The Marauders: A Hogwarts Tale

A tense, uneasy calm settled over Excalibur Academy as the day of reckoning arrived. For the heedless, life continued as usual, consumed by the rush of final submissions and the festive anticipation of Yuletide. But for the initiated, an air of trepidation hung heavy, charged with the gravity of what was to come. They knew this wasn't just another event; it was a spectacle—a rare, almost mythical declaration under the ancient laws of Bellum Inter Duos. Two years had passed since the last No Quarter duel, and the school buzzed with hushed speculation.

The Congregation's whispers grew louder with every passing hour, their discussions centered on Godric and his companions facing Volg and his Clan. Though Godric's fiery determination was well-known, little was certain about Salazar, Rowena, and Helga. The trio had remained enigmas during their time at Excalibur, rarely engaging with Congregation affairs, their intentions and abilities cloaked in mystery.

Time marched forward, marked by the relentless tick of the iron hands on the academy's towering clock. Each resonant chime of the bells sent vibrations through the ancient stone halls, a somber reminder of the inevitable. As the final hours slipped away, night descended upon the castle, cloaking it in shadow.

The Grand Hall was unusually sparse, its emptiness drawing wary glances from those in the know—particularly among the professors. Elsewhere, clusters of students gathered in secluded corners, their magical devices casting faint glows as they projected live feeds from the duel's venue. Faces illuminated by the ethereal light, they watched in bated silence, their breaths caught between anticipation and unease.

In the dim glow of his dorm, Godric tightened the belts on his bracers, their leather straps snug against his forearms and legs. His fingerless gloves creaked softly as he flexed his hands, testing the fit. He slung the scabbard across his torso, securing the belt with a sharp tug. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, he reached for the hilt of his sword. His grip firm, he lifted the blade into the air. The weapon gleamed in the amber light, its polished steel catching and reflecting the dim glow as if alive. A faint, resonant trill hummed from the blade, a silver promise that reverberated in the stillness.

Godric's crimson eyes traced the length of the sword, following the intricate runes etched into the steel, all the way to its finely honed tip. In that moment, he made a silent vow: No matter what happens, this ends tonight. With a practiced motion, he twirled the sword in his hand, the blade cutting through the air with a sharp hiss before sliding into its scabbard with a clean, precise click. The weight of the weapon on his back felt like both a burden and a promise—one he was ready to fulfill.

As Godric descended the winding staircase and stepped into the Ignis Common Room, he found Salazar, Helga, and Rowena waiting for him. All three were geared for battle, their bracers and combat attire lending them an imposing air. His eyes were drawn to the items they carried—

Salazar had something long and sheathed in leather slung over his back, a green cloth trailing like a scarf. Helga wore a pair of oversized bracelets that seemed more practical than ornamental, while Rowena had her two ravens perched on her shoulders, their piercing black eyes fixed intently on Godric as he approached.

"Oh, Godric, you look amazing," Helga said, flashing him a bright smile. "I can't believe you actually lugged all that gear to school."

"Believe me, I didn't plan on it," Godric replied, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. "My Uncle Gareth insisted I pack it, and I even had the nerve to tell him, 'It's a school, what's the worst that could happen?'" He chuckled, the irony not lost on him. "I guess I owe him a big thank you when I see him again."

"For what it's worth, Godric," Rowena said with a reassuring smile, "you look ready. And capable."

"So," Salazar interjected, his back pressed casually against the blackened volcanic stone wall, arms crossed, "are you ready for this?" His emerald eyes glinted with a mix of seriousness and excitement. "I have to admit, it's not every day you get to march into a life-or-death battle with your friends at your side. Feels... poetic, don't you think?"

Godric nodded, his gaze sweeping over his friends. "I know I've said this before but thank you—for everything." He met each of their eyes in turn, his expression earnest. "I'd say a man couldn't ask for better friends, but as my Uncle Gareth used to tell me, 'Friends who are willing to bleed for you, to die for you—they're not friends.'" He smiled softly. "They're family."

Salazar smirked. "Careful now, Gryffindor. You might regret calling me family. I'm far too impossible."

 Rowena rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "Understatement of the century, Salazar. You're impossible now."

