The Guantlet

Gellert,

In your absence, the Ukraine has fallen to the ICW forces.

W

The simple note had caused Gellert's stomach to sink. He knew that the situation in the Ukraine had become quite desperate, that Evans and his men had become a scourge to his men in the region.

This was not welcome news.

His hold over the Ukraine gave him a direct corridor to attack Russia should he choose to, but more importantly, it served as a deterrent to other countries that believed themselves safe from dedicating their own men to the ICW cause.

Now, the gate had been opened to other alliances being formed.

Without the presence of Gellert's followers, coupled with the success of his enemies, those that had maintained neutrality or had been cowed would grow bold.

"Bad news I take it," Cassiopeia commented.

Gellert released a deep breath as he handed her the note from Weber.

He had expected defeat would eventually come in the Ukraine, but not so soon, and not before he had recruited enough additional followers that such an outcome could have been avoided.

The country, however, was lost to him, and attempting to take back control of it would cost him more men than he was able to sacrifice.

He frowned irritably.

How?

How had the ICW forces managed to breach to city in such a way that they had achieved a great victory there?

As much as he appreciated being informed of the development, the missive was lacking in detail.

It irked Gellert so, but being halfway across the world in Peru, there was little he could do about it.

For the time being, he needed to focus on recruitment, and thus far, he was having success with his efforts.

In Chile, he had secured a further eight hundred men, around the same number he had lost in the Ukraine.

The realisation made Gellert frown deeply.

At this point, he had merely replaced the men he had lost.

It wasn't enough.

He would need to increase his efforts here to make up for the shortfall and see that his followers in Europe were reinforced sufficiently.

"You seem unperturbed by what has happened," Cassiopeia pointed out.

"On the contrary, my dear, it concerns me greatly," Gellert sighed, "but it is merely a setback that will be corrected in due course. When our work is done, we will reclaim all that has been lost to us."

Cassiopeia nodded, her belief in him as unwavering as ever.

Gellert had not discussed his conversation with Gregorovitch with anyone.

In his moments of solitude, he'd been studying the Elder Wand extensively and his bond with it.

The relationship was as strong as ever, and he was certain that despite his belief that Evans did perhaps have Peverell blood flowing through his veins, the wand would recognise his superiority.

He had long given up any hope of discovering the man's origins.

If Weber with all of his contacts and experience in such matters had drawn a blank, Gellert doubted that any would find success in that venture.

No, unless Evans himself revealed that information, all would remain woefully ignorant of his parentage.

Still, Gellert was not one to leave anything to chance.

It was all but inevitable that he and Evans would meet on the battlefield once more, and with that in mind, he'd been re-establishing his bond with his original wand.

He would be ready for Evans when they next met, and he would not be caught off guard by an impromptu display of magic he'd not expected.

As deadly as a parselmouth could be, it was still a form of magic, and if nothing else, Gellert had proven there was none who understood the nature of such things as much as him.

(Break)

Berlin was a different city to the one he had visited on his previous excursions here. There were no cheering crowds of men and women lining the streets as they hailed their leaders, and no flags of other countries displayed to symbolise the important alliances that had been made.

The city had been devastated by bombings, and those that did venture out of their homes were tense, their eyes downcast until their gaze flickered towards the sky as though they were expecting another bombardment at any moment.

How things had changed for the people here in the last couple of years since Harry had visited.

Still, he was not here to scout for his own purposes.

He had no doubt that his campaign would eventually lead him here, but today his purpose was to learn what Eleanor Summerbee had discovered throughout her subterfuge.

He spotted the woman seated outside of a café a short distance from another building that had been cordoned off after it had recently been bombed, and Harry took the seat opposite her.

Eleanor visibly relaxed as he did so, offering him a tired smile.

She looked exhausted, and much thinner than Harry remembered, and he sighed as he took in her appearance.

"You look like shit."

Eleanor snorted.

"You really do have a way with words, don't you?"

Harry shrugged, a fond smile tugging at his lips.

"I don't see any point in lying."

Eleanor conceded the point with a nod.

"It's been a difficult year," she murmured. "I've spent most of it as a spider. It's not so good for your health."

"No, I don't suppose it is," Harry conceded. "Regardless of what happens here, you'll be leaving Germany."

"To where?" Eleanor asked with a frown.

"Home."

Her eyes lit up at his declaration.

"Have you…?"

Harry shook his head.

"No, but soon," he explained. "I would have you there to see what you can learn before we arrive. Now, what do you have to tell me?"

Eleanor released a deep breath as she informed him of her findings, or lack thereof for the most part.

Harry listened intently as she explained how dedicated she had been, the sacrifices she had made to discover the identity of Weber, and when she was done, he knew he couldn't have asked anything more from her.

