They came for him in the middle of the night.
Three boys in long, green cloaks — faces half-shadowed, hoods low. They said nothing. Only stared. And Harry, half-awake in his dormitory, knew enough now not to ask questions.
One of them — tall, sharp-eyed, his voice barely a whisper — finally spoke:
"Bring your wand. No words. No shoes."
The Dungeons Beneath the Dungeons
He followed.
Down past the torchlit corridors he already knew, and then deeper — behind a portrait with no name, through a staircase that sank beneath the lake's floor. The air thickened, wet and cold, until Harry felt like he was walking through a bottle of ink.
Then, without warning, a chamber opened.
It was a pit.
Circular. Stone-lined. No benches. No lights — except for the sickly green fire that burned in braziers mounted to the far walls. The flames didn't flicker. They hummed. Low, pulsing, like something alive was breathing from inside them.
Around the ring stood at least a dozen students — third-years, sixth-years, even prefects. All in Slytherin green. All watching.
Theodore Nott stood among them, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed.
Draco was there too — not smiling. Just curious.
Harry stepped inside.
The Ritual
The tallest of the boys stepped into the center of the ring. He pulled his hood down.
"First-year Harry Potter," he said. "You've been summoned to the Gauntlet."
His voice rang across the stone.
Another older student — a girl, wiry and pale, wand in hand — stepped forward.
"Do you know the rules?"
"No," Harry said evenly.
She gave a small, sharp smile. "That's the first test."
The tall boy raised his wand. "This is not a duel of points or house favor. This is tradition. You are watched. Judged. Chosen — or discarded."
He turned to the crowd.
"Witness him."
And then the crowd began to chant — low and wordless — and the green fire flared upward like it had been waiting to feed.
The Gauntlet
The girl raised her wand first.
Harry didn't move.
He knew better now — Slytherins didn't warn before striking.
Her spell flew without sound — a jet of red that crackled in the air. Harry ducked low, rolled beneath it, and fired a shield charm in response. It rippled, barely catching the edge of her second curse.
They danced in circles — not a proper duel, but something more primal.
Harry didn't try to win.
He tried to survive.
He dodged. Blocked. Took a glancing hit to the shoulder that left his wand arm numb for seconds. He bit the inside of his cheek until blood filled his mouth.
The crowd said nothing. But they watched.
Every stumble. Every spark. Every choice.
Then, in a moment he couldn't explain, it shifted.
The girl lifted her wand — and Harry saw something in her stance. Overconfidence. Laziness.
And he moved.
His wand slashed through the air, and from his mouth came a spell he hadn't meant to speak — half-torn from the strange book, half-born of instinct.
"Sileras."
A coil of green light shot forward — too fast, too sharp. It hit her in the chest.
She gasped.
Fell.
The fire dimmed.
Silence fell across the ring.
The girl stirred — coughing, her eyes wide with confusion.
She wasn't hurt. Not physically.
But something had changed.
And everyone knew it.
After
No one clapped.
They didn't need to.
Harry turned slowly, breathing hard, muscles aching.
And in the flicker of firelight, someone new had arrived — standing at the top of the steps.
Severus Snape.
He looked down at the ring. Said nothing.
Then gave the smallest, most deliberate nod.
Harry felt the weight of it more than any trophy.
He had passed.
That Morning – The Common Room
Theodore sat beside him at breakfast.
"You spoke something that wasn't Latin," he said.
"I know."
"And it worked."
"I know."
"You realize what that means?"
Harry didn't answer. He was already thinking about the book.
Thinking about what other spells were waiting.