Chapter 16
"Again! Potter, Amerson, go again!" Professor Amarachandra, the teacher of battle magics barked, as the two fourteen year olds went at one another again.
Harry growled like some jungle cat before flushing his gauntlets with magic, which summoned his battle armor, a surge of arcane energy enveloped him in a radiant flash of cerulean light, momentarily distorting the surrounding air with a rippling wave of raw magical force. As the luminescence subsided, he emerged clad in an artifact of unparalleled craftsmanship—an armor not merely forged, but woven from the very essence of ancient enchantments.
The armor's surface shimmered with an intricate interplay of ivory, cobalt, and gilded gold, its composition defying conventional metallurgy. The chestplate, adorned with labyrinthine golden etchings, pulsed rhythmically with latent energy, as though responding to an unseen current of power. Angular pauldrons extended outward, yet they did not remain rigidly fixed; rather, they hovered just above the shoulders, their positioning subtly recalibrating with every shift in Harry's stance. This principle of segmented levitation extended throughout the armor's entire construction, enabling magic to flow unimpeded through an unseen lattice of interconnected arcane conduits.
The gauntlets, however, stood as the most distinctive components of the ensemble, each an artifact of divergent magical philosophy. The right gauntlet, hewn from an ancient bronze alloy, bore intricate carvings reminiscent of organic tendrils interwoven with archaic glyphs. At its core, an emerald gemstone radiated an eerie glow, resonating with a deep, untapped reservoir of power. With but a mere invocation of intent, the gem's energy coalesced into a teardrop-shaped blade of viridescent fire, its edges crackling with barely contained magical entropy.
The left gauntlet, conversely, was an exercise in refined magical precision. A seamless extension of the armor's primary aesthetic, it housed a counterpart gemstone—this one suffused with an otherworldly azure light. Upon activation, it too conjured a blade of living energy, but where its twin radiated raw, untamed potency, this one exuded a calculated, controlled brilliance. The two weapons, though symmetrical in form, embodied diametrically opposed magical principles—one primal, the other methodical—creating a dynamic oscillation that harmonized through Harry's attunement to the armor itself.
The leg guards and boots adhered to the same floating-plate design philosophy, their modular components subtly adjusting to optimize movement. Embedded sapphire gemstones within the greaves periodically discharged faint pulses of magical energy, leaving ephemeral trails of residual light in his wake. This was not merely armor—it was an extension of Harry's will, a symbiotic interface between sorcerer and spell-forged artifact.
Every facet of the armor, from the regal, crested helmet to the floating segments that danced in synchrony with his movements, was designed for far more than passive protection. It functioned as both a conduit and amplifier, augmenting Harry's magical prowess while offering an unparalleled defense against all who dared oppose him. This was not a relic of a bygone era; it was a living testament to the apex of magical warfare, a construct imbued with the essence of power itself.
Not only that, the phrase that had become synonymous with Harry was something that the language professor along with Newt and Tina became surprised by. In the time he had been at school, they had discovered more of a very advanced magical civilization that spoke a near ethereal language that didn't translate easily unless it was through the power of magic. The phrase was something this people lived by, for the word used for "magic", was "auir".
And when Harry spoke it, with such fervor, that every magical felt it in her heart, in his gut, in their very bones. A phrase that left no doubt in how true the phrase is.
"My life," Harry growled, his voice vibrating with power, "for Aiur."
Harry surged forward, his movements a blur, the twin energy blades crackling with raw magic as they sliced through the air. Shiva Amerson barely had time to react, throwing himself to the side as one of Harry's blades cut a deep gash into the stone platform where he had just stood. Sparks erupted from the impact, molten streaks glowing along the edges of the cut.
Shiva retaliated immediately, flicking his wand in a tight arc, sending a barrage of hexes at Harry. Stunners, disarming charms, and a cutting curse—each spell was expertly aimed, but none found their mark. Instead, they fizzled against the shimmering shield of raw magical energy that flared to life around Harry's form. Without breaking stride, Harry stepped inside Shiva's casting range, bringing his left blade down in a diagonal arc.
Shiva twisted, barely evading the lethal strike, and used the moment to conjure a stone pillar between them. The obstacle lasted only a second before Harry slammed his foot into it, shattering the construct into flying debris. Shiva raised his wand to cast again, but Harry was already there. A sharp knee to the ribs sent Shiva skidding backward, his breath knocked from his lungs.