"Thank you," he said gratefully.

Eleanor offered him a weak smile.

"I'm just doing what I can."

Harry nodded.

"These fights, do you know how to get in?"

"The guests each hand a token over to security. I don't know where they get it from."

Harry frowned thoughtfully.

"What about the competitors?"

"They are recommended or brought in by people close to the organisers."

"So, the token thing would be best. Maybe I can take one from a guest before they get there."

"Or you could find a way to sneak in," Eleanor pointed out. "That shouldn't be difficult for you."

Harry snorted amusedly.

He hadn't put his cloak to use for some time.

"What happens when I'm inside?" he questioned.

Eleanor shrugged.

"The bets are taken before each fight," Eleanor sighed. "After the fights are done, the crowd is escorted out and then the bald man will count the gold before taking it to the bank. I can't be certain about additional security, but I think it is safe to assume he is well protected."

Harry nodded his agreement.

"What about the fighters?"

"They drink," Eleanor explained. "Sometimes the bald man will drink with them before he leaves."

To Harry, it seemed the best way to get to the bald man without arousing suspicion or alerting Weber to what he had done would be to earn his trust somewhat, but he didn't have time to do that.

"There is one other thing that happens on a Friday," Eleanor broke into his thoughts. "They ask for anyone willing to run a gauntlet for a special prize."

"A gauntlet?"

Eleanor nodded.

"A series of one-on-one fights with various creatures, but no one has survived it yet."

"But if I managed it then I could immediately make a name for myself," Harry mused aloud.

"It's risky, Harry," Eleanor said worriedly.

"I survived a basilisk when I was twelve," Harry pointed out. "I should be able to manage whatever he could throw at me. What's the reward?"

"Two hundred galleons."

"And the curiosity of the organisers," Harry added. "It might be less risky than trying to ambush him, especially not knowing what security measures he has in place."

Eleanor huffed irritably.

"You're not going to change your mind, are you?"

"Do you have a better suggestion?"

"Not one that would be any quicker."

"Then it's settled," Harry declared.

Eleanor shook her head.

"Do you have a compulsion to risk your life?"

Harry shrugged.

"I sometimes ask myself that, but right now, I just want this war over with so I can be at home with my child."

"Your child?"

"Well, baby," Harry corrected. "It will be here in a matter of weeks."

Eleanor smiled sadly.

"So, you managed to figure things out with Minerva?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"I think so," he murmured.

"Is anything ever easy for you, Evans?"

"Not really," Harry chuckled.

Eleanor grinned amusedly.

"Congratulations," she offered sincerely. "Now, about your latest stupid idea…"

(Break)

Charlus hadn't stood here since he had been a young boy during a holiday with his parents, long before war had been on the horizon. He'd forgotten how simply beautiful the Caribbean Sea was, or how the hot sand felt beneath his feet, and the scent of the salty air.

He had paused as he'd arrived in Santo Domingo, the memories his family had made here coming to the forefront of his mind.

He'd been around ten years old, and he vividly remembered building sandcastles with his father, both competing to see who could create the best one whilst Angelica had taken refuge under a large parasol to shield herself from the sun.

She always burned, her pale skin not accustomed to the climate here.

Charlus smiled at the thought of happier times before his father had been taken from him, before Charlus had followed in his footsteps to fight a war, when his life was as innocent as it was complete.

He wiped away an errant tear that rolled down his cheek, knowing that those days were long-passed, and that the memories were all he had left.

Releasing a deep breath, he turned away from his vigil over the sea and sought out the holiday home that one of his ancestors had purchased. He didn't know whom or how long it had been in the family, but it was here that his mother was now residing.

It had been almost a year since he had last seen her, his life consumed with fighting and traipsing across Europe to put an end to the man that had killed his father.

His mother had made no secret of her disapproval, but Charlus was stubborn, and his mind wouldn't be changed.

It was not only his duty to fight, he was also compelled to.

He would never rest easy knowing that he did nothing, that Grindelwald had killed William Potter without facing justice.

No, that could never have been allowed, and though Angelica wouldn't be pleased about Charlus's choices, he knew that she at least understood them.

Still, a sense of nervousness washed over him as he approached the house.

He and his mother had not parted on the best of terms.

They had exchanged letters in the intervening months, but his last memory was of the woman crying, begging him not to fight.

Bracing himself, Charlus pushed the door open and walked through the familiar entrance hall, past the living area and to the kitchen where the smell of food was wafting from.

Evidently lost in her own thoughts, his mother was chopping vegetables, unaware of his presence as she frowned deeply.

The woman was stressed, the circles around her eyes darker than Charlus remembered them, and her frame much thinner.

It pained him to see her this way, and he rushed forward and wrapped his arms around her.

"Charlus?" she choked into his chest, trembling.