Helga stepped forward as she extended her fist. "We'll get Raine back, Godric. And when the wedding bells toll and the feast begins, don't you dare forget about us. We'll be right there—front and center."

Godric grinned and bumped his fist against hers. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Salazar straightened from the wall, his smirk softening into something more sincere as he bumped his fist in turn. "As you said, Gryffindor—no matter what."

Rowena let out a small sigh, but a smile tugged at her lips. She raised her hand and bumped her fist against theirs. "No matter what."

"And by the way," Salazar added with a teasing lit, "you might want to reconsider Helga's invitation. She's likely to devour your entire wedding feast and leave nothing for the rest of us."

Helga's fist flew, punching Salazar squarely in the arm.

"OW!" he yelped, clutching his arm with an exaggerated wince. "You uncivilized brute!"

Helga laughed, her eyes sparkling. "Keep talking, and I'll give you another."

Godric turned to face the Ignis Common Room, and his breath caught for a moment. Dozens of students stood gathered, their gazes steady and unwavering, fixed on the four of them. One by one, wands rose into the air, their tips glowing with a fiery red light.

The glow intensified as the swirling spire of flame within the center of the Ignis Common Room slowly began to take shape—the blazing visage of a lion, its fangs bared and its mane rippling like an inferno. The fiery beast let out a silent roar, its presence commanding and fierce.

Godric's gaze swept across the room, meeting the determined expressions of his housemates. No words were exchanged, but their message was clear.

A resolute smile spread across Godric's face as he turned back to his friends. "Let's finish this."

Without another word, he strode toward the exit, his steps sure and purposeful. His friends fell into step behind him, their resolve unshaken as they moved together toward the battle that awaited.

****

Godric had never been to the Excalibur clock tower before. In truth, only a handful of students had ever set foot inside, and fewer still knew the way. The ascent was steep, the air thick with the sound of rotating gears, their titanic proportions groaning and churning with precision. Metallic teeth interlocked, each movement a symphony of grinding steel that sent vibrations through the walls and staircase. The rhythmic ticking reverberated around them, a constant reminder of time's relentless march.

The four friends climbed in silence; their resolve unspoken but understood. Words were no longer necessary; their purpose was clear. They were united in their mission—to free Raine, no matter what it took, even if it meant prying her from the cold, dead hands of the Calishans.

At the top of the staircase, a thick wooden door loomed before them, its weathered surface marked with scars of age and use. Godric paused, drawing a deep breath to steady himself, but as he stepped forward, a presence stirred in the shadows.

He froze, his gaze snapping to the left. Within the gloom was a tall man clad in blackened robes, his figure imposing and his eyes sharp, cold. He stood leaning casually against the wall, but his posture carried an air of predatory stillness.

"Gryffindor," the man greeted, his voice devoid of warmth, yet resonant with authority.

"Professor Serfence?" Godric blinked in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Serfence pushed himself off the wall. His gaze swept over the group, lingering on each of them for a moment before returning to Godric. "I see my words did little to dissuade you. As expected," His tone was flat, almost resigned. "But if you're going through with this… a word, if you please."

Salazar, Helga, and Rowena exchanged uncertain glances.

"I'll be right behind you." Godric gave them a reassuring nod.

They hesitated but eventually moved ahead toward the door, leaving Godric alone with Serfence.

He squared his shoulders, his expression firm as he faced the professor. "If you're here to talk me out of this—"

"Spare me," Serfence cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Even I know that would be a frightful waste of time." His gaze hardened. "But if you insist on playing the hero, Gryffindor, you'd do well to keep your wits about you. Volg may be young, but he is far from inexperienced. He comes from wealth, privilege, and power—resources that have given him an edge most here could only dream of. He's wielded magic longer than you, and there's no telling what he's prepared to unleash. Underestimate him at your own peril."

Godric's brow furrowed. "Are… are you actually giving me advice?"

Serfence's lip twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk breaking through his otherwise cold demeanor.

"Don't misunderstand. I still think you're a fool." He turned, his black robes swishing as he began descending the staircase. Stopping just shy of the first step, he paused.

