The Marauders: A Hogwarts Tale

The third iron gate groaned open between the glass table, its metallic creak reverberating throughout the silent arena. Every eye turned toward the figure emerging from the shadows, flanked by two Enforcers who marched behind him before taking their positions on either side of the gate. The man was young, though older than anyone else present—likely a Sixth-Year. His well-kept brown hair and dull green eyes were steady, focused entirely on the table ahead.

He was dressed impeccably in a finely tailored black three-piece suit, the craftsmanship apparent in every detail. Intricate swirls and arcane symbols were woven seamlessly into the fabric of his blazer and vest, glinting faintly in the light. His buttons were solid gold, gleaming like coins freshly minted.

Godric's gaze followed the man, though his attention quickly honed in on the lapel pin adorning his suit. It was unlike the silver badges worn by the Enforcers or even Helena's Overseer insignia. This pin was different—platinum, with five gemstones of varying colors arranged in a perfect circle.

"Do you know who that is?" Godric leaned toward Salazar.

Salazar's smirk deepened, though his own intrigue was evident. "Ah, that," he began, "is a Harbinger. One of the three who sit 'Adjacent to the Table.'" He gestured subtly toward the figure. "They're the only ones authorized to speak on behalf of the Table itself. In other words, he's second only to the Five. A direct extension of their authority."

Godric raised an eyebrow. "Anyone we know?"

"Not personally, but I do believe you've had the pleasure of meeting the young man he's well acquainted with." Salazar's smirk widened. "His name is Gabriel Greymark," he said, pausing for effect. "Lucian's older brother."

Godric's eyes widened, his gaze snapping back to the young man now approaching the table. "Wait… he's Lucian's brother?" he asked with a mix of disbelief and intrigue. "But Lucian's the Head Prefect, and he's…"

"...the one who sits at the top of The Congregation," Salazar finished smoothly, a soft chuckle escaping him. "Ironic, isn't it? Two brothers, polar opposites in every way, yet both firmly rooted in their shared belief in rules and consequences."

Godric's gaze lingered on Gabriel, taking in the calm authority radiating from him. The Harbinger carried himself with the air of someone who held immense power—power that, for now, remained unreadable. As he neared the table, the tension in the arena grew, every movement, every breath heavy with anticipation.

"Gentlemen," Gabriel began. "On behalf of The Table, I welcome you to the Defendere Se Per Corpus Suum. As a Bellum Inter Duos has been formally declared, we convene today to determine the terms of this engagement between—"

He turned his gaze deliberately to the young man seated to his left. "Volg Dryfus of The Calishans," he announced, before shifting his attention to the right. "And Godric Gryffindor, The Lion of Ignis."

The names hung in the air, heavy with the weight of reputation and rivalry, as the tension in the room seemed to tighten around them. Gabriel's measured cadence carried a gravity that underscored the importance of what was about to unfold.

"Now," Gabriel continued, gesturing smoothly to the table, "contenders and their seconds, please take your seats."

Godric and Volg stepped forward. Volg dropped into his chair with an air of practiced arrogance, leaning back as if he owned the room. Godric sat opposite him, his posture tense but purposeful, his crimson eyes never leaving Volg's face.

Salazar followed close behind Godric, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he shot a mocking glance toward Rance. With unhurried confidence, he slid into his chair, settling in as though he were attending a casual meeting rather than a high-stakes negotiation. Leaning back, he crossed one leg over the other and clasped his hands in his lap, his demeanor exuding nonchalance, as if the entire affair were no more than a game to him.

Rance, ever the mirror of Salazar's energy, took his seat with equal poise, matching the smirk with one of his own as he leaned back into his chair, his sharp gaze flitting toward Salazar with subtle defiance.

Rowena and Helga, like their counterparts, remained standing behind the chairs, their postures rigid with quiet tension. Though they said nothing, their presence was steady and reassuring, a silent support for Godric in the face of what lay ahead.