"It's me," Charlus whispered.

Angelica merely sobbed as she clung to him, her nails digging into his back painfully, but Charlus didn't care.

All that mattered to him was that he was here, that he was with his mother who had spent the past year isolated and alone.

Charlus simply held her as she unleashed what it was she was feeling, and he didn't know how long they stood, but it was the smell of burning that caused Angelica to curse before releasing him.

"I've burnt the food," she sniffed as she held up the frying pan, showing what was now a blackened fish.

Charlus snorted as he shook his head, and his mother laughed, the smile tugging at her lips the first genuine one he'd seen from her since before his father had died.

He returned it before wrapping her in his arms once more, unashamed that all he wanted in this moment was a hug from his mother.

Angelica was happy to oblige as she squeezed him tightly.

"You look so different," she whispered. "Your father would be so proud of you, just as I am."

"He'd probably kick my arse," Charlus snorted.

Angelica nodded her agreement.

"He would, but he'd still be proud."

Charlus chuckled at the thought of his father chastising him.

"Would it be to hopeful to think that the war is over?"

"It's not over," Charlus sighed. "Harry gave me a week of leave and insisted I visit."

"Harry?"

"Do you not get the news here?" Charlus asked with a frown.

Angelica shook her head as she swallowed deeply.

"I left Britain to get away from it all. I lost your father to it, and I can't bear thinking about you fighting in it too."

Charlus nodded his understanding.

"Then I suppose there is so much I have to tell you. Come on, I'll take you somewhere for dinner since you burned yours."

"That was your fault!" Angelica huffed but smiled as Charlus took her by the arm and led her from the house.

(Break)

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Reg was returning home. For hours since he'd arrived back in Britain, he had wandered through Diagon Alley, and even the streets of muggle London as he prepared himself to face his father once more.

When war was declared and it had officially been recognised by the Wizengamot, Reg's father, the Lord Yaxley had all but forced him to volunteer himself to the cause or face being financially cut off.

At the time, Reg had been furious, had not wished to risk his life for people that meant nothing to him, but things had certainly changed since.

If anything, he was grateful for what his father had done for him, and though he suspected it was unintentional, the man had provided his son with a purpose, and a sense of perspective of how cruel and unforgiving the world could be.

Before the war, Reg lacked any purpose, any ambition to call his own. He was a second son, and his family was rich enough that he'd never find himself in need of work to support himself. He had thought that he might just spends his years living off the family wealth and doing whatever he wished to from day to day.

He grimaced at the thought of the man he had been.

He had despised his father for forcing him into war, but now he was grateful for it.

For the first time in his life, he had achieved something from his own efforts, and though things had not been easy, Reg yet lived.

"Master Reginald has returned home," Crispin, the family elf croaked after Reg had summoned the courage to cross the threshold into his home.

"Hello, Crispin," he greeted the elf fondly.

It was strange to think that he'd never paid much attention to the creature that had done almost everything for him since he'd been a boy but having discussed elves with Harry when he'd asked about acquiring one, he'd gained a newfound respect for the beings.

"Let Crispin take your bag, sir," the elf requested.

Reg shook his head.

"No, I'll carry my own bag," he insisted. "Could you tell me where the others are?"

"They are in the dining room, sir," the elf explained, a frown creasing his brow.

He seemed put out by Reg refusing to hand over his bag but didn't comment on it.

"Thank you," Reg offered warmly as he made his way through the large home he had grown up in.

It was strange being back, not unpleasant, but he'd already been considering what his life would be like when the war was over.

He wouldn't go back to how he had once lived, and he'd considered finding a home of his own, and perhaps a wife.

He'd like to have his own family.

"Reg!" his mother greeted as he entered the dining.

Before Reg could respond, the woman had knocked the wind out of him in her rush to hug him.

"Bloody hell, I need to breathe," he wheezed, chuckling as his mother released him.

It was odd to see so much emotion from her. She had never been a cold woman, but she was a pureblood through and through, and didn't let on to how she was feeling.

His father shot his wife a look of disapproval, but he knew better than to provoke her ire.

As much as he wished to believe, the Lord Yaxley was no match for the Rosier woman he'd married.

"My boy, is it really you?" his mother asked, cupping his cheeks, and inspecting him, an expression of horror forming as she took in his appearance; his unkempt beard, and the scar he'd obtained on his temple from a cutting curse.

If she could see the others, Reg would find it hard to believe that she wouldn't faint.

"It's me, mother," he confirmed with a smile, pleased to see the woman again.

He staggered backwards as her hand collided with his cheek and tears spilled from her eyes.

"You haven't written! We've only heard snippets of information from others, you stupid boy. What were you thinking?"

Reg swallowed deeply.

