The Marauders: A Hogwarts Tale

The floating pavilion rested serenely above the frozen lake, the glassy surface shimmering with a pale, wintry glow. The cold bit at their skin, the wind nipping at exposed faces, yet the small bonfire crackling in the center of the pavilion offered a fragile warmth. The flames danced in the hearth, casting shifting shadows across the smoldering wood and the gathered friends.

Godric's crimson eyes stared out into the distance; his gaze unfocused as his thoughts wandered. An ache pressed against his chest, a dull, constant longing. He could almost feel Raine's warmth beside him, the soft smile that always seemed to brighten her face, the playful twitch of her tail and the subtle flick of her wolfen ears. This pavilion had been their place—a refuge from the world, a sacred space where they had once sworn their love and loyalty to one another. Now, it served as a stark reminder of what had been taken from him and the battle he was preparing to fight.

Helena broke the silence, her voice carrying over the crackle of the flames. "Alright, now that we're all here, let's go over what to expect at the Defendere later tonight," she said, rubbing her hands together over the fire. "This will be critical for the duel, Godric."

Helga and Rowena sat side by side, their cloaks drawn tightly around them as they leaned toward the warmth. Helena huddled closer to her friend, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Both girls turned their attention to her words, their expressions calm but serious.

Godric pulled his gaze from the horizon, forcing himself to focus. "For starters, what's this Defendere even about?" he asked. "I assume it's the time and place for us to discuss terms."

Salazar, standing with his back against one of the wooden pillars, glanced toward the fire. The flickering flames reflected in his sharp emerald eyes. "You're not wrong," he said. "A Bellum Inter Duos typically begins with a Defendere. It's the formal meeting where both parties—duelist and second—agree on terms. A private affair sanctioned by The Congregation and The High Table itself."

"Not entirely," Helena interjected. She shifted closer to the flames, her brown eyes locking on him. "A Defendere is private in theory, yes, but the privacy of a duel is determined by both parties. Some disputes are settled quietly, out of sight. Others…" She hesitated, glancing at Godric before continuing. "Others are more public. The duel two years ago, for instance—it was kept private. But it didn't stop the outcome from being tragic."

Rowena's expression darkened, her hands tightening on the edges of her cloak. "Tragic is an understatement," she said. "That duel left a stain on The Congregation and everything it stands for. Everything Excalibur stands for."

Godric's jaw clenched, his thoughts returning to Raine. He could almost hear her voice in his mind, urging him to stay calm, to be steady in the face of adversity. But her absence was a wound that refused to heal, and he felt the weight of her memory pressing heavily on his resolve.

"What about tonight?" Godric asked, breaking the tense pause. "What should I expect?"

Helena straightened, her posture firm despite the biting cold. "The standard terms are relatively straightforward: the time of the duel, the place of the duel, and the type of duel—whether it's two-on-two, four-on-four, or single combat." She paused. "Both sides will also partake in a game of chance. It's hard to explain until you see it for yourself, but you'll understand once you take your seat at the negotiation table."

Her gaze shifted to Godric, her expression growing more serious. "However, what I really want to talk about are the rules of engagement."

"Rules of engagement?" Helga interjected, one eyebrow arching playfully. "I thought we were having a duel, not planning a wedding."

"Helga, for the love of…" Rowena sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as Salazar, Godric, and Helena chuckled at the quip. Helga grinned cheekily, her expression unapologetic.

"Rules of engagement," Rowena clarified, "are the rules that govern the outcome of the duel. Try to keep up."

"Precisely," Helena said, refocusing on Godric. Her tone turned firm again. "In a Bellum Inter Duos, there are three main rules of engagement: First Blood, Full Blood, and No Quarter."

"First Blood?" Godric asked, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly.

"It's the least severe," Helena explained. "The duel ends when first blood is drawn from the torso or if the opponent yields."

"Full Blood," she continued, "means the duel only ends when one opponent is no longer able to continue—due to injury or incapacitation—or if they yield." Her expression darkened slightly. "And then there's No Quarter."