At the center of the glass table rested twelve black crystal cards, slightly larger than standard playing cards. They were arranged in two perfectly aligned rows, their sleek, polished surfaces shimmering faintly under the arena's muted light. The emblem of The Congregation was etched into their backs with intricate precision, the design catching the light in subtle flashes, as if imbued with an almost imperceptible power.

Helena and Eskel, stationed on either side of the table, exchanged uneasy glances. The air around them was heavy with anticipation, their cautious expressions betraying the uncertainty they felt as the Defendere began to unfold.

"Under the Old Laws and the Old Ways," Gabriel began, "only one may prevail. Do you both understand the implications of this duel?"

Volg and Godric turned their gazes to him and nodded in unison.

"Very well," Gabriel said with a curt nod. "Mister Dryfus, this is not your first Defendere. However," his attention shifted to Godric, "this is new territory for you, Mister Gryffindor. Allow me to explain."

He gestured toward the cards before them. "On the table are twelve cards, each inscribed with a random number. As terms are proposed, each of you will select and reveal a card. The contender with the higher number will claim the proposed term. This process continues until all terms have been agreed upon. Do either of you have questions or objections?"

Godric shook his head, his jaw tightening as he kept his gaze firmly on Volg.

"Excellent," Gabriel replied. "Then let us begin."

****

"Rules," Gabriel began, his voice calm and authoritative. "The challenged chooses first. Time."

Volg met Godric's gaze, his baby blue eyes gleaming with arrogant confidence. "Midnight," he said smoothly, his hand reaching out to flip one of the cards. The card revealed an intricate painting of a warrior wielding a sword, the number twenty-three etched in shimmering gold. The tap of the card against the glass table echoed faintly through the arena.

"Sunrise." Godric's expression remained steady as he reached for a card of his own. Flipping it over, he revealed the image of an elegant elven woman, the number seventeen inscribed on its surface.

"Midnight," Gabriel confirmed. "Location."

Volg leaned back slightly, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips. "You think this little spectacle will help you get your filthy mutt back, New Blood?" His words a calculated jab. "It won't. In fact, you've only made things so much worse for her."

Without waiting for a response, he reached for another card and flipped it. The card bore a crude yet vivid depiction of a stone fortress, the number four etched in muted gold. "Cardigan Lake," Volg declared with an air of finality.

Godric clenched his teeth, but before he could react, Salazar leaned forward. "Remember what we talked about, Godric," he murmured, a subtle smirk on his face. "You've got this."

He gave a brief nod, turning his focus back to the table. Drawing a slow, steady breath, he reached for a card. "The Excalibur Clock Tower," he said as he flipped it, revealing an intricate painting of a soaring tower and the number thirty-one in brilliant gold.

Gabriel's sharp gaze swept over the revealed cards; his expression unreadable as he glanced between the contenders. "The Excalibur Clock Tower," he confirmed as he marked the result. "Confrontation."

The tension around the table grew heavier, the weight of each turn of the cards pressing down on everyone present. Rowena and Helga exchanged uneasy glances; their postures stiff with concern as worry flickered across their features. Helena's eyes drifted around the arena, taking in the silent spectators and Enforcers, an unspoken acknowledgment that everyone there felt the same mounting apprehension.

Volg leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening as he broke the silence. "If you win," he began, "The Calishans will honor our word, as will I. You'll have her back, and the remaining members of my Clan will be declared Excommunicado from The Congregation." He paused as he locked onto Godric. "But you and I both know how this ends."

He reached for another card. "I've spent today making arrangements," Volg continued. "Sifting through the most dangerous, backbreaking mines in all of Avalon. I've found just the one. A place where you'll call home until you draw your final breath." He smirked, flipping the card onto the table. The number Forty-Seven glinted in bold gold beneath the painting of a battle scene. "Four on Four," Volg declared.

Slowly, Godric reached for a card. "Single Combat," he said, flipping it to reveal the number Twenty-One beneath the image of a lone warrior standing tall.

