The Marauders: A Hogwarts Tale

Workner adjusted his glasses and tugged at his collar, his unease evident as he attempted a casual laugh. "Yes, well," he mumbled, "perhaps we could all benefit from a little discretion."

Godric stared at the professor, his disbelief intensifying. He turned to Helena and Salazar, his voice tinged with incredulity. "You're telling me this is normal?"

"Quite right, Mister Gryffindor," Workner said, his tone lightening as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Here in The Congregation, I'm not a professor. Just a man in search of good food, strong drinks, and a smashing good time."

Godric groaned, pressing his fingers to his temple. "By Charlemagne's throne, the whole world's gone crazy…"

"Well," Salazar interjected with a cheeky grin, slapping Godric on the back, "as a wise man once said, 'we're all mad here'. Now, come along, my lion-hearted friend. Helena's going to show us the arena. It's going to be… enlightening."

Helena led them down the creaking wooden stairs, weaving through the throng of spectators. Godric noticed the arena was now empty, the floor being prepared for the next event. Yet the energy in the chamber was electric—anticipation rolled through the crowd like a physical wave. Gamblers fidgeted with their betting slips, the tension of potential fortune or crushing loss palpable in their faces.

The arena itself was a circular pit on the bottom floor, surrounded by stone walls reinforced with sturdy timber beams. Godric's eyes trailed to a massive steel gate leading to the arena floor, its bars marked with countless scars from battles past.

In the staging area, participants lingered in various states of readiness. Some stretched and practiced spell movements while others nursed their injuries. Medics, clad in robes marked with The Congregation's insignia, moved with brisk efficiency. One healer hovered her wand over a duelist's bloodied arm, the tip glowing green as cuts stitched themselves closed.

"This is incredible," Godric muttered, marveling at the complexity and scale of the underground structure. "How long did it take to build all this?"

"That's the beauty of it, Godric," Helena said with a sly smile, tapping her nose. "We didn't. This is the Room of Requirement."

Salazar gestured around them with dramatic flair. "A magical room that provides exactly what its users need—provided they can find it, of course. Quite a handy little feature, don't you think?"

Godric frowned, scratching his head. "I suppose so… Though all this magic still baffles me."

Helena stopped in front of the arena gates and turned to face him. "Well, that concludes our little tour. Any questions?"

Salazar grinned, clapping a hand on Godric's shoulder. "So, how're you feeling, my friend? Not too overwhelmed, I hope?"

Godric took a deep breath, his gaze scanning the strange, vibrant world around him. "I think I'm all right. Just… need a moment to wrap my head around all of this."

"Splendid!" Salazar exclaimed, his smile widening.

Before Godric could react, Salazar shoved him through the iron gates. The gates slammed shut behind him with a deafening clang, sending up a cloud of dust.

Godric spun around, grabbing the bars. "Salazar! What the hell are you doing?! Let me out of here!"

Salazar leaned lazily against the gate, folding his arms with a smirk. "Sorry, old sport, but if I'm going to tail you into the flames, I need to know if that sword of yours is for real—or just for show."

Taking a step back, Salazar grinned even wider. "But don't fret too much. I heard your opponent's got the brain of a cave troll." He chuckled, winking. "Probably smells like one too."

Godric rattled the bars furiously, his glare cutting through the iron toward Salazar. "I didn't agree to this! Let me out right now!"

Salazar turned on his heel, waving a hand dismissively as he strolled away. "Godspeed, Gryffindor. I'll be rooting for you, and try not to disappoint." His voice was laced with mock cheer.

"Bastard! Salazar, you Goddamned snake!" Godric slammed his fists against the bars, his voice echoing through the arena. "When I get out of here, I swear I'll—"

The arena plunged into semi-darkness, and a spotlight blazed onto a high podium, illuminating a tall, sharply dressed announcer. His robes shimmered with a blend of midnight black and emerald green, tailored like a tuxedo with a wizardly flourish. His hair was slicked back, and his thick, curled mustache gleamed under the light.

The man tapped his wand against his throat, his voice magically amplified as it boomed through the arena. "Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards of all ages! Welcome to tonight's grand spectacle!" His charisma sparked cheers that rippled through the crowd like fire.

"I am Anton Buffer," the announcer continued, bowing theatrically, "and do we have a thrilling duel in store for you!"

The crowd's roaring approval made Godric squint against the bright spotlight now fixed on him.

"In this corner," Anton gestured grandly, "a mysterious newcomer from the moors of western England—a blade-wielding enigma! Let's hear it for Godric Gryffindor!"