The boy's gaze settled upon him, waiting.

"I didn't," Serfence said. He glanced over his shoulder; his gaze shadowed but intense. "Forget her. Though there were days I prayed to the Gods above that I could. Her memory… her love, led me down a cold, dark road—a path I couldn't leave without losing myself entirely."

His tone turned sharper. "You do what you have to do. But know this, should you fail, that's what awaits you. A road long, treacherous, twisting, and above all, lonely."

Godric's crimson eyes narrowed, though not with anger, but with quiet determination. "Thank you, Professor Serfence," he said firmly. "But it's a road I have no intention of walking. Not today. Not ever."

Serfence scoffed softly, a fleeting smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "We'll see, Gryffindor." Without another word, he descended the stairs, his figure fading into the shadows.

For a moment, Godric stood still, a small smile playing at his lips. Then, with renewed determination, he turned toward the wooden door. The ticking of the great clock seemed louder now; each beat a drum heralding what lay ahead.

****

Godric stepped into the vast expanse of the Excalibur Clock Tower, his boots echoing against the polished stone floor. The chamber was colossal, as large as a grand opera hall, with a vaulted ceiling adorned in intricate carvings that depicted ancient tales woven into the very stone. Massive gears rotated in the background, their rhythmic churning resonating through the space, each tooth interlocking with precision to power the immense iron hands of the clock visible on the stained-glass face. The stained glass, encased in a web of metallic frames, shimmered faintly as light refracted through it.

At the far end, a pendulum the size of a small tree swung in deliberate, sluggish arcs, its every movement accompanied by the groan of ancient mechanisms. Godric's crimson eyes swept across the room, taking in the scene before him.

Enforcers of the Congregation stood like statues along the perimeter, their hoods and cloaks dark as night. Their faces were obscured by ornate masks, but the gold-threaded emblem of the Congregation gleamed on their black coats.

Godric's gaze shifted to his friends, standing shoulder to shoulder in a tight line, their faces set with unwavering determination. He strode forward to join them, his posture firm and resolute, the weight of the moment etched into his every step. Across the hall, Volg and his entourage stood in stark contrast.

The Calishans were draped in the regal yet sinister colors of their Clan—deep violet and stark white. Their robes bore intricate silver embroidery that gleamed faintly in the dim light. The porcelain masks they typically hid behind were absent, exposing smug grins and mocking sneers that twisted their faces into masks of their own.

Then his eyes fell on her.

Raine.

She was on the ground draped in tattered rags, her wrists and neck bound in heavy iron chains that clinked faintly with every small movement. Her golden eyes, usually so bright, were filled with a mix of fear and trepidation, darting nervously between the figures around her. Godric's chest tightened at the sight, anger flaring hot and sharp within him. His fingers twitched, instinctively yearning for the hilt of his sword. The image of driving the blade through Volg's chest burned in his mind, the thought of cleaving flesh and bone nearly overwhelming him.

But he forced himself to take a sharp breath, steadying the fire within.

At the center of it all stood three figures—Helena and Eskel flanked the Harbinger himself, Gabriel. The one second only to the five leaders of The Congregation radiated an aura of cold authority, his gaze impassive as he surveyed the gathering. Gabriel reached into his pocket and withdrew a golden pocket watch, flipping it open to check the time. The hands neared midnight, the final moments ticking away.

Godric couldn't help but find it ironic—they stood inside the very mechanisms of a far larger clock, its eternal movements dictating the passage of time. The stage was set.

As the hands of the clock struck midnight, the bell tolled, its deep chime reverberating through the chamber and rattling the very floor beneath their feet. With each resounding toll, Volg's smirk grew wider, his arrogance radiating like a tangible force. Across the hall, Godric's crimson eyes burned with fierce intensity, his gaze locked with Volg's in an unspoken exchange.

A silent vow passed between them; a mutual promise etched in the tension-filled air—a reckoning was at hand. Blood would spill before the night was through, whether it be their enemies' or their own.

Godric flicked briefly to Helena and Eskel. Both were clad in the same somber black robes of the Enforcers, their Overseer badges gleaming prominently against the dark fabric. Helena's gaze met his, her expression firm and resolute as she gave him a subtle nod of affirmation.