A part of him wished to remind her of the terms they had parted on before he went to war, to point out that he'd only left because his father had made him, but he didn't wish to argue with his mother, nor any other member of his family.

He had grown beyond such pettiness, and he merely wished to enjoy the short respite he'd been given from fighting, and maybe sleep in a comfortable bed.

Instead of allowing the irritation he felt to create an unpleasant atmosphere, he released a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he replied sincerely.

His mother smiled sadly at him.

"Take a seat, son," his father instructed.

Reg did so and found himself under the scrutinising gaze of the man, his older brother, and two younger sisters who had yet to be married off.

"How did you get the scar?" Anna, the youngest of the four siblings asked.

"This one was from a cutting curse," Reg snorted. "You didn't think we're out there hosting dinner parties, did you?"

The woman shook her head.

She was the same age as Harry, Charlus, and Arcturus and had all the naivety one would expect in a young woman who had not experienced the world.

"No, I just didn't think it was so bad," Anna admitted.

Reg smiled at her, though there was no humour in it.

"It's worse than you can imagine," he muttered.

The other members of the family fell silent for some time, and Reg helped himself to some food.

It was much better fare than what they got on the continent, something he wouldn't have appreciated before he'd left.

"Oh, Reg, I do hope you will shave off that monstrosity," Melissa, the older of his sisters huffed.

Reg ran his hand through the tangled mess that was his beard.

Shaving was not a priority when most days were spent fighting for your life, but he nodded his agreement.

"I will," he assured her. "We don't get much time for it."

His father grunted and nodded towards the stripes and insignia of the ICW that adorned his sleeve.

"You seem to be doing well for yourself," he commented.

His tone was curious, and not without a hint of pride.

Reg nodded.

"I am the second in command of the British forces," he explained.

His father, a usually reserved and quite stoic man smiled, a genuine gesture that Reg had not seen from the man since he'd received his brother's NEWT results so many years prior.

"Second in command?" Titus, his father's heir, and Reg's older brother pressed appreciatively.

The relationship between the two had never been one of closeness.

They hadn't truly been at odds, but Titus was ten years Reg's senior, so they'd had little to do with each other outside of formal functions or family dinners.

He'd been married before Reg had even left for Hogwarts and had four children of his own.

"Only behind Harry and Charlus," Reg elaborated.

"Charlus Potter?" Titus questioned. "My, you have made some connections if you're on a first name basis with the Potter lord."

Reg frowned.

He'd not considered any political benefit to the friendships he'd forged. He'd acknowledged them, of course, but such things were of no use to him.

"Connections don't mean anything out there," he pointed out. "Charlus is a friend, as are Arcturus, and Harry. What blood runs through your veins doesn't matter to anyone."

Titus frowned before shrugging and turning his attention back to his meal.

"This Harry would be Evans, would it not?" his father enquired. "He spoke highly of you when he attended the Wizengamot meeting to discuss his ascension."

"It would be," Reg confirmed fondly. "We wouldn't be where we are without him. He's saved my life more than once."

"Then I would like for you to express my gratitude," his father requested. "He has certainly carved quite the reputation for himself. I suspect we may have a future Minister of Magic in the making."

Reg chuckled amusedly as he shook his head.

"No one would ever convince Harry to take the post," he explained. "I suspect when the war is over, he will do whatever he can to avoid the public."

"Impossible," his father said dismissively. "Whether he likes it or not, he will not be allowed to hide in the shadows. The world will not leave him be."

As much as Reg wished to argue, he found himself in agreement with his father.

Harry may manage to avoid it for a while, but eventually, he'd somehow be roped into something.

Besides, Harry was not one to remain idle. He would grow bored of a life in isolation and would be compelled to seek other ventures, just like Reg was already considering if he survived the war until its conclusion.

"Maybe you're right," he sighed, "but we have to win the war first," he pointed out.

"Is that likely?"

Reg nodded.

"With Harry leading us, Grindelwald doesn't stand a chance."

His tone was perhaps a little more impassioned than he'd intended, but Reg believed in Harry Evans.

Where the ICW had proven themselves to be quite incompetent, it had been Harry that had made up the shortfall, Harry who was leading them to victory upon victory, and Reg had no doubt that it would be Harry who would defeat Grindelwald.

He would have the help of Reg and the rest of the men who Harry insisted were more important than himself, but Harry Evans would be the one to stand before the Dark Lord and put an end to the madness that had gripped the world.

(Break)

"What is it?" Charlus asked when his mother had been staring at him for several moments from across the dinner table.

"I'm just wondering when it was that you became a man," Angelica sighed. "It's like you were my little boy one moment, going off to Hogwarts, and now you're here."

"I had to grow up," Charlus murmured.

"All too soon," Angelica said sadly.