"No Quarter means the duel doesn't end until only one remains," Salazar added, stepping forward from his post at the wooden pillar. His usual smirk was absent, replaced with a grim seriousness. "No one is allowed to yield. No surrender. No mercy."

Helena nodded. "In the old days, No Quarter duels were fought to the death. Only one participant left the arena alive."

At the mention of death, Helga's cheeky grin faded, her expression sobering.

"Utterly barbaric," Rowena said. "There's a reason why my family avoided The Congregation for generations. Duels like that belong in the annals of a forgotten age, not the present."

"The duel with Matthew Garetty was a No Quarter duel," Helena said. "The terms were nearly identical to what you're facing now: the losing Clan disbanded and all its members declared Excommunicado from The Congregation." She paused. "But Excommunicado was the least of their worries. They're all serving life sentences in Revel's End now."

Godric remained silent, his crimson eyes fixed on the flickering flames of the bonfire. The weight of her words pressed down on him, settling heavily in his chest.

Helena continued; her tone steady but edged with caution. "The High Table has forbidden killing as a definitive outcome in duels for centuries. But accidents…" She hesitated. "Accidents happen. Magic can heal most grievous injuries, but even the most powerful magic can't bring someone back from the dead."

"Oh, it can," Salazar interjected with a smirk, his emerald eyes gleaming mischievously. "Just not in the way you'd hope for."

Rowena shot him a sharp glare. "Don't start, Salazar. We do not discuss dark magic openly," she hissed. "People have been hauled into the Clock Tower for less."

Salazar raised his hands in mock surrender, the smirk still tugging at the corners of his lips.

Helena ignored the exchange, her focus locked on Godric. Her expression softened slightly. "Godric, I'm not trying to intimidate you," she said. "I'm preparing you for what's to come."

Godric shifted his gaze from the fire to meet hers, his jaw tight. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm ready for whatever Volg throws my way," he said unwavering.

Helena shook her head slowly, her expression weighed down with concern. "It's not Volg I'm worried about," she said. "He doesn't have the stomach for a No Quarter duel outright. It's you. I know you're angry, and I know you're out for blood. After what he did to you, to Raine… But whatever you do, Godric, don't be the one to initiate it."

Her words were heavy and suffocating, like a fog that refused to lift. Godric's crimson eyes widened, his gaze locking onto Helena as if she'd just suggested he throw the match.

Helga shifted in her seat, her usual confidence giving way to an uneasy stillness. She broke the silence, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. "As much as I'd like to see Volg get exactly what he deserves, Helena's right," she said softly, her hands gripping the edges of her cloak. "Everyone deserves the chance to yield—not just for his sake, Godric, but for yours too."

"There's an old Slytherin proverb," Salazar said. "'The temptation of retribution calls loudest to the aggrieved and the wronged. Even the strongest are brought to their knees by the satisfaction of reprisal.'"

Helga nodded, her golden eyes flicking toward Godric. "And Pop-Pop Hufflepuff always said, 'Vengeance might dull the pain for a moment, but what's left afterward? That's the burden you'll carry forever. And it may not always be worth the fight.'"

The words lingered, echoing faintly against the stillness. Godric clenched his fists. The ache in his chest, the fury burning in his veins—it all churned together, a tempest that refused to quiet. The thought of letting Volg walk away unscathed was a bitter pill he wasn't sure he could swallow.

"Revenge has a way of leaving scars, Godric," Rowena said softly, her gaze distant. "Bitter, unrelenting scars that neither time nor magic can truly mend." She turned her sapphire eyes to him then, sharp yet filled with quiet sadness. "Most of all, I believe Raine wouldn't want you to lose yourself—not even for her. She wouldn't want you to become something irredeemable, not even in her name."

"I understand," he said finally. "But I can't promise that I'll walk away if it comes to that. Not after everything he's done."