The audience erupted in cheers and jeers alike, the weight of their eyes pressing heavily on Godric.

Another spotlight illuminated the far end of the arena, revealing a boy with flaming red hair styled in wild waves. His attire—a green shirt, red vest, striped tie, and a tartan kilt—screamed Highland pride.

Anton grinned, holding for dramatic tension before announcing, "And in this corner, a fierce Highland warrior! Scion of Clan DunBroch, champion of the Hounds of Cu—the indomitable Argus DunBroch!"

Argus stepped forward, twirling his redwood wand with a flourish, his bright blue eyes glinting with mischief. "Och, I hope yer ready tae get yer arse handed tae ye, wee bairn!" His smirk widened, revealing the sharp confidence of a seasoned fighter.

Godric's lips pulled into a determined grin as his hand found the hilt of his longsword on his back. With a smooth, deliberate motion, he unsheathed it, the metallic trill cutting through the cacophony of the crowd like a clarion call. The blade gleamed under the arena's lights, casting radiant arcs of silver along the wooden arena walls.

Despite his earlier protests, a strange exhilaration coursed through him. The weight of the sword in his hand, the roar of the spectators, and the raw anticipation of battle sparked something deep within—a fire igniting in his core. A part of him, buried deep within, craved this moment.

"Oh, we'll see about that," Godric replied, spinning the sword deftly before assuming a ready stance.

Argus raised his wand, its tip igniting with a fiery glow.

Anton raised his arms dramatically, his booming voice punctuating the air. "Wands at the ready! Swords poised! And now…" He paused, his voice dropping for effect. "Let the duel… BEGIN!"

The crowd erupted in a thunderous roar as Godric lunged forward, his boots digging into the sand. Argus flicked his wand, a burst of crimson sparks flying from its tip as he prepared to counter.

****

From the banisters above, Helena leaned against the rail, her expression tight with anticipation. Salazar sidled up beside her, his smirk as unshakable as ever.

Helena raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking briefly to him. "You do realize Godric's going to tan your hide for this little stunt, right?"

"Oh, I'd be insulted if he didn't, my dear," Salazar said, crossing his arms as his grin widened. "But that's all part of the fun."

At the betting tables, Professor Workner shoved through the crowd, his hands gripping a fistful of shiny coins.

"Fifty on Gryffindor!" he bellowed, his face flushed with excitement. He hesitated, then waved the coins higher. "No—make it a hundred! This one's going to be legendary!"

"And they're off!" Anton gestures wildly at the combatants. "Sword versus wand, brawn versus magic! Who will emerge victorious?!"

****

The crowd roars as Godric charges forward, the runed blade of his sword glinted in the arena spotlight. His quickened boots leaving impressions in the dirt and sand as he readies the sword at his side, coming in for a strike. He cries out as he swung his blade in a graceful arc.

Argus dodges the blade with surprising agility. "Hah, too slow, laddie!" He then fires off a bunch of spells in quick succession. His wand whipping balls of flashing red lights with every motion.

Godric dodges the spells, his footwork swift as he narrowly avoids the final blast, missing his chin by a hair. He jumps back, putting some distance between then. His eyes narrowed.

"Oh, ho!" Anton practically jumps on his toes. "Our Ignis swordsman has some fancy footwork. But can he keep up with DunBroch's skillful wandwork?!"

"Blimey…" Godric wipes the sweat from his brow, keeping his sword at the ready. "Professor Serfence wasn't kidding!"

"What's the matter, laddie?" Argus smirks, twirling his wand as if taunting the boy. "Ya lookin' a little out of breath there. Need a breather? And here I thought ye English had some stamina!"

Godric adjusts his grip, brandishing his blade as he readies himself yet again. "You wish. Sides, I'm just getting started!"

****

Helena leaned toward Salazar, her gaze never leaving the duel below. "Argus might be a Second Year and the youngest of the Hounds of Cu, but everyone knows he's no pushover." She crossed her arms, her tone thoughtful. "Godric's in for the fight of his life."

"Perhaps," Salazar replied, his eyes keenly tracking Godric's movements. "But look closer—his footwork, his stance. Watch how he adjusts. Every swing of his blade is sharper, more deliberate than the last." A sly grin crept onto his face. "Fascinating. It seems those tales of his uncle weren't entirely fanciful after all. The man must have been a master swordsman, and an excellent teacher at that."

Helena raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Tales? What kind of tales?"