Charlus chuckled humourlessly.

"Too soon," he agreed, "but Harry even sooner."

Angelica nodded.

"Your father knew who he was. He found out after what happened in Warsaw."

Charlus's eyes widened in surprise.

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"It wasn't his secret to tell," Angelica pointed out. "Until he died, your father was convinced that Harry is a relative of ours. I don't see how, but your father maintained that certainty."

Charlus shrugged indifferently having long given up trying to unravel the mystery that was Harry Evans.

"Harry is my brother, despite whatever blood flows through his veins," Charlus declared. "After everything we have been through, that is all I can see him as. I still find it hard to believe he's going to be a father. I don't think I will until I see Minerva."

"I didn't know they had married," Angelica replied with a frown, evidently put out that she hadn't been invited.

"They aren't," Charlus snorted.

His mother appeared scandalised, her upbringing and ideals on marriage leaving her unable to comprehend a pregnancy without it.

"But they will be looked down on," she gasped.

"They're not purebloods," Charlus reminded her. "Bloody hell, at this point, Harry could probably piss on Merlin's grave and be hailed for it."

Angelica shot him a look of disapproval before shaking her head.

"I do hope that you will not be following that example."

"Not me," he promised. "I will wait until I'm married."

"To a nice girl," Angelica said firmly. "I did have quite the enlightening conversation with Miss Black before I came here."

Charlus felt his cheeks redden.

"That's not good," he muttered.

"She's a wonderful young lady, and rather fond of you."

"She is?"

Angelica nodded, grinning at her clueless son.

"Very much so. Despite what has happened between our families recently, I was impressed by her."

Charlus shook his head as he released a deep breath.

"I can't think about marriage until after the war."

"I know, but I think you would be a fool to discount her among potential matches, if she is still unmarried, of course. Just because Lord Black is away, it doesn't mean that he is not considering her future."

Charlus frowned at the thought.

Would Arcturus look to marry his sister off whilst he was away?

The thought was not a welcome one.

Not a welcome one at all.

(Break)

The security measures in place appeared to be rather simple at first glance, but as Harry drew nearer to the pub concealed beneath his cloak, he realised that they were in fact some of the most complex protections he had come across.

Getting in or out would not be an issue if all went to plan, but if things did not run smoothly, the potential for considerable fallout was not negligible.

Evidently, the man that oversaw the running of these events was either paranoid, or almost as vigilant as Harry remembered Alastor Moody to be, and in a matter of seconds, if he felt threatened, the pub would be swarming with guards to intervene against any threat, whether that be man or beast.

Harry had his doubts of the latter, not unless something of exceptional power were to run rampant.

The protections in place would prevent such, and at worst, would be needed only to subdue a creature with whatever concoction was stored beneath the vents in the floor.

No, the man in charge here was no fool, and only a fool would attempt to attack him within these walls.

Which left only the bar itself above, the protections in place there lesser, but still posing a problem.

Harry would need to use all his cunning to ensure he was not ensnared by the magic, and that what he was attempting was at all possible.

His best approach would be to somehow earn an audience with the organiser, or even turn the defences the man had created upon him without triggering an alert to those lying-in wait.

It would not be easy, but nothing had been ever since he had taken up the mantle of Hit-Wizard.

For two days he had scouted the pub, the basement, and the streets that led to Gringotts, and with Grindelwald firmly in control here, he was not surprised to find that the route between the pub and the bank was also as well protected.

According to Summerbee, who he had grilled several times, when the man entered the bank, he did not leave the building, likely apparating from within or using a portkey to transport him elsewhere.

It was frustrating to say the least, but it seemed that the closer he was to danger, the more chance of success Harry would have.

The two previous evenings he had attended had been quite busy considering they were weeknights and that there was a war on, but tonight, the numbers had tripled, making it easy for Harry to slip past the burly men acting as security for the event.

As ever, it was an odd assortment of men and women that had gathered for the macabre display, an assortment of languages being spoken as he made his way through the basement so that he could get the optimal view.

When he was certain no one was looking his way, Harry slipped off his cloak and pocketed before leaning against a nearby wall to wait for the proceedings to begin.

Thus far, he had not witnessed the horror that Summerbee had, the prisoners that had been forced to fight for their lives without their wand to do so, but with the large cellar come fighting pit almost at full capacity, anything could happen.

Tonight was a different night, after all.

"Are you betting?" a voice growled in German, pulling Harry from his reverie.

"What am I betting on?"

The squat man offered him a grin and a sheet of parchment, his tobacco-stained teeth a darker shade of yellow than the latter.

Poring over the programme, Harry nodded.

"Fifty Galleons on the gauntlet," he declared.

"Fifty Galleons on the beasts," the man grunted.

