Hogwarts' Golden Glory

Derian stepped out from the Slytherin table and stood opposite Harry, wand already in his hand.

"I voted," Derian said, his voice firm. "I'm old enough, I'm qualified. But the Goblet of Fire didn't choose me. It chose you—a third-year student who doesn't even meet the age requirement. I'm not happy about it."

"So?" Harry said.

"So you prove it to me. Prove you deserve the title of warrior."

The people in the auditorium began to move to the sides to make room for them.

At the Gryffindor table, Seamus put down his fork, Dean put down his book, and Neville gripped the edge of the table nervously.

Hermione stood beside the Gryffindor table, her face still pale, but she looked at Harry and her lips moved as if to say "Good luck."

Ron didn't look at Harry.

He looked down, staring at his plate.

But almost everyone was pessimistic about Harry's chances.

Harry is too young and hasn't learned many spells yet. How could he possibly be better than his opponent?

Kane stepped between the two. "The rules are simple. The match ends when one person concedes or becomes incapacitated. No Unforgivable Curses. No intentional injury."

He looked at Harry. "Ready?"

Harry nodded.

He looked at Derian. "Are you ready?"

Derian nodded.

Kane stepped aside. "Begin."

Derian made the first move.

"Obstacles are numerous!"

An invisible barrier pushed towards him. Harry dodged to the side, his wand flashing out simultaneously. "Expelliarmus!"

A red light shone out.

Derian was prepared and blocked the attack with an Ironclad Charm. The charm bounced off and hit a plate of roast chicken on the Ravenclaw table.

The roast chicken flew up, circled twice in the air above the auditorium, and landed on the Hufflepuff table.

Nobody cared about the roast chicken. Everyone was looking at Harry and Derian.

Derian's attack was fierce. "Stunned to the ground!" "Power dissipated!" "All petrified!"

One after another, fast and powerful.

He is indeed capable; he's not the kind of person who just talks the talk.

Harry was forced to retreat repeatedly, and a small piece of his robe was scorched when a spell grazed it.

A cheer erupted from the Slytherin table. Pansy slammed her hand on the table. "Drian, hit him!"

Hermione clenched her fists. Neville stood up nervously.

Harry steadied himself. He didn't retaliate; he just kept dodging.

Derian's spells grew faster and faster, and Harry's dodging became increasingly difficult.

He needs to find the rhythm, find the opening.

Winning isn't about strength, it's about intelligence.

Derian waved his wand again: "Faint!"

Harry didn't dodge this time. He crouched down, and the spell flew over his head.

At the same time, he brandished his wand: "Disarm you!"

The red light struck Derian's wrist with pinpoint accuracy.

Derian's wand flew out, tracing an arc through the air before landing on the Gryffindor table, smashing into Ron's plate. Ron looked down at the wand, but didn't move.

The auditorium fell silent.

Derian stood there, his hands empty, his mouth agape.

He looked at his hands, then at Harry, and then at the wand that had fallen onto Ron's plate.

He lost.

They lost to Harry Potter!

Kane walked up to Derian. "You lost."

Derian's face turned bright red.

He wanted to say "do it again," to say he wasn't prepared, to say it was just an accident.

But when he saw Kane's gray eyes, he swallowed his words.

He walked over, took his wand from Ron's plate, and walked back to the Slytherin table with his head down.

No one cheered, no one applauded.

At the Slytherin table, everyone remained silent.

On the Gryffindor table, Seamus's mouth was agape, and he forgot to close it.

He looked at Harry as if he were seeing him for the first time.

Dean put down his fork and began to clap.

One person clapped, then two people clapped, and soon the entire Gryffindor table was clapping.

Neville clapped the loudest, his palms turning red.

"Fantastic! Gryffindor Champion!"

The crowd cheered!

Hermione smiled, but her smile faded when she saw Kane.

Harry stood in the center of the Great Hall, wand still raised.

His breathing was a little rapid, but his heartbeat was steady.

He looked at the people at the Slytherin table who had just been laughing at him. No one dared to look at him.

He looked at Ron.

Ron kept his head down.

Harry put away his wand and walked back to the Gryffindor table.

He sat down. Neville handed him a glass of pumpkin juice. "That was so cool, Harry! When you crouched down to dodge the spell, I thought you were going to get hit, but you disarmed him!"

"Luck," Harry said.

"It wasn't luck," Dean leaned over from the other side. "It was skill. The timing was perfect. Dean's spell was cast too quickly; most people could only take it by force. Harry's counterattack was swift."

Simo did not speak.

He glanced at Harry, then looked down again.

He didn't apologize, but he also decided that he would never be sarcastic or sarcastic again.

At the Slytherin table at the other end of the Great Hall, Kane sat back down and picked up his knife and fork again.

The whispers in the auditorium had changed.

It's no longer "Porter the cheater," but "He's got something."

Some people started discussing the battle they had just fought, some analyzed Derian's mistakes, and some predicted Harry's performance in the first project.

The winds are starting to shift. Not everyone believes him, but at least no one dares to criticize him to his face anymore.

Harry took a sip of the pumpkin juice.

He suddenly found the pumpkin juice particularly sweet today.

But he has to thank Kane.

He's now too embarrassed to question Kane about why he treated Hermione that way.

So he had no choice but to forget about these things for now.

The next morning, Potions class.

The underground classroom was as cold and damp as ever.

The torches on the stone wall flickered with a dim light, illuminating rows of crucibles emitting green steam.

The air was filled with the pungent smell of mugwort and bile, and some people were already secretly covering their noses.

Snape stood behind the podium, his black robes like a pool of solidified ink, scanning the classroom expressionlessly.

Wherever his gaze fell, everyone unconsciously lowered their heads.

"Today," Snape's voice was low and slow, like a blade cutting through a whetstone, "we are brewing the Living Hell Soup."

He wrote a long list of ingredients and steps on the blackboard, and every tap of chalk on the blackboard made my heart clench.

"It's an extremely complex sleeping potion; just a few drops are enough to put the person who drinks it into an eternal sleep." Snape turned around, his black eyes like two bottomless pits. "Of course, for some people whose brains are completely empty, drinking it or not probably makes no difference."

His gaze fell on Neville. Neville shrank back, nearly knocking over the cauldron.

"Today's pairings," Snape said, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "Potter—and Kane."