Salazar's grin widened. "Oh, nothing short of legendary. According to Godric, his uncle, the Captain of the Town Guard was revered as the finest swordsman in his town. Once, he supposedly faced down an entire band of forty bandits—and not one walked away unscathed." He paused, letting the weight of the story settle. "I dismissed it as exaggerated folklore, but watching Godric now? There may well be truth in it."

Helena blinked, clearly impressed. "That's... incredible. If his uncle was even half as skilled as the stories claim—"

"Indeed," Salazar interjected, his tone turning sharp. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves, my dear. The question remains: does our lion-hearted friend possess even a fraction of that talent? Or will he crumble under the pressure?"

Helena glanced at Salazar, then back to the arena, her expression a mix of concern and intrigue. "I suppose we're about to find out."

****

The duel raged on, a whirlwind of strikes, dodges, and bursts of spellfire. Godric and Argus moved with fierce determination, their attacks colliding in a dazzling clash of skill and power. Godric spotted an opening—a faint hesitation in Argus's stance—and surged forward, his longsword slicing through the air with precision.

But his blade met an invisible barrier, ringing sharply against Argus's Protego spell. The magical shield shimmered brightly, forcing Godric to recoil.

"Depulso!" Argus shouted, his wand flashing with energy.

The force of the spell struck Godric squarely in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. He staggered back, struggling to regain his footing, before collapsing onto the arena floor with a muted thud.

"Ha!" Argus crowed, his Scottish brogue cutting through the cheers and gasps of the audience. He pointed his wand at Godric with a triumphant smirk. "That's what ye get! Ye cannae beat magic with metal, ye daft wee dum-dum!"

Groaning, Godric pushed himself up on one arm, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. His chest heaved, but his eyes burned with determination. The taunt only fanned the fire within him.

****

Professor Workner stroked his chin thoughtfully, standing beside Helena and Salazar as the duel unfolded with ferocious intensity. His sharp brown eyes tracked Godric's every move. "For a boy his age, young Gryffindor has the skills of a seasoned swordsman," he remarked, his tone both impressed and concerned. "But..." He tilted his head, the faintest crease forming on his brow. "He's never faced a mage before. That could complicate matters significantly."

Helena glanced at him; her expression tinged with worry. "You think he's out of his depth?"

Workner nodded slowly. "Swordplay relies on precision, timing, and endurance. But against magic? That takes cunning, adaptability. If Godric doesn't adjust accordingly, this duel might end sooner than he'd like."

Meanwhile, in the arena, Anton's voice boomed across the chamber, his dramatic flair fueling the audience's excitement. He gestured grandly toward the fallen Godric, who was still struggling to his feet.

"Ooh! A devastating blow from DunBroch!" Anton declared, his tone brimming with theatrical zeal. "Ladies and gentlemen, can our sword-wielding wonder recover from this setback? Or has young Argus sealed his victory?"

The crowd roared, a mix of cheers, gasps, and jeers filling the air as all eyes turned to Godric.

Salazar smirked, leaning casually against the banister. "Oh, I wouldn't count him out just yet," he said, his voice laced with intrigue. "Something tells me Gryffindor's just getting warmed up."

Helena folded her arms, her gaze locked on the arena. "He'd better be. Argus isn't holding back, and the crowd's thirst for blood won't wait."

****

Godric coughed, his chest heaving as he pushed himself back to his feet. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword despite the tremor running through his arms. A defiant grin spread across his face as he spat to the ground, his voice steady despite the pain.

"Hah! Is that the best you've got?" he taunted, his fiery gaze locking onto Argus. "You'll have to hit harder than that, little man!"

The crowd roared in delight at Godric's audacious comeback, their cheers echoing off the stone walls.

Argus smirked, spinning his wand with a flourish, the tip sparking ominously. "Oh, ye've got some fight in ye, I'll give ye that," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "But spirit only takes ye so far. Let's see how long it lasts, shall we?"

The tension in the arena rose like a tide as Argus pointed his wand directly at Godric, the air crackling with magical energy. Godric steadied himself, rolling his shoulders and raising his blade. The boy's face was a mix of determination and grit, his body poised for whatever came next.

"Bring it on, then," Godric muttered, his voice low but resolute. The fire in his eyes burned brighter, daring Argus to make his move.

****

Salazar leaned forward, his elbows resting on the banister as his sharp eyes followed Godric's every move. His usually smug demeanor was replaced by something far more focused—anticipation flickering in his gaze.

"Come on, Godric," he murmured.

Down in the arena, Godric adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword, his movements steady despite the intensity of the duel. Salazar's grin widened slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

"Show us what that sword can really do."