Harry shook his head and placed a hand on his shoulder to prevent him walking away.

"On the competitor," he corrected.

The man's grin widened.

"I will require the gold up front," he demanded.

Harry shrugged as he handed a sizable bag over and the man counted it, inspecting each coin, his piggy eyes bulging greedily.

"What are the odds?" Harry questioned curiously.

The man hurriedly pocketed the Galleons.

"Two hundred to one," he guffawed as he took a step back. "All bets are final," he added handing Harry a slip of parchment with the details of his bet written upon it.

Harry merely nodded appreciatively.

This could prove to be a lucrative venture.

The man frowned at him before taking his leave, and Harry checked his reflection in a nearby mirror to ensure that his disguise was in place.

Much to his chagrin, his features had become recognisable, so he had resorted to his former habits of being a Hit-Wizard.

In many ways, this undertaking felt similar to those somewhat simpler days, but there was more at stake here than a pay check.

Eliminating Weber would be a significant blow against Grindelwald and would remove one of the man's greatest assets.

Harry paid rapt attention as the announcer stepped into the middle of the duelling area, ignoring the staring duo of the squat man that had taken his bet and the bald organiser as they eyed him from the opposite side of the room.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the announcer called. "As always, we welcome you to a night of entertainment, courtesy of our many benefactors, some of whom are with us tonight."

Harry joined the rest of the crowd in their applause.

"Without further delay, let us begin with our first bout of the evening," the announcer continued.

Harry watched as a wizard clad in purple robes entered the pit, a fan favourite judging by the reaction he received from the crowd.

He waved cockily to them, offering a bow as a large crate was wheeled in.

Once the lid was removed, a single acromantula scuttled out, rearing up in fury as its pincers clicked together loudly.

The wizard did not even flinch as he readied himself, though Harry felt his leg itch from where he had been bitten by one of the creatures during the third task of the Triwizard tournament.

The fight was over before it had barely begun, the remains of the arachnid amounting to little more than a burn husk from where it had been scorched.

A team of men removed it as the announcer introduced the next wizard that wished to test their mettle against a magical creature, a rather diminutive man garbed in leather.

This competitor didn't fare as well as the last, the large griffin he had been drawn against using its talons to gouge through the jacket like it was wet parchment and disembowelling the man.

Harry shook his head.

The fool had tried to use a flame whip to keep the creature at bay and had only angered it further.

Had he lived, it may have been a lesson learned, but it was not to be.

The fighting continued with a scantily clad woman squaring off with a female centaur.

The witch emerged victorious, but not unscathed.

She had a deep cut to her shoulder and had several of her bones broken when the centaur had landed a vicious kick to her midsection.

To the woman's credit, she had gotten back up before snagging the centaur with a chain around its neck that choked the life out of the majestic beast.

Next up had been a duo of wizards who fought and killed a mountain troll in a one-sided affair, the dim creature having been torn on whom it would attack, its indecision seeing it killed quickly.

It was then that the announcer stepped into the pit once more, and the crowd grew excited.

The scheduled bouts had come to an end, and it was time for the main event, the show that most had come to witness.

"Now, Ladies and Gentlemen, is the time for one of you to run the gauntlet," he declared, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Who among will be brave enough to risk it all for gold and glory."

The excited crowd fell silent immediately at the question, none wishing to garner any attention to themselves.

"I'll do it," Harry called.

The announcer frowned as he looked for the source of the voice, his eyes lighting up as Harry stepped forward with his wand in hand.

"Then join me, young man," the announcer requested.

The crowd murmured as he did so, many visibly relieved that someone was willing to step up to provide the final piece of entertainment for the evening.

"This man will face four rounds, if he makes it that far," the announcer explained with an amused chuckle. "Are you ready for this?"

Harry nodded, and though he didn't know what to expect, he braced himself for whatever would be unleashed upon him, his grip on his wand tightening.

Nothing could be worse than a dragon, could it?

The first crate was wheeled in and when the door was released, it thudded to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.

At first sight, Harry believed he had been pitted against a trio of dementors when three shadowy beings emerged from within the depths of the crate and began to float around him, but with the absence of the cold and sense of despair they brought, he quickly realised these were lethifolds.

Dangerous creatures in their own right, but they did not have the ability to feast on his soul. His body on the other hand, was certainly not safe from them.

The difficulty lay in facing three at once.

They were known to be violent and aggressive creatures, but they still paled in comparison to their soul-sucking counterparts.

It was with a sudden ferocity that one unleashed a screech and lunged towards him, but Harry was ready, the bolt of brilliant white lightning careening from the tip of his wand stopping it in its tracks.

The screech quickly became a pained scream, though another of the former followed from somewhere behind Harry.