At the heart of the chamber, Gabriel advanced toward a blackened table. Resting upon it was a polished wooden box, its surface gleaming in the dim light. With measured care, he lifted the lid and drew forth a black satin sash, its edges trimmed in ornate gold embroidery. The Congregation's emblem, stitched prominently into the cloth, served as a stark reminder of the power he represented.

He draped the sash over his shoulders, the act solemn and ceremonial, reminiscent of a priest preparing for a sacred rite. He took a measured breath, his voice breaking the tense silence as the final knell echoed through the chamber.

"And so, we begin!" he declared, his arms spreading wide as if to embrace the gravity of the moment. "Contenders, step forward and approach the table."

The eight participants lined up before the table, their eyes drawn to Gabriel as he stood at its center. A hush fell over the room, broken only by the soft clink of glass. Two Enforcers carefully filled eight goblets from a crystal decanter, arranging them on a pair of polished silver trays—four per tray. As the Enforcers presented the trays, each participant took a goblet.

Helga was the first to lift a goblet, holding it under her nose with an appreciative smile. "Ooh, raspberry," she murmured, delight brightening her features.

Rowena leaned closer to Salazar, speaking in a hushed tone. "It isn't… alcoholic, is it?"

Salazar gave a slight shrug. "In the past, maybe. Now, it's all for show—purely ceremonial."

Gabriel then raised his own cup in a silent signal. The others immediately followed suit; their attention fixed on him.

"We seek the truth," Gabriel declared. "And we will endure the consequences."

"Consequences," they repeated in unison. They lifted their goblets and drank, sealing the vow that hung unspoken in the charged air.

"Now." Gabriel set his goblet on the table, the glass chiming softly against the polished wood. "Positions, please."

They each broke away to take their designated corners, but Volg lingered a moment, catching Godric's eye with a smug grin. "Enjoy that fresh air while you can, Gryffindor," he said, tapping the golden bracelet on his wrist. The ruby lion charm shimmered under the dim glow. "I hear the mines can be suffocating."

Godric's gaze darkened. "You might be the one gasping for breath, Volg," he said evenly. "Hard to inhale with a blade through your neck."

Salazar spared Volg and his associate, Rance, a devilish smirk. "Ask not for whom the bell tolls, gentlemen," he said, turning away. "It tolls for thee."

Rance curled his lip in contempt. "Then yours will be the knell that marks the end, Slytherin," he shot back, moving to his position with a sneer.

Godric's crimson gaze then fell upon Raine—his beloved—his expression softening. He touched two fingers to his lips, then raised them toward her in a silent show of affection. She returned the gesture, smiling as their shared devotion passed between them without a single word.

As the four friends stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed on the opponents gathered at the far end. Volg and his entourage drew their wands—Derek among them, grim-faced and ready. Next to him was Marcus, the broad-shouldered brute whose weapon of choice was a war hammer. A chain coiled around the handle and looped around his right arm, the metal links clinking ominously with each movement.

Helga, Rowena, and Salazar raised their own wands, wariness and determination mingling in their expressions. Helga's lips curved into a tense grin that wavered on the edge of anxiety. Rowena's face was a mask of focused resolve, while Salazar's smirk held an undercurrent of restless energy.

Godric, at the center, reached behind him and drew his sword. The blade's resonant ring against the scabbard cut through the air like a declaration of war. "Remember," he said, his tone steady but charged with anger, "Volg is mine, and mine alone."

Salazar glanced over at Rance, who returned his stare with equal fervor. "Fine by me," he said, narrowing his eyes. "The rest of these wankers are yours, ladies, but the green-haired bastard? He's mine."

"Remember, Godric," Rowena's sapphire eyes filled with concern as the boy glanced over his shoulder in her direction. "Go easy on Vis Vitalis. We can't risk another incident like the one with Cú. One wrong move, and you could end up unconscious—or worse."

He nodded, tightening his grip on his sword. "I hear you, Rowena. Don't worry—I'll be careful."

A grim silence settled over them all, broken only by the rattle of Marcus's chain and the steady pound of hearts bracing for the fight to come.