Helena's eyes softened, though the worry didn't leave her face. "Just remember what's at stake, Godric," she said gently. "Sometimes the fight itself isn't the hardest part. It's what comes after."

The flames crackled in the hearth, their light casting long shadows over the faces of the gathered friends. The cold air seemed heavier now, carrying with it the unspoken weight of what lay ahead.

"One more thing, Godric," Salazar said, his voice drawing the attention of their small group. His emerald eyes gleamed with sharp intent as he leaned slightly closer. "I have no doubt that Volg, being the spineless cretin he is, will try to throw you off during the Defendere."

He paused for emphasis. "All I ask is that you keep your composure. Helena's right—remember what's at stake. If you lose control and attack him during the proceedings, The Table will deem it an immediate forfeiture, and Volg will win by default."

Godric took a long, sharp breath, steadying himself. "I'll do my best, but if it comes to that…" His gaze shifted to Salazar, a flicker of uncertainty in his crimson eyes.

Salazar smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Oh, I won't be the one to stop you." He turned, his grin widening as he glanced at Helga. "I'll leave that to the professional."

Helga cracked her knuckles with an audible pop, a sly smile spreading across her face. "Always happy to help," she said, her tone playful but with a glint of seriousness beneath it.

Godric couldn't help but let out a nervous chuckle, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "Good to know."

****

The bells of the Excalibur Clock Tower knelled, their deep, resonant tolls reverberating through the ancient stones of the castle. The iron tones crept through corridors and chambers, filling the hollow spaces with an oppressive unease. Whispers stirred among the initiated, their voices hushed but urgent, like dry leaves rustling in the wind. The subject of their murmurs was the Bellum Inter Duos, or more specifically, the Defendere that would soon take place. An anxious energy rippled through those gathered, heavy with the knowledge that there had never been a duel with stakes this high—not since the infamous, ill-fated confrontation two years prior.

The consequences of this duel loomed larger than anyone dared admit, the weight of its outcome pressing heavily on both sides. The repercussions promised to be severe, far-reaching in ways that made even the most seasoned members of The Congregation uneasy.

The once-bustling arena now stood eerily silent. Closed to the public for this singular event, its usual roar of cheers and jeers had been replaced by an almost suffocating stillness. The venue's grand architecture, a testament to centuries of tradition and conflict, felt cold and foreboding. Every empty seat seemed to amplify the tension in the air.

Staff of The Congregation moved quietly through the space, their presence a reminder of the gravity of the moment. Dressed in meticulously tailored grey suits, they bore themselves with a stoic professionalism, their steel lapel pins—emblazoned with the emblem of The Congregation—glinting faintly in the muted light. They stood like silent sentinels, stationed throughout the arena with purpose, their gazes fixed on the center of the stage where the duel would soon unfold.

The metallic groan of the arena gates rising cut through the tension like a blade. Godric stepped out of the shadows, his stride deliberate and steady as his friends followed close behind. His crimson eyes swept across the wide expanse of the arena, his gaze flicking to the Enforcers stationed on every level. They stood like silent sentinels, their watchful eyes tracking every movement, their unease palpable despite their stoic facades.

It felt surreal to be back in this place, where the echoes of his past victory still lingered. He remembered it well—the day he faced the red-haired hound from Scotland in this very arena. That duel had cemented his reputation, carving his name into the legacy of Excalibur. And yet, standing here now, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Godric's gaze shifted upward to the tallest floor, where a regal figure loomed above the proceedings. Genji Shimada, his presence commanding even from a distance, observed the scene with a level, neutral expression. Standing beside him was a girl Godric didn't recognize, her posture composed but her gaze sharp and inquisitive. Genji's scrutiny carried a quiet intrigue, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the players take their places.

At the center of the arena stood a long glass table, flanked by four ornate wooden chairs, their craftsmanship as much a symbol of formality as the duel itself. On the left side of the table stood Helena, her expression calm yet focused, her presence radiating authority. Beside her, on the far right, was Eskel, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed firmly ahead.

