfectly."
"French magical tradition stretches back centuries. We have spells that aren't taught elsewhere." She smiled slightly. "But you adapted to each one. That is the mark of a true duelist. Not knowing every spell, but learning to counter anything."
They shook hands, and the crowd roared its approval.
Perenelle Flamel approached them both, her expression approving. "An exceptional match. Both of you displayed remarkable skill and composure. Miss Beaumont, your mastery of advanced French combat magic was impressive. Mr. Ashcroft, your adaptability and mental discipline are extraordinary for someone your age. Or indeed, any age."
She gestured to Rowan. "Please remain on the platform. The medal ceremony will take place shortly."
As Apolline left to join her school's delegation, Rowan was alone with Perenelle Flamel. She studied him with those sharp intelligent eyes, and he felt as though she was seeing far more than just an eleven-year-old silver medalist.
"You possess unusual composure for one so young," she observed quietly. "The lightning strike should have incapacitated you, at least temporarily. Yet you pushed through the pain and maintained your focus. That suggests either remarkable natural fortitude or extensive mental training."
"I practice Occlumency, Madam Flamel," Rowan admitted. "It helps with emotional control and mental clarity."
Her eyebrows rose. "Occlumency at eleven? That is... unusual. Most students don't begin studying the Mind Arts until sixth or seventh year, if at all." She paused. "You are self-taught?"
"Yes, madam. I found a book on the subject in the Hogwarts library and recognized its value. I've been practicing meditation and mental discipline exercises for several months."
"Fascinating." She seemed genuinely intrigued rather than suspicious. "And the enhancement spells you used. Velocitas, Mens Acuta? Those are not first-year curriculum. In fact, Mens Acuta isn't in the Hogwarts curriculum at all."
"Mens Acuta came from the same book. Advanced Techniques in Mental Magic by Erasmus Moonstone. I read ahead extensively. I'm... driven to learn as much as possible."
"Moonstone's work." Perenelle's eyes lit with recognition. "I knew Erasmus briefly, centuries ago. Brilliant theorist, though his research was never completed. You found one of his manuscripts?" She paused thoughtfully. "Though I must ask. Why did you wait until the finals to use such techniques? You didn't employ them in your earlier matches."
Rowan hesitated. "I... wanted to maintain a competitive advantage. Save them for when they mattered most."
"Ah." Perenelle's expression grew more serious. "A strategic choice, but it cost you the gold medal. Had you used those techniques in your earlier matches, you might have won more decisively, with less injury, and conserved more magical energy for the finals. You arrived at this final match already depleted from your semifinals bout, and then overextended with an enhancement spell your reserves couldn't sustain."
The observation struck home. Rowan had been exhausted after fighting Ward, and facing Apolline with full magical reserves might have made the difference between silver and gold.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I hadn't thought of it that way."
"Something to consider for the future." She smiled slightly. "My husband will want to meet you. Nicholas is always interested in prodigious students, particularly those who display unusual dedication to learning and unusual wisdom in recognizing their own mistakes."
Rowan's pulse quickened. This was the opportunity he'd hoped for. "I would be honored to meet Nicholas Flamel, madam. His work in alchemy is legendary."
"He'll be pleased to hear that. After the medal ceremony, you'll find us in the diplomatic viewing box. Please join us. We'd like to speak with you privately."
Before Rowan could respond, the French Minister of Magic was approaching with a velvet cushion bearing three medals. Gold, silver, and bronze. The medal ceremony was beginning.