The Marauders: A Hogwarts Tale

The duel surged into a fierce crescendo, the air crackling with the clash of magic and steel. Godric lunged forward, his sword cutting through the air with a sharp whistle, only to meet the shimmering barrier of Argus' Protego spell. Each strike sent a cascade of sparks flying, illuminating their determined faces.

"Dance! Dance, ye English ponce!" Argus jeered, his voice ringing out above the roars of the crowd. He fired off spell after spell in rapid succession, streaks of energy hurtling toward Godric like bolts of lightning. "Dance for the crowd!"

Godric panted heavily, each deflection and dodge pushing him closer to his limits. His blade was a blur, parrying the relentless assault of magic with a precision that drew gasps from the spectators. Sweat streamed down his face, his breaths ragged, but his grip on his sword was unwavering.

"I'm not done yet!" he shouted, his voice raw with determination. His eyes locked on Argus, blazing with the fire of resolve.

****

Above the arena, Salazar's grin stretched wider. "That's it, Gryffindor," he muttered under his breath, the thrill of the duel mirrored in his tone. "Now, show us the lion within."

Helena turned to Salazar; her expression tight with worry. "Salazar… this feels like it's gone too far. Godric's in over his head—Argus isn't letting up!" Her voice was low, urgent. "We should stop this before he gets seriously hurt."

He didn't take his eyes off the arena, his face calm but his voice steady with conviction. "Trust me, Helena. Godric has more fight in him than you realize. He didn't come this far to fold now. Watch—he's waiting for his moment."

Helena frowned, glancing back at the battle. "I hope you're right," she muttered.

Meanwhile, Anton, standing in his spotlight, waved his arms with theatrical flair. His voice boomed through the arena, carried by the amplifying charm on his wand. "Ladies and gentlemen, what a spectacle we are witnessing! A breathtaking clash of steel and sorcery! Our fiery Scotsman is giving the newcomer from the moors a run for his gold!"

The crowd roared their approval, caught in the frenzy of the duel. Cheers and jeers echoed off the stone walls as Godric ducked and weaved, each movement more desperate than the last.

****

Godric let out a furious roar, charging Argus with his sword slicing through the air in a relentless onslaught. Each strike met the shimmering surface of Argus' Protego shield, the arena echoing with deafening clangs as metal clashed against magic.

"Coward!" Godric bellowed, his face a mask of determination. He swung again, teeth gritted. "Stop hiding behind your damned shield and fight me like a real man!"

Argus smirked, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. "Careful what ye wish fer, laddie! Repello!" With a flick of his wand, the shield erupted into a pulse of raw magical energy, forcing Godric back and staggering him.

Seizing the opportunity, Argus twirled his wand and shouted, "Expelliarmus!"

A crimson flash burst forth, striking Godric's blade with pinpoint accuracy. The longsword was ripped from his grip, spinning end over end before embedding itself in the sandy arena floor, far from his reach.

The crowd gasped, the tension mounting as Argus aimed his wand directly at the now-unarmed Godric.

"Ye put up a fight, thanks fer that," Argus said with a grin, his voice carrying over the roaring audience. "But victory is mine! Stupefy!"

The stunning spell blazed in a streak of navy-blue light, slamming point-blank into Godric's face with a brutal force. His head snapped back as he was launched clear off his feet, tumbling through the air before crashing into the ground in a cloud of dust. He rolled to a stop, lying still next to where his sword quivered in the earth.

The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers and gasps filling the arena.

****

Helena gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, her voice trembling. "Oh no, Godric!"

Salazar's expression hardened; his usual smirk replaced with a sharp glare. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the railing tightly. "Get up, you fool," he muttered under his breath, then shouted, "Get up!"

Professor Workner stood silent, his arms crossed, a shadow of concern darkening his usually jovial demeanor.

Anton seized the moment, pacing dramatically across the announcer's podium. "What a turn of events!" he declared. "The Hound of Cu has not only disarmed but utterly floored our valiant newcomer! Could this spell the end for Godric Gryffindor?"

The crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and anxious murmurs, the energy in the arena reaching a fever pitch as all eyes remained locked on the fallen swordsman.

Helena glanced at Salazar, worry etched deep into her features. "He's not moving," she whispered. "Salazar, this is bad. What if—"

Salazar stood motionless. His emerald eyes were locked onto Godric's still form in the arena. "Come on, Godric, you're better than this. I know you are."

****

Argus basked in the cheers of the crowd; his arms raised in triumph. "That's right! This is Highland pride, ye daft sassenach!" he crowed.

Meanwhile, Godric lay face down in the warm, gritty sand. The muffled cacophony of the arena faded into a distant hum as he struggled to focus. Each breath was shallow, his chest heaving against the weight of exhaustion and pain. His vision blurred, and a warm trickle ran down his forehead, pooling beneath him.

Anton's voice reverberated through the arena. "By the Gods, it seems our swordsman might be down for the count. Could this really be the final act?"

The crowd erupted into chants for Argus, their voices like waves crashing around Godric as the edges of his consciousness began to dim. The world swam before him, and the heavy pull of sleep beckoned.