Instinctively, he used his free hand to grasp some of the lightning and redirected it to the new attacker, his hand tingling, but the creature suffered the same agony as the first instead of the discomfort Harry felt.

The third continued to float around him, seemingly looking for an opening to exploit, but before it could do so, the screaming ceased as the first two lethifolds died.

With only one more requiring his focus, Harry went on the offensive, his attacks crackling off the surrounding protections until the creature could no longer avoid them.

This one too died in the same manner as its companions, with lightning coursing through its very essence until it was snuffed completely.

Harry took a breath as the crowd clapped enthusiastically and another, larger crate was wheeled in, this one held together with thick chains.

The crowd whispered excitedly as a low growl was heard from whatever was in the crate, and once more, Harry readied himself.

"Now it is time for round two," the announcer declared, though he didn't enter the pit this time. "Unleash the beast!"

What emerged this time did so much more cautiously than the lethifolds, its glowing yellow eyes narrowed at Harry as it slinked its way out of the crate and began to circle him, crouched low to the ground and ready to pounce.

It was a cat of sorts, but not one that Harry was familiar with.

It was grey, striped similarly to a tiger, but its two, large incisors protruded out of its mouth.

The creature was a predator, of that Harry had no doubt, but he knew not of what other powers it may possess.

The cat roared, and the crowded gasped as it bounded forward and launched itself in the air in an attempt to lock its jaw around Harry's throat.

He rolled to his side, narrowly avoiding a flailing paw, and put as much distance between himself and the feline whilst it righted itself, pondering what he could do.

With a frown, he fired a blasting curse that merely bounced off the skin of the cat, eliciting no response nor any acknowledgement of what he'd done, proving that it was resistant to magic.

Harry nodded appreciatively and had to take evasive action once more as the cat again bounded towards him and took to the air.

It would be difficult to harm it with spells, and risky to himself to attempt it without knowing what it was he faced and the limitations of the creature, but there was something he could do, something he had read whilst perusing the tome lent to him by Charlus Potter.

Nodding to himself, he waited for another attack, though when it came, he didn't move.

Instead, he swept his wand in an upwards motion at just the right moment, and the cat found itself speared through the guts by the stone spike that had shot up from the ground, catching the creature cleanly in mid-air.

The cat thrashed around for a moment, eying Harry malevolently until there was little fight left and it groaned defeatedly.

After only a moment, it fell limp, its yellow eyes dulling as the final vestiges of life left them.

Again, the crowd clapped, and Harry gritted his teeth as he ignored the sound.

This wasn't sport that any should be celebrating.

This was nothing more than a slaughterhouse where those with such curiosity and morbid inclinations gathered to indulge in their more carnal desire for blood and violence.

Not that Harry was given much time to dwell on such things.

For the third round, there was no crate introduced, but a figure entered the pit from the crowd, its deathly pale skin leaving Harry in no doubt of what it was he faced next.

Nonetheless, the creature felt it prudent to smile at him, its elongated fangs glinting as the light in the cellar reflected off them.

A Vampire.

Harry had never met one, the creatures choosing to live in isolation for the most part, but he had read about them, of their legendary speed and strength, and of how impossibly quickly they healed when wounded.

A drawn-out battle with a vampire would only favour the creature, and in this instance, Harry was not inclined to give any advantage away.

With that in mind, he conjured several wooden stakes and sent them spinning in all directions around the pit.

The vampire eyed them warily, hissing in anger as it shot towards him with a speed that left Harry taken aback, and he grunted as he was slammed into the barrier with the wind knocked out of him.

The taste of blood filled his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue, and he spat a mouthful onto the floor below, something that only excited his foe.

Not wanting to experience that physical power again, and sensing that the vampire was converging on him once more, Harry hastily sent a banishing charm towards it.

It granted him enough of a respite to push himself back to his feet, but the creature was relentless and came at him again, grabbing hold of the front of his robes and his wrist in a vicelike grip.

Without thought and unable to angle his wand in a way that he could use it effectively, Harry sunk his teeth into the hand that held him, and the vampire recoiled with a hiss, and an expression of shock mingled with pain as it clutched its now smoking hand that was steadily turning black.

His blood!

Harry didn't know what immunity or tolerance vampires had to magical venoms, but his blood contained it, and it was evidently quite agonising for the vampire.

Not that it mattered truly, not when Harry waved his wand and half a dozen of the spikes he had conjured thudded into the back of the unexpecting vampire.

There was no death rattle nor prolonged passing. The creature simply collapsed to the ground, unmoving and Harry breathed a sigh of relief and hoped that Grindelwald didn't somehow manage to convince a coven to support his cause.

They would wreak havoc on the battlefield.

By now, the bald man and the other that had so happily taken his bet at the start of the night were glaring at him, and Harry shot them a grin as the announcer introduced the final fight of the evening.