Harry did not let up. He pursued, his footfalls echoing as he lunged, spinning mid-air to bring both of his weapons down with unrelenting force. Shiva barely managed to raise a shimmering blue shield in time, the impact sending visible shockwaves outward, but the sheer force drove him to his knees. His wand vibrated in his grip as his hastily conjured shield flickered and fractured under the relentless pressure.
Realizing he couldn't hold Harry off in close quarters, Shiva took a desperate gamble. He rolled away, flicking his wand at the ground, transfiguring the arena floor into an unstable sinkhole beneath Harry's feet. The jungle-raised boy reacted instinctively, flipping mid-air and catching the edge of the stone with his fingertips. In a feat of sheer athleticism, he propelled himself back up, landing in a crouch just as Shiva unleashed a gout of blue flame in his direction.
Harry moved before thought, his right gauntlet flaring green as he slashed through the fire, parting it like a blade through water. He kicked off the ground, closing the distance once more, feinting left before pivoting into a spinning kick that caught Shiva across the jaw. The impact sent Shiva airborne before he crashed against the boundary of the arena, dazed and gasping.
Before the boy could recover, Harry dashed forward, twisting into an upward slash that would have ended the fight had Shiva not reflexively apparated three feet away in a burst of silver sparks. But the effort cost him; sweat dripped from his brow, his limbs sluggish as exhaustion began to set in.
Panting, Shiva raised his wand for one last attempt, pouring everything he had into a concentrated, high-powered stunning spell. The golden jet of magic hurtled toward Harry—only to dissipate against his shield. Before Shiva could react, Harry closed the final gap and drove his palm into the boy's chest, a blast of force sending him tumbling out of the designated arena boundary.
Shiva hit the ground hard and did not rise.
The arena fell silent, save for Harry's own heavy breathing. As the last remnants of battle magic dissipated, his armor flickered before vanishing, the exertion of prolonged combat catching up to him. His legs nearly buckled, but he caught himself before he could fall.
Professor Amarachandra strode forward, his expression unreadable as he glanced between his two students. Then, with a satisfied nod, he muttered, "Good." He gestured toward Shiva, who remained sprawled on the ground. "I'll wake up Amerson. You, Potter, go home and take a bath. I'm sure Nagini will be pleased with your progress on that interesting armor of yours."
Harry smirked, shaking his head as he wiped sweat from his brow. "Yeah, yeah. Though, I think it's funny that my mom wants to be a healer."
Still chuckling to himself, he turned and left the training arena, already envisioning the look on his mother's serpentine face when she inevitably fussed over his bruises.
Nagini lay coiled atop a massive stone slab that was embedded into the gnarled roots of the mangrove tree, ancient healing tomes spread open before her. The light of a Lumos sphere above her to allow her reading light that casts shifting shadows across the mangrove roots, illuminating the careful, deliberate turns of her serpentine head as she studied the intricate script. The texts contained the wisdom of ages—spells, poultices, and the subtle art of mending wounds that extended beyond human understanding. She had been deep in thought, absorbed in unraveling the mysteries of magical regeneration, when the faint disturbance in the wards alerted her to a familiar presence.
Harry entered, his footsteps light but unhurried, betraying no sign of exertion. His armor had long since dissipated, leaving only the faint shimmer of residual magic clinging to his scent. Still, even without the gleaming plates of battle, the evidence of his activities was plain to see. Scuffed robes, faint bruises forming along his arms, and that ever-present glint of untamed energy in his eyes. Nagini did not need arms to express herself; the slow lift of her great head and the sharp flick of her tongue spoke volumes.
"You've been playing rough again," she remarked, her voice carrying the lilt of a chiding mother rather than a true reprimand.
Harry only grinned, shrugging as if it were inevitable. "They have to learn somehow. Can't expect them to keep up if they don't train properly."
Nagini exhaled sharply, the serpentine equivalent of a snort. "Humans break more easily than you. You were raised by the jungle's law—they were not."
He rolled his shoulders as if shaking off her concerns, then added with a smirk, "Amon's doing fine. He's the only one who can actually keep up. Nearly managed to wind me this time."