****

Meanwhile, back in the bustling halls of the Congregation, an electrifying energy crackled through the air. Students and patrons crowded together, thrusting bags of coins—platinum, gold, and silver—toward frantic bookies and shouting the names of their chosen fighters. A chalkboard displayed each contender's name alongside the latest odds, and within the arena, spectators packed every available space, their attention fixed on hovering holographic screens that broadcast the duel in real time.

At one of the bar tables, Professor Workner sat on a tall stool, gaze locked on a screen mounted overhead. His fingers twitched nervously around a pint of pale ale, the foam on top mirroring his unease. Shattered walnut shells lay scattered across the tabletop—collateral from his nervous snacking. He surveyed the crowd, unsurprised to see every Clan in attendance. His attention landed on Údar and her hounds, with Cú seated beside her, hands steepled in watchful anticipation.

He glanced upward, where the High Table was concealed from view. Still, Workner had no doubt its members observed the unfolding drama with equal fervor. Just then, Professor Serfence appeared, taking a seat on the stool next to him.

He sighed, settling onto the barstool beside his friend. "Well, I tried," he remarked, casting him a thoughtful look. "I've never seen the Congregation so enthralled. It's rather disconcerting how they revel in watching children tear one another apart over a mere vendetta."

Workner took a slow sip of his ale, casting a wary eye around the room. "This is the first Bellum Inter Duos open to the entire Congregation. Even the Garetty duel was more... discreet. Now everyone's either rooting for Gryffindor or hoping Dryfus and his little circle get taken down a notch. He hasn't exactly been making friends here."

"Hubris," Serfence murmured, retrieving a walnut from the dish. With practiced composure, he cracked it in his palm, letting the fragments spill onto the floor. "Nonetheless, whosoever emerges from that arena will find their name indelibly etched in the annals of Congregation history."

"And they'll make a fortune for half these vultures, too." Workner gave a cheeky grin, setting his pint on the counter. "The wagers are out of control. It's enough to fill a dragon's hoard."

Serfence arched an eyebrow. "You bet on Gryffindor, didn't you?""

Workner coughed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Well... maybe just a little. Purely in the spirit of, uh, academic interest."

Rolling his eyes, the man shook his head. "You're incorrigible."

****

Inside the vast halls of the Congregation, a throng of onlookers huddled around a towering projection screen. Despite the absence of Anton's usual theatrical flair, anticipation thrummed through the assembly. Many found their palms growing damp and their legs twitching with restless energy, unsure of what the next moment would bring. Anton himself stood among them, uncharacteristically quiet, following the unfolding scene with measured focus.

At one edge of the crowd, Adrian and his fellow former Calishans observed in silence, their arms folded. Their faces revealed no trace of their internal conflict, yet they hardly blinked as they watched events on the screen.

High above, around the grand table of polished marble and intricately engraved iron, the High Table convened in silent watchfulness. Among the seated figures, Genji's gaze remained fixed on a personal display, his face an impassive mask. Yet the quiet, rhythmic tapping of his fingertips against the hilt of his katana betrayed a tension roiling just beneath his calm exterior.

Back at the clock tower, Godric and his companions stood poised, every muscle tight with anticipation. Across from them, Volg and his entourage displayed the same taut readiness. Helena drew a sharp breath, her pulse thundering in her chest.

Raine sat in place, her hands intertwined in silent prayer, the metal links of her shackles rattling softly. Her golden gaze rested on Godric, a silent plea for not only his survival, but his triumph burning in her heart. She whispered his name, almost too quiet to be heard.

"Are you prepared, Mister Dryfus?" Gabriel asked, his gaze shifting to Volg, who answered with a curt nod. "Mister Gryffindor?" He turned to Godric, who also nodded, his jaw set in determination.

"I commend your souls to the Gods," the Harbinger intoned, each word resonating like a solemn benediction. "We begin as we end. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

A profound hush fell over the chamber. Even the gears and ticking clock seemed to hold their breath. The Enforcers stationed around the tower stiffened, while miles away in the Congregation's halls, spectators clung to one collective heartbeat.

"Fight!"