The Quidditch pitch had been transford into an arena of death.
One side of the stands lay in ruins from the earlier fighting, rubble and shadow where hundreds had once cheered. Voldemort stood at the center of the pitch, robes billowing though no wind moved, crimson eyes gleaming with malevolent anticipation. Behind him the Death Eaters ford tight ranks — a wall of masks and malice poised to watch their master’s victory.
Beyond them, lurking at the Forbidden Forest’s edge, Arthur could make out the massive forms of acromantulas, their many eyes glinting in the darkness as they waited for the command to feast.
Arthur himself stood invisible atop one of the surviving middle stands, having chosen the perfect vantage for a duel destined to be rembered.
Footsteps echoed across the grounds. Harry Potter approached, but he did not co alone.
He walked through the castle gates flanked by Sirius, Susan, Alia Bones, Moody, Kingsley, and a dozen of the Ministry’s finest Aurors. They moved in formation, wands at the ready but not raised — a statent: we co to witness the duel, but there will be no funny business.
anwhile, Arthur noticed subtle movents throughout the ruins. Defenders were taking positions behind broken stones and conjured barriers, spreading through the shadows like chess pieces on a broken board. If this duel was a trap, the castle would be ready.
"Harry Potter," Voldemort’s voice carried across the grounds. "I said co alone."
"You said co alone or bring my sheep," Harry replied calmly, stopping twenty paces away. "I brought wolves instead. Unless you’re afraid of an audience, Tom?"
A few Death Eaters hissed at the disrespect. Voldemort rely smiled.
"Let them watch their hope die. It makes dealing with the aftermath simpler." He gestured in dismissal. "Clear the circle."
Both sides stepped back, making an agreed ring of space. Harry moved forward; Voldemort moved forward. The duel was supposed to be one-on-one, but everyone understood the rule: the mont the pact broke, chaos would begin again.
"Such bravado," Voldemort observed as he circled. "Your mother had it too, before she died begging for— What are you doing, Potter?"
The Dark Lord’s carefully rehearsed monologue died on his lips. Harry wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, the Boy Who Lived was examining a tiny golden snitch in his palm, turning it this way and that in the moonlight.
"Sorry, were you saying sothing?" Harry asked with an almost casual innocence. "I don’t really listen to lectures — ask any of my professors. I’m trying to solve the secret of this snitch, I inherited from Dumbledore. Perfect place for it, right? Caught this one on this pitch nearly seven years ago." He smiled, nostalgic. "Brings back mories. Soone hiding behind a turban, trying to throw off my broom..."
Harry’s reminiscence was cut short as he casually sidestepped a green killing curse that carved a trench where he’d been standing.
"Sorry if I brought up bad mories," Harry continued conversationally, pocketing the snitch. "But you know how it is — I’m terrible at controlling my thoughts. Awful at Occluncy. Just ask Snape."
Arthur smiled from his perch. Harry had learned more than duelling from their sessions. The art of psychological warfare through intelligent mischief — he was a proud teacher indeed.
"Smile all you want," Voldemort snarled, his composure cracking. "It will be your last. AVADA KEDAVRA!"
Harry sidestepped the spell easily with his enhanced agility and with the speed Moody had drilled into him over months. "REDUCTO!" he answered.
The curse shot forward with such force it left a glowing trail in the air. Voldemort deflected it, but the impact drove him back a step. His smile vanished.
"You’ve been practicing," Voldemort observed, circling slowly.
"Well, while you were hiding from Arthur," Harry matched his movent, maintaining perfect distance, "I had all the ti in the world to train."
"It seems the mudblood has been teaching you more than just combat," Voldemort spat. "Where is he? Too cowardly to face ? It would have been convenient to eliminate you both together."
"Using the M-word when you’re one yourself?" Harry’s voice carried genuine disappointnt. "I expected better from you, Tom. Couldn’t you have made up a different slur, like you made up your na?"