"What a show!" he gushed happily, "but it is now time for the final round of the gauntlet."

Harry frowned as the floor he stood upon began to sink.

"This young man has done well to survive up until now, but he must face his ultimate challenge to be declared our victor. Unleash the beast!"

Harry turned to see an enormous iron gate had been installed in the wall of the basement he found himself in, a gate that was blasted outwards by a forceful blow that made the one he'd sustained at the hands of the vampire seem like a playful nudge in comparison.

The remnants of the gate came to a stop at his feet and his eyes widened as the behemoth stepped out of whatever had been confining it.

Harry had always been sceptical when Hagrid had told him, Ron, and Hermione that Grawp had been on the small side for a giant but seeing the monster before him now made him realise how very wrong he'd been.

The giant he faced stood around twenty feet tall, it's body thick with muscle and littered with scars from where it had likely spent its life fighting with its own kind.

How it ended up here, Harry could only guess, but a bellowing roar pushed those thoughts from his mind as the giant charged towards him, swinging a club that appeared to have been carved from a tree trunk and had nails the size of Harry hammered into it.

"Bollocks," he cursed as he narrowly avoided a blow.

There would be no getting up from one of those if the giant managed to connect.

Harry had to be careful, but he couldn't just run in circles hoping the creature would tire. No, he needed to find a way to take the fight to it, and for the first time in his life, he was pleased for Hagrid's proclivity towards adopting dangerous creatures.

Meeting Grawp had compelled him to learn more about his kind, more so that he could defend himself from Hagrid's brother if needed.

Giants were almost immune to magical attacks, their thick skin able to repel most, and the few spells it couldn't were too dangerous to wield in here.

They were also not as dim as trolls, so were not easy to trick.

However, Harry did know how one could be defeated, and though the book he had consulted had warned against doing so, he had little choice in the matter.

It was no wonder that none had survived the gauntlet thus far.

Cursing under his breath as he was forced to avoid another swing of the club, Harry turned his attention to the broken gate and set to work, continuing to evade the monstrosity that was determined to put an end to him.

With a few waves of his wand, he had torn the gate into sections and transfigured them into javelin-like projectiles, the first being quickly embedded in the knee of his assailant, much to the delight of the crowd.

The giant was dangerous, more so than anything else he'd faced this evening, but it was slow, its movements lumbering, and even more so with the rod of metal rammed into its leg.

It roared in fury as it swung and missed Harry who ran between its legs, this time summoning one of the projectiles, and stepping aside as it careened towards him.

Another bellow of anger sounded as it stuck in the back of the calf on the opposite leg, and for the first time, the giant staggered, though it managed to stay upright.

Harry's jaw clenched, but he set to work once more, nonetheless, the crowd cheering him on.

After several moments of avoiding being pulverised by the club, and puncturing his foe with more projectiles, its legs finally gave out, but it yet lived.

As much as the giant had wished to kill him, Harry was here for a purpose beyond testing himself and for monetary gain.

He hadn't wished harm upon the beasts he had fought, and he did not wish to see the giant suffer.

Its legs were mangled and were it to return to its own kind, it would become pray.

With a sigh, he pulled one of the projectiles free and transfigured it into a large and enormous blade.

To the giant, it would be the size of a knife, but it would be sufficient for what Harry intended to do.

Releasing a deep breath, he banished it into his foe's skull, and it stopped twitching, the groans of pain ceasing immediately.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I believe we have a winner!" the announcer declared, words that Harry barely heard as the floor began to rise once more and he was returned to the upper level of the basement.

(Break)

Eleanor could only look on in shock as the evening had unfolded around her.

She had known that Harry was a gifted wizard, and a dangerous one at that, but what she had witnessed left her speechless, and even as the crowd were escorted off the premises, she remained in her stupor.

She was pulled from her thoughts by the bald man as he ascended the staircase into the bar above and she followed, his expression likely mirroring what hers would have been were she not in her spider form.

(Break)

The sound of something thudding on the bar next to him pulled Harry from his thoughts, and he was met by the curious expression of the bald man that seemingly organised the events that took place here.

"I must say, I am impressed," the man grunted. "This is the first time that I have been out of pocket," he added, gesturing to the sizable sack of coins.

"Then the least I can do is buy you a drink," Harry replied with a smirk.

The man deflated as he nodded and took the seat next to him whilst Harry poured him a measure of whiskey from the bottle he had purchased.

"It is your first time here?" the organiser questioned before draining his glass.

"It is," Harry confirmed, "but I will be asking the questions. You can begin my telling me everything you know about a certain Herr Weber."

The bald man's eyes had glazed over as the Veritaserum took effect, and Harry cheered internally, pleased that his efforts had not been in vain.