Gabriel's gaze flicked between the cards. "Four on Four," he announced, marking the result with a firm nod. "Rules of Engagement."

Helga swallowed hard, her usual composure shaken, while Rowena's eyes narrowed, her sharp gaze darting toward Volg. Helena's expression mirrored the unease, her lips pressed into a thin line as her fingers twitched at her side.

Before Godric could respond, Volg reached into his pocket with deliberate slowness, pulling out something that gleamed in the arena's muted light. A familiar golden bracelet dangled from his fingers, its ruby lion charm catching the faint glow like a spark of fire. Godric froze, a chill racing down his spine as his eyes locked onto the bracelet. His breath hitched, and his widened crimson eyes betrayed the storm of emotions surging within him.

"I must admit," Volg began, "this is quite the piece. Pretty. Expensive, even." He turned the bracelet in his hand, admiring it as though it were a trinket he had won at a fair. "She was clutching it for dear life, you know. Refusing to let it go, no matter how much we beat her for it."

Godric's fists clenched against the glass table, his knuckles whitening as his breath grew heavier.

"It's a nice little keepsake, I'll give her that," Volg smirk widened as he dangled the bracelet before Godric like bait. "A prize from all of this—something I'll hold near and dear. Every time I look at it, I'll remember the foolish boy from the boonies and his little pet. How their own stupidity led to their downfall the day they thought they could cross Volg Dryfus."

Volg eyes glittered with malicious delight. "After all," he added, his tone turning cold, "she won't be needing this where she's going. And neither will you."

"Mister Gryffindor?" Gabriel's voice cut through the charged silence, calm yet firm. "Rules of Engagement."

A slow, heavy pause followed, the weight of the moment pressing down like a hammer. Godric's crimson eyes burned with barely contained fury. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and trembling with quiet, lethal anger.

"No Quarter."

The words fell like a thunderclap, drawing soft gasps from around the arena. Helena's eyes widened in alarm, her breath catching as she stared at Godric in disbelief. Rowena, by contrast, remained stoic, though her furrowed brow betrayed her unease.

Salazar's smirk grew wider, though there was a flicker of nervousness in his emerald eyes. Still, an unmistakable glimmer of intrigue simmered beneath the surface as though he had been waiting for this very moment.

"You may flip a card, Mister Gryffindor," Gabriel said, breaking the tension like a gavel striking order.

"That won't be necessary," Volg interjected sharply. "You think you can walk into The Congregation and burn down everything I've built?" His smirk twisted into a snarl, his composure giving way to a simmering rage. "You don't burn me down, New Blood. I burn you down."

Volg stood straighter as he continued, his tone sharp and cruel. "This is what happens when the dirt forget their place—under the heels of those who stand above them. People like you," he sneered, "don't fight. You don't stand. You don't push back. You take it, like the obedient little dogs you are, and then you ask if you can have another."

He leaned forward, his words carrying the weight of a threat that felt all too personal. "You shouldn't have played the hero, Gryffindor. Now you'll pay the price."

Without breaking eye contact with Godric, Volg said to Gabriel. "No Quarter."

The room seemed to grow colder at the declaration, the weight of those two words settling over everyone like a heavy frost. Gabriel drew a slow, measured breath, his expression composed and unreadable, before finally speaking.

"So be it," he said, carrying an edge of finality.

He glanced between Godric and Volg, his gaze sharp and impartial. "Midnight. The Excalibur Clock Tower. Four on Four…" He let the last phrase hang for a moment before delivering the verdict. "No Quarter."

Gabriel turned to Godric first. "Should Mister Gryffindor be victorious, the therianthrope slave known as Raine will be unconditionally released into his custody. The Calishans will be disbanded, and its members declared Excommunicado from The Congregation, effective immediately."

His gaze shifted to Volg. "Should Mister Dryfus prevail—"

"Godric Gryffindor will forfeit his freedom and become my property," Volg interjected smoothly, a cruel smile curling across his face. "As will his little pelt," he added.