From his invisible perch, Arthur watched with deep satisfaction. He hadn’t seen this side of Harry before — the wordplay, the psychological needling. During their training sessions, Harry had always been quiet while he and Sirius bantered. Apparently, those silent monts had been the boy taking careful notes.
But now the warm-up was over. The real battle was beginning.
Voldemort struck quickly — a sickly yellow curse that Arthur recognized as one of the nastier organ-liquifying hexes. Harry didn’t block it. He twisted, letting it pass milliters from his shoulder — a move he’d practiced a thousand tis against Moody’s "surprise" attacks.
"Confringo! Diffindo! Impedinta!"
The spell chain flowed seamlessly, each curse building on the last’s montum — pure Flitwick technique. Voldemort had to actually work to defend, his wand moving in sharp, economical movents.
"Better," Voldemort acknowledged. "But not enough."
His reply was devastating. With a single slash, Fiendfyre erupted — not wild and hungry but sculpted into a rolling tide of fla that devoured the ground beneath Harry’s feet. Soon, there would be nowhere left to stand.
Thinking fast, Harry raised his wand. "LUMOS MAXIMA!"
The overpowered light charm created a blinding flash that forced even the watching Death Eaters to shield their eyes. In that mont of distraction, Harry pulled sothing from his pocket — his Firebolt, shrunk to the size of a matchstick.
"Engorgio," he whispered.
The broom expanded to its full size, and in one fluid motion, Harry mounted it and shot skyward, leaving the cursed flas to devour empty ground.
"Co down and fight properly!" Voldemort roared, sending killing curses streaking upward like deadly fireworks.
"You didn’t specify ground rules," Harry called, barrel-rolling around a purple bolt. He could not leave the dueling ring — stepping too far would break the agreent and relaunch full-scale war. But within the pitch, he had three dinsions, and he intended to use them.
"Sectumsempra!"
The cutting curse ca from an unexpected angle as Harry dove and pulled up sharply. Voldemort spun, deflecting it with contemptuous ease, but Harry was already moving, already casting.
"Oppugno!" A flock of conjured ravens sward Voldemort’s vision. "Expelliarmus!"
The disarming charm ca through the birds, but Voldemort swatted it aside without even looking, his magical senses far too refined to be fooled by such simple misdirection.
But Harry wasn’t discouraged. He flew like he was back in a match against Slytherin — unpredictable, aggressive, turning every dodge into an opportunity to attack. He fought brilliantly, never static, always pressing, making the air itself his ally.
For the next five incredible minutes, Harry Potter held his own against Lord Voldemort.
The Death Eaters watched in stunned silence. The defenders barely dared to breathe. Even Arthur, who’d spent months preparing Harry for this mont, felt pride at seeing their training manifest so perfectly.
But experience tells. Slowly, inevitably, Voldemort began to adapt.
Where Harry fought with trained instinct, Voldemort fought with decades of practice. He began predicting Harry’s movents, cutting off angles of attack, forcing the younger wizard into increasingly desperate quidditch moves to dodge the attacks.
"Tiring already?" Voldemort taunted, batting aside Harry’s latest curse with casual contempt. "This is why children shouldn’t play with adults."
Harry was breathing hard now, sweat cutting channels through the gri on his face. His spells ca a fraction slower, his Firebolt’s movents less sharp.
The truth was written in his trembling hands — while Voldemort had been conserving his strength grave-robbing, Harry had been fighting for his life against Death Eaters for over an hour. He’d started this duel already partially drained.
A few more exchanges, each one pushing Harry closer to his limits. Then it happened — a mont’s hesitation, a slight overcorrection on a turn.
Voldemort’s curse caught the Firebolt’s tail in an explosion of splinters. The broom spun wildly, and Harry lost his grip, plumting toward the unforgiving ground.
Harry managed to cast the cushioning charm just before impact, landing hard but not lethally. He rolled to his feet, wand still in hand, but anyone could see the situation had shifted.
The Boy Who Lived was grounded, exhausted, and facing a Dark Lord who was just getting started.
Around the pitch, defenders’ hands tightened on their wands. Everyone was ready to abandon the duel’s rules if necessary.
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