"U-Uncle Gareth…" he whispered, his voice barely audible, the taste of blood lingering on his tongue. "I'm sorry… I tried…"

The blur of the arena faded away, replaced by a familiar figure striding through his mind's eye. Gareth, clad in his worn armor, his presence commanding yet comforting, loomed above him. The older man's gloved fingers brushed thoughtfully against his well-kept beard as he gazed down at Godric, a bemused expression on his face.

"By the Gods, lad, I've told you a thousand times—your guard is shoddy," Gareth chided, crouching beside him. "I always did say it'll come back to bite you. And now, here we are."

Godric turned his head away, shame washing over him. "I'm sorry, Uncle," he muttered. "I… I'm not you. I'll never be you. I'm not strong enough…"

"No, Godric. You're not me, and you never will be," Gareth said firmly, gripping Godric's shoulder with a steady hand. His voice softened, though his tone remained resolute. "Because you're Godric Gryffindor. That name carries its own kind of strength. You just need to believe it."

"But… what if I can't?" Godric whispered; his voice tinged with despair. "What if I fail?"

Gareth chuckled, the sound warm and full of knowing. "You think I've never asked myself that question, lad?" he said, as their eyes met. "There was a time, long ago, when I found myself exactly where you are now—bloodied, battered, staring into the eyes of a man who sought my end. Do you know what I realized in that moment?"

Godric shook his head slowly.

Gareth smiled. "That it's only the end of my story if I allow it to be." He leaned closer, his gaze intense but filled with affection.

The boy swallowed, the weight of his uncle's words sinking in.

"My story wasn't over," Gareth said, his voice resolute. "And neither is yours. In fact, your story has barely begun. The fire inside you, lad—it's not there to flicker out. It's there to burn brighter, hotter."

The world seemed to still as Gareth's words echoed in Godric's mind. The crowd's roaring chants dulled to silence. The arena faded, leaving only the two of them in a space filled with quiet clarity.

"I'm proud of you. I always have, and I always will be," Gareth said, his smile broadening. "Now go and show them what it means to be a Gryffindor. Let that fire of yours light up the sky. So, tell me—what do you plan to do?"

Godric's chest swelled with newfound determination, his fists tightening. His eyes snapped open, and the roar of the arena returned with deafening clarity. His breaths came steady now, his resolve unshakable. He pushed himself off the ground, his fingers wrapping tightly around the hilt of his fallen sword. With a low growl, he pulled it free from the sand, dust trailing behind the blade.

"I plan to win, Uncle Gareth," Godric said, his voice strong and resolute. "I'll win!"

Gareth's figure began to fade, his proud grin the last thing to disappear. "That's my boy."

As he rose to his full height, the crowd gasped, then erupted into a thunderous cheer, their chants for Argus now replaced by cries of "Gryffindor! Gryffindor!"

"By Hecate's hat!" Anton leaped to his feet. "He's back on his feet! Gryffindor refuses to yield! This duel is far from over!"

Argus froze, his wand faltering in his grip as he stared at Godric. "What in the name of…" He bared his teeth in frustration, his earlier confidence cracking. "Stay down, ye stubborn fool!" With a snarl, he brandished his wand, sparks flying from its tip.

****

From the stands, Salazar leaned over the railing, his grin wicked and his eyes blazing with excitement. "Now that's more like it!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the cacophony. "Show that Highland pup what real fire looks like!"

Helena clutched her chest, exhaling a deep sigh of relief as the tension in her shoulders eased. "Thank the stars…" she murmured, her voice trembling slightly. "For a moment there, I thought we'd lost him."

Professor Workner adjusted his glasses with a measured nod, his tone carrying a hint of admiration. "He wears the flames of Ignis with the heart of a true warrior," he remarked. "Even under the weight of defeat, he rises—unyielding, unbroken. A rare quality, indeed. Uther would be proud."

****

Godric wiped the blood from his forehead before tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white against the handle. His crimson eyes blazed with a fiery determination that set the air around him alight.

"Round two, DunBroch," he growled, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of his resolve. He raised the gleaming blade, its edge catching the arena lights like a beacon. "And by the time this is over, you'll be looking up to me from the flat of your back—prepare yourself!"

The intensity of his words rippled through the arena, silencing the crowd for a heartbeat before erupting into a frenzied roar of anticipation. Argus bristled, his smirk twisting into a snarl, ready to meet Godric's challenge head-on.

"Bold words for an English gowk!" Argus voice was as sharp as steel. The grin on his face twisted into something more predatory, his fiery blue eyes narrowing. The air between them crackled with tension, the roar of the crowd swelling around them like a storm. "Come on then—let's see if ye can back up that bluster!"

****

It was then that Professor Workner noticed something strange. He leaned forward, squinting as he adjusted his glasses, his expression shifting from curiosity to sharp focus. There was something unusual about Godric.

Jagged, lightning-like circuits etched themselves across his skin, starting from his arm and trailing upward around his neck, faintly glowing with a soft, electric-blue hue. The streaks pulsed subtly, emitting brief flickers of energy, almost imperceptible to the naked eye—but unmistakable to someone as observant as he is.

"Wait just a moment," he murmured, his tone both intrigued and cautious. "What is that? On his arm… his neck?"

Helena turned sharply toward him, her brows knitting together. "What are you talking about, Professor?" she asked, following his gaze toward the arena.