Gabriel's eyes flicked back to Volg, his expression unchanging. "Just so," he said, confirming the terms with a slight shrug.

"As per the Old Laws," Gabriel continued, addressing both parties, "each of you will have one week from today to prepare. Should either of you wish to withdraw, you may do so up to twenty-four hours before the appointed time. After that, the duel is binding."

Gabriel paused, his sharp gaze sweeping over the table. "Now, if there's nothing further, gentlemen—"

"A proposition," Volg interrupted smoothly, raising a single finger.

Godric turned to Gabriel, their eyes meeting briefly before Gabriel gave a slight nod. "It is his right," the Harbinger confirmed, his tone impartial.

A predatory smirk curled upon Volg's lips. "How about we make this a grand spectacle?" he drawled. "Let's grant The Congregation full, untethered access to the duel—a right of broadcast. Let everyone watch. No secrets, no surprises. Just you and me, on full display for the world to see."

Gabriel's attention turned to Godric, who sat in thoughtful silence for a moment. The tension in the room thickened, but the boy's gaze remained steady. After a beat, he gave a curt nod, his agreement clear.

"Very well," Gabriel said, noting the decision. "As agreed, the duel will be made accessible to all of The Congregation. Now, if there's truly nothing further, gentlemen…" He straightened; his expression as unreadable as ever. "I will see you both in one week, at midnight. Failure to meet at the appointed hour will result in immediate forfeiture. And to the victor…" Gabriel's words slowed deliberately, each word measured, "the spoils."

Without another word, he turned on his heel. He strode back toward the entrance, the sound of his polished shoes echoing softly in the silence. The two Enforcers flanking him fell into step behind, their presence as cold and unyielding as the terms just declared. The three figures disappeared into the shadows, leaving the two rivals and their seconds to grapple with the gravity of what had been set in motion.

Godric pushed back his chair, the sound of the heavy wood scraping against the sandy floor of the arena cutting through the tense silence. Without a word, he turned to leave, his shoulders rigid with fury barely contained.

"There's no happily ever after waiting for you, New Blood," Volg sneered. His gaze locked onto Godric. "No matter what you do, she'll never be yours—not in this lifetime, not ever." His smirk grew more sinister.

"You're going to lose everything—your life, your honor, even your name." He leaned forward slightly, his grin turning manic. "And when this is over, when I collar you like the dog you are before the entire Congregation, no one will remember The Lion of Ignis. Godric Gryffindor will be nothing more than a forgotten footnote in history."

Godric froze mid-step, but before he could respond, Rowena stepped forward, her fury radiating like a storm. Her teeth bared as she spat back. "The only person who's going to end up collared, broken, and sold like a commodity is you, Volg." Her sapphire eyes burned with disdain.

"Here's an idea," Rowena snapped. "Why not let your brother Laxus make you the new poster boy for your family's catalog? I'm sure your buyer would appreciate seeing exactly what they're getting when they come to collect their due!"

The words barely left her lips when Rance moved with sudden, brutal precision. His hand lashed out, striking Rowena across the face with a sharp crack. She stumbled back, her hand flying to her cheek as pain contorted her expression.

Time seemed to slow as the room held its collective breath. A cold, visceral feeling ran down Salazar's spine as his irises shrank, the scene unfolding in excruciating detail. In an instant, his wand was in his hand, the tip glowing with a faint, menacing green. His aim was steady, locked on Rance's smug face, but before he could act, the entire arena erupted in motion.

Wands were drawn from every direction, their tips trained on all of them. Enforcers stood at the ready, their presence a stark reminder of the unyielding rules of The Congregation. Even Helena and Eskel had their wands raised, pointing at both Salazar and Rance with tense precision.

"Stand down, Mister Slytherin," Eskel commanded. He turned his glare to Rance, his expression cold. "As for you, Mister Gramont, that was uncalled for. Consider yourself suspended from The Congregation for the next week." His tone left no room for argument. "The rules are clear, and as I recall, this isn't your first violation."