A flicker of amusement danced in Nagini's emerald eyes. "Nearly." She let the word hang in the air before shifting her great coils, the faint scrape of scales against stone filling the space between them. "Go. Bathe. You stink of sweat and magic. I won't have you tracking filth through the twins' accommodations."
Harry huffed in mock offense but did not argue. He knew better.
Nagini's voice followed him as he turned to leave. "Afterward, find your favorite giant teddy bat. No doubt she's waiting."
His laugh echoed through the chamber as he disappeared down the corridor. Nagini watched him go, shaking her great head in quiet exasperation. Boys would be boys—even those raised by serpents.
Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, illuminated by the flickering glow of enchanted candlelight, meticulously finalizing the preparations for the 1994-1995 Hogwarts school year. His expansive wooden desk was strewn with parchment, some awaiting his signature while others lay neatly stacked, organized for easy reference. With a precise flick of his wand, a self-writing quill dipped itself into an ornate inkwell and set to work, its delicate scratching filling the quiet room. His sharp blue eyes scanned the Hogwarts financial ledgers, ensuring that the school's finances were in impeccable order. Tuition revenue, supply expenditures, faculty salaries, and the upkeep of the castle's intricate magical infrastructure all required scrupulous oversight to guarantee the smooth operation of the institution.
Despite the meticulous nature of the task, his mind remained attuned to the broader concerns of the upcoming academic year. He glanced at the agenda for the Prefect selection meeting, an annual assembly where the Heads of Houses convened to appoint new fifth-year prefects. The annual deliberations would focus on identifying candidates who had exhibited qualities of leadership, discipline, and sound moral judgment over their first four years. Although the meeting itself was routine, its implications were significant—prefects played an integral role in maintaining discipline and guiding the younger students through their formative years at Hogwarts.
As evening deepened, the time for the faculty meeting arrived. Rising from his chair, Dumbledore waved his hand, sending the remaining parchments gracefully into their designated slots within the grand wooden filing cabinets lining the office. Adjusting his half-moon spectacles, he made his way to the staffroom, where the assembled faculty awaited his arrival.
The meeting commenced with standard discussions regarding lesson plans, curriculum revisions, and scheduled events for the year. Then, Dumbledore addressed the primary subject of the gathering—the Triwizard Tournament.
"As you are all aware," he began, his tone measured yet authoritative, "this year, Hogwarts has been granted the privilege of hosting the Triwizard Tournament, a venerable tradition that has remained dormant for over a century. The Ministry of Magic has expended considerable effort to ensure the safety of all participants, and I trust each of you will lend your expertise in preparing for the arrival of our esteemed guests."
A low murmur swept through the room as the professors exchanged looks of understanding. The logistical and security challenges associated with hosting such a prestigious event were considerable, and each faculty member understood the magnitude of their responsibilities.
Professor McGonagall, ever pragmatic, was the first to speak. "I presume our competitors will be students from Durmstrang Institute and Beauxbatons Academy?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with quiet amusement as he shook his head. "That would be the reasonable assumption," he acknowledged, allowing a moment of suspense to pass before continuing. "However, this year's competition will not include Durmstrang or Beauxbatons."
The announcement elicited an immediate stir among the faculty. Several professors exchanged surprised glances, and Professor Flitwick raised a curious eyebrow. "Then… who will be joining us?"
Dumbledore leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. "This year, we shall welcome competitors from Gwaneum Academy of Sorcery and Rentier-Cleveland University."
A moment of stunned silence followed before the room erupted into a chorus of surprised whispers and speculative discussion.
"Gwaneum Academy?" Professor Sprout murmured, her brow furrowing. "That is rather unexpected… given their previous hesitations regarding European magical competitions."
"And Rentier-Cleveland?" Professor Snape's voice remained cool, yet tinged with intrigue. "I was under the impression that American magical institutions preferred to remain insular regarding international contests."
Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed, their participation required delicate negotiations. However, both institutions have formally agreed to take part, and we must prepare accordingly. This tournament will be unlike any iteration before it."
The ensuing discussion shifted toward logistical considerations—accommodations for visiting delegations, reinforced security measures, and the advanced magical preparations necessary to host such distinguished guests. Though the unexpected selection of competing schools had caught many by surprise, one fact remained indisputable: this year at Hogwarts promised to be an extraordinary one.