Godric's gaze shifted to the far end of the arena as Volg and his entourage emerged from the shadows. Volg's stride was confident, his smirk dripping with arrogance. His pale blue eyes gleamed with a mix of malice and triumph, as if he had already claimed victory. Their eyes met across the expanse, and for a moment, the air between them seemed to crackle—a clash of wills that needed no words.

His hands curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides. He had stood in this arena before, but this time felt different. The stakes weren't just high—they were monumental. The consequences loomed like a storm on the horizon, ready to swallow everything whole. This wasn't just a duel. It was a reckoning.

As both sides closed the distance to the long glass table at the center, the oppressive weight of what was to come settled over the arena, pressing down on everyone present. This wasn't merely a test of skill or strategy; it was personal, and the gravity of the moment was impossible to ignore.

Godric and his friends stopped just short of the long glass table, their presence mirrored by Volg and his entourage on the opposite side. The two groups exchanged sharp, assessing glances, the tension between them thick and unyielding.

"Is it just me, or is Volg's little crew looking a bit… sparse?" Salazar leaned toward Godric, his smirk as sharp as his words. "Hate to say I told you so."

"Seems you were right on the Platas about rats abandoning a sinking ship, Salazar," Rowena added, her gaze fixed on Rance. His narrowed eyes flicked toward her, his expression hardening as their gazes clashed. "Though I'll admit, some rats are more loyal than others."

Salazar chuckled softly, his emerald eyes glinting with amusement. "Ah, my dear Rowena, self-preservation is the most reliable instinct in the world. When the chips are down and the pressure's on, every creature—human or otherwise—cares about one thing and one thing only: its own survival."

Godric's attention shifted past Volg and Rance, his gaze lingering on the two unfamiliar figures standing beside them. The first was a wiry boy with slick black hair streaked with blonde highlights. His square glasses caught the arena's dim light, reflecting a cold, calculating glint as his sharp brown eyes scanned the opposing group.

The second figure was markedly different—a towering boy with a built, muscular frame, his darkly tanned complexion contrasting against the violet dreadlocks tied neatly behind his head. His gaze was intense, his stance firm, like a predator sizing up its prey.

"Hey, Salazar," Godric murmured, keeping his voice low as his crimson eyes flicked between the two. "I don't think I've seen those two before. Any idea who they are?"

Salazar's smirk didn't fade as he followed Godric's line of sight, his brow arching slightly. "Oh, I've heard a little about them," he said casually. "The one with the glasses is Derek Shaw—a strategist, if the rumors are to be believed. And the mountain with the violet hair? That's Marcus Gage. Straight out of the Red Isles of Skellige and built like a cave troll."

Godric's gaze lingered on the two figures as Salazar continued. "They're Volg's heavy hitters, from what I've managed to piece together. Derek's the methodical type—strategic, calculating. He likes to stay five moves ahead, making sure every piece is exactly where it needs to be."

Salazar's smirk twisted slightly. "And then there's Marcus. No subtlety there. He's all brute force, the kind who lets his fists do the talking. Hands-on doesn't even begin to cover it."

He folded his arms. "Sure, Volg's lost the dead weight, but he's fortunate enough to have kept the ones who matter. And unfortunately for us…" His smirk faded slightly, his voice dropping into something more serious. "These two matter quite a lot."

Salazar's gaze shifted to Rance. "And of course," he began, "we've already had the pleasure—or should I say, displeasure—of one Mister Rance Bisset de Gramont. Volg's most devoted sycophant."

He tilted his head slightly. "Don't let his cowardice fool you. Rance is as cunning as they come. While Volg might be the heart of The Calishans, Rance is the brains—and every bit as twisted."

Godric's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed the two, along with Rance. Whatever advantage Volg hoped to gain from them, Godric resolved not to be caught off guard. "We'll see," he muttered under his breath, his gaze returning to the table at the center of the arena.

The two groups stood at a quiet impasse, the air between them thick with anticipation as the pieces for the confrontation were finally falling into place.