Rance chuckled darkly, though the beads of sweat forming on his forehead betrayed his discomfort. "No skin off my back," he said with a mocking shrug. "In a week, none of this will matter." His gaze flicked back to Rowena, his eyes narrowing. "Perhaps now the Scottish wench will think twice before mouthing off to her betters."

Salazar slowly lowered his wand but didn't put it away, his piercing glare fixed on Rance as if daring him to try something else.

Helena raised a hand, signaling to the Enforcers. At her command, they took a step back, their wands lowering in unison but not disappearing entirely.

Helga hurried to Rowena's side; concern etched into her features as she gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?" she asked softly.

Rowena, still cradling her cheek, shot Rance a glare so hateful it could have melted stone. "I'll live," she muttered, though the fire in her eyes made it clear this wasn't over.

"You can make all the promises and threats you want, Volg," Godric said suddenly. "But I think you and I are done talking." He stepped closer to the table.

"My uncle used to say there's good in everyone," he began. "And for the longest time, I believed him." His crimson eyes locked onto Volg, narrowing with a dangerous intensity as his expression darkened. "But you… blimey, you've proven me wrong in ways I couldn't have imagined."

He leaned forward slightly, the weight of his presence pressing against Volg's smug façade. "I've still got plenty more to say to you, but the next time I do, it'll be with my sword."

Godric's voice dropped to a cold, menacing whisper as he leaned in closer. "And believe me when I say, I won't just burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you. And when I'm done, when the dust settles and your world is nothing but smoke and ash, when everything you've built has crumbled into nothing…" He paused. "Only then will you have my permission to die."

The boy's smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second, his baby blue eyes narrowing. Without waiting for a reply, Godric turned on his heel and strode toward the exit. Helga lingered only long enough to cast a hateful glare at Volg and his entourage, her amber eyes burning with disgust, before following Rowena, who walked beside her in silence, her head held high despite the sting still etched on her face.

Salazar brushed the dust from his robes with exaggerated care before straightening his collar. He then gave a theatrical bow, his smirk widening into something wicked. "Well, it's been a pleasure," he said with mocking politeness. "Gentlemen."

As Salazar turned to leave, Volg cried out after him. "I believe I'll miss you when you're gone, Slytherin."

Without breaking stride, Salazar called back over his shoulder, "Afraid I can't say the same for you, Dryfus."

Volg's chair screeched against the floor as he stood abruptly. "You don't know, do you?" he said.

Salazar froze mid-step, turning slowly to face him. "Enlighten me," he said.

"A man's second," Volg began, "like his sponsor, either walks out with his champion… or is buried beside him." He smirked, his head tilting ever so slightly. "Or in this case, shares his fate. The Old Ways." He gave a mocking bow, the movement deliberate and taunting.

Salazar's lips curled into a smirk, one far more menacing than anything Volg had managed. "Oh, I'm well aware, Volg," he said. His emerald eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "The only difference is, we actually have a chance of winning." His gaze swept over Volg and his entourage, lingering just long enough to twist the knife. "Can you honestly say the same for yourself?"

He chuckled, a low, malicious sound, before spinning on his heel and striding toward the exit.

Volg's smirk faltered entirely, his face twisting into a mask of fury. With a primal scream, he slammed his hand against the glass table, sending the crystal cards scattering across the sand. The sound of them hitting the ground echoed faintly in the now-emptying arena.

Eskel rolled his eyes at the display, exchanging a knowing glance with Helena. Without a word, the two turned and left, leaving Volg and the remaining Calishans alone under the arena's glaring spotlight.

High above, Genji Shimada observed the scene with a faint smile tugging at his lips. His eyes drifted closed briefly, as though savoring the moment, before he turned to glance over his shoulder. Behind him, seated around a round marble table shrouded in shadow, sat three figures, their forms silhouetted against the dim light. They watched in silence, their presence heavy, as if weighing the outcome of events yet to unfold.