Nolan wasn't sure how prestigious this tournament was internationally, but judging by the turnout today—it had to be significant.
Take Cornelius Fudge, for instance.
The Minister of Magic stood near the entrance, dressed in what was probably the finest set of robes he owned. His round belly jutted forward proudly as he positioned himself right beside Dumbledore, hoping the association would elevate his own stature.
Fudge nodded enthusiastically at every foreign wizard who passed by, smiling and offering a boisterous "Hello!" in the hopes of earning a handshake or even a trace of respect—despite not understanding a word of any other language.
His assistant, eager as ever, introduced him at every opportunity. "This is the Minister of Magic for the United Kingdom, the honorable Cornelius Fudge! A truly great wizard!"
Hearing the name "Fudge" piqued the curiosity of the surrounding witches and wizards. They eagerly crowded around—only to bypass him entirely and enthusiastically shake hands with Dumbledore.
"Oh! You must be the great Albus Dumbledore—Europe's most esteemed wizard! I've read all your works!"
"If only Hogwarts accepted international students, I would have loved to study under you, Professor Dumbledore!"
"Please, Professor Dumbledore, say a few words! A man of your stature should open the ceremony!"
"I must be dreaming—did I really just shake hands with Dumbledore?"
Fudge, thoroughly ignored, stood off to the side, his face turning a deep shade of green. Furious, he stormed out of the arena, ripping the ridiculous bow tie from his neck and flinging it to the ground—like someone discarding a dead fish.
"Poor Fudge," Professor McGonagall whispered to Nolan with a touch of amusement. "He lives in a world of his own making—where he's greater than Dumbledore. It's the only place where that's true."
"You ought to tell him to abandon that delusion," Nolan remarked coldly, watching Fudge disappear. "Every wizard in Britain knows the only reason he became Minister is because Dumbledore refused to run."
McGonagall shrugged. "Believe me, we've all said as much. But Fudge won't listen."
The International Wizard Dueling Tournament was divided into two categories—adult and youth.
For the underage wizards, the competition was more of a demonstration than anything else. With over a hundred participants from more than twenty countries, the youth division's winner had to be decided in a single day.
There were no second chances—no best-of-three matches. If you lost, you were out. It was a brutal elimination process.
Luckily, each duel was brief, capped at five minutes.
Eve's first opponent was a boy from Greece—tall, sharp-featured, and confident. His lips were sculpted like those of a statue, and he towered over her.
The Greek boy blinked in disbelief at the small girl standing before him. He consulted the referee three times, his hesitant English thick with doubt. "Oh… poor girl. Don't worry—I won't hurt you. Perhaps you'd like to withdraw now? It'll save us both some trouble."
Eve's eyes narrowed. She despised being underestimated. Without a word, she drew her wand and bowed gracefully.
"If you insist…" the Greek boy sighed dramatically, reluctantly returning the bow. With a flourish, he drew his wand, trying to strike a heroic pose.
Before he could complete the motion, a flash of red light sent him flying off his feet.
"This—this doesn't count! She ambushed me! That's not in the spirit of dueling!" the boy howled from the ground, pale and shaken.
From the stands, McGonagall—cheering loudly for Eve—clapped her hands in delight. "She handled that easily. Looks like you taught her well."
Nolan's gaze remained steady. "Eve's naturally gifted, Professor. How long does it take you to cast a Disarming Charm?"
"I'm not sure. Shall we find out?" McGonagall raised her wand and flicked it toward him.
The spell bounced harmlessly off Nolan's shoulder.
"Zero point four seconds," Nolan said with a slight smirk. "About the same as Eve."
On stage, Eve was already facing her third opponent—a girl from Bulgaria. She was half a head taller than Eve, her dark hair neatly tied back, and she carried herself with the poise of someone far older.
"That's Durmstrang," McGonagall's voice turned cold, as though merely mentioning the name left a bitter taste. "That school still teaches students the Dark Arts. I can't fathom why."
"I think it's a smart decision," Nolan replied, his tone unwavering. "Whether or not to use Dark Magic should be the wizard's own choice. But they shouldn't be completely ignorant of it. Hogwarts should offer a Dark Arts class—properly, not this incomplete Defense curriculum."
On stage, Eve blocked the Bulgarian girl's Conjunctivitis Curse with a Shield Charm and smoothly followed up with a Stupefy, knocking her opponent out cold.
The clean, efficient display drew roaring applause from the adult wizards in the audience. No one had expected such polished spellwork from someone so young.
McGonagall, however, disagreed. "But Dark Magic corrupts the heart," she insisted, eyes narrowed at Nolan.
"Oh, Professor," Nolan replied with a soft scoff. "It's not Dark Magic that corrupts the heart—it's power. But without power, people are trampled. What would you choose? To wield power and decide whether or not to use it—or to be powerless, with no choice but to endure being stepped on?" His shoulders lifted in a careless shrug, his words cold and sharp. "Wizarding education in Britain is outdated. Fortunately, I recently acquired an Auror."
McGonagall's eyes flickered with disbelief. "An Auror? A woman?"
"She's not exactly delicious," Nolan said lightly, the corner of his mouth curling up. "But I rather enjoy seeing her in a maid's outfit, serving tea. She can't even cast a proper Shield Charm. I have no idea how she became an Auror."
"Oh…" McGonagall shifted uncomfortably at the remark, clearly aware that most British wizards—and Aurors—had been educated at Hogwarts. "The Shield Charm isn't the simplest spell, you know…"
"I'm aware of that. But surely Hogwarts can hire a more competent Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?" Nolan's eyes flicked back to the stage. "Good job, Eve."
Eve had just blasted her fifth opponent off his feet.
Her opponent—a hulking German boy—crashed into the ground with a sickening thud, splitting his scalp open. Blood trickled down his forehead as his small eyes rolled into an awkward cross-eyed stare. Dumbledore himself had to step in to calm the furious German delegation.
"As for next year's Defense professor…"
"Nolan," McGonagall interrupted sternly. "Professor Quirrell is our current Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. We fully expect him to continue next year."
"Professor," Nolan cut in, his voice flat. "We all know the Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts is cursed. No one lasts more than a year. Everyone knows this. I don't know what will happen to Quirrell, but he won't be teaching next year. I sincerely hope you'll hire someone competent. I'm tired of being disappointed." His gaze sharpened as he glanced at the stage. "Oh? Eve's finally met a real opponent?"
Eve's tenth match had begun, and this time her opponent was a Dutch girl with sharp, determined eyes.
The two dueled fiercely, vibrant flashes of magic exploding between them like fireworks. Spells ricocheted in brilliant bursts of color, their wands moving so quickly they were a blur to the spectators.
"Miss Stock has made it into the top twenty," McGonagall noted, impressed. "That's a fine achievement. Besides her, the only other Hogwarts student left was Eaton from Gryffindor… Ah, what a shame. Mr. Eaton has been eliminated."