Chapter Text
The spell hit harder than it should have.
Lando skidded back across the dueling platform, boots scraping against the rough marble floor before he dropped to one knee, his breath coming up sharp. He forced his wand hand to steady as it trembled from gripping the phoenix feathered core tighter.
It wasn’t even that the spell itself was particularly advanced, per se. Lando doubts his opponent is that clever. But the way it was used definitely caught him off guard. It was efficient, he’ll give him that. Just enough power to knock Lando off balance and make him look like a bloody idiot in front of the club.
Again.
The crowd pressed in around the platform, exchanging whispers and murmurs as they watched. They were being a little too loud for a place where talking was supposed to be discouraged during matches. From the corner of his eye, Lando caught George leaning over to say something to Alex, who cracked a grin.
Lando couldn’t afford to distract himself in deciphering what his friends might be saying about him right now. He forced himself upright, gritting his teeth.
His opponent stood across from him, wand poised low, with a face so unreadable. It wasn’t smug, it wasn’t gleeful. It was just…still. Like none of this meant a damn thing to him. Like beating a second year in the club he’d just joined wasn’t something worth reacting to.
That annoyed Lando more than the sting of the spells.
“Come on, Norris,” someone in the crowd called out, half laughing. “Don’t let the First Year show you up!”
Lando ignored them. He narrowed his eyes on the guy in front of him instead. He just needed to get in closer… if he could unsteady him, even once, it would shift the tempo. He could—
“Expulso!”
The blast came too fast.
A wave of magic cracked against Lando’s shield and ripped it apart before Lando even realized what was going on. His vision blurred as he was thrown backward off his feet entirely this time. He hit the floor with a solid thud, back slamming against the marble that knocked the air out of his lungs.
That was it. Lando knew he lost.
The room went quiet for a beat.
Then the whispers started again. Much louder this time. It was all overlapping voices but Lando didn’t have to hear what they said to know exactly what they were saying. He knew the tone.
He stayed down on the ground just long enough to catch his breath. When he sat up and reached for his wand that was flung on the platform next to him, his opponent was already lowering his own. There was no celebration in that guy’s demeanor. Just that same cool, quiet restraint. The kind that made Lando want to throw something.
Professor Parlow raised a hand from below the platform. “Victory to Piastri.”
Sparse applause began to ripple through the room, and Lando could tell most of them were debating if they should clap or not.
Lando dragged himself to his feet, sweat damp along his collar with a certain heat prickling the back of his neck. His wand now felt heavier than usual in his grip. So did his pride.
He saw Piastri glance at him, only slightly, before turning around to look back at their professor. It was apparent this match was over and done with for him.
Lando clenched his jaw as he crossed the platform, stopping just in front of the Slytherin who beat him. The other one turned his gaze back at Lando as they were now face to face. The kid didn’t say anything, didn’t offer his hand. He just stood there, waiting, in front of Lando.
And yes, that annoyed the hell out of Lando as well.
Still, Lando took a deep breath and was the one to extend his hand out.
“Good duel,” Lando muttered, fingers tightening harder than they needed to around Piastri’s. However, it seemed the kid’s grip was just as tight.
“Thanks,” he said simply.
Lando pulled his hand back quickly, not wanting to linger on that longer than he needed to. Piastri didn’t give him another second of attention either as he turned away to rejoin the others on the benches.
Lando stood alone on the edge of the platform for a moment, stomach coiled tight with the sound of snickers continuing to echo. He wanted to forget about this incident completely already, but he had a feeling others wouldn’t be so kind to do so.
He stepped down, going directly to the corner of the room where George and Alex were leaning against the nearest bench. Neither of them bothered to hide their grins either.
“Merlin, mate,” Alex said, clapping him on the back with far too much enthusiasm. “That was rough. I blinked and you were flat on your arse.”
George shook his head. “Not just rough, that was proper humiliation. That kid absolutely destroyed you.”
“You know what, I think I’d like to move on from that now,” Lando muttered.
“No way to move on from that, mate. And he’s a First Year. Oof,” George grimaced as he continued to tease.
“He only joined the Dueling Club like two weeks ago, no? And to take you out like that? That’s gotta hurt,” Alex chuckled.
Lando poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue, eyes completely zoning out as his friends continued to stoke the fire of his annoyance. More words to rub in how awful it is to lose out to a First Year newbie were thrown followed by a lot of laughter on their part. Then it seemed like they got all their jokes out of their system.
“In all seriousness, mate, don’t even sweat it,” Alex said. “People will forget about it by next week.”
Lando scoffed. “Yeah, try telling that to them.”
He gestured to the rest of the students in the club, all still snickering, all not so subtly pointing their fingers and noses in Lando’s direction. It’s not a difficult concept to grasp that when something goes wrong for you, it’s the rest of the student body’s job to amplify it louder than it should be.
It’s usually fun to laugh at others’ misery. But not when it’s directed at him.
“That Slytherin is a vicious little bastard, though, isn’t he?” George said, all teasing gone from his voice. “He shouldn’t have even been allowed to use that final spell. It was way over the line.”
“I’m surprised Professor Parlow didn’t say anything,” Alex chimed in.
“I think it was fine,” Lando huffed. “I just wasn’t quick enough to block it.”
Lando hated having to admit that Piastri performed more adequately today.
“No. He still could have done some serious damage to you,” George shook his head. “I guess it’s true what they say, he’s just like his father.”
George didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. Everyone knew.
It was the freshest bit of gossip the whole school had the minute Oscar Piastri enrolled. Everyone spoke about the son of a Death Eater attending Hogwarts.
It was the kind of gossip that lingered like a bad smell. Always in the air, always traveling through the halls. Always present.
The kid was a bit of a loner, and everyone said it was better that way, suspecting that he could be dangerous. It didn’t help that he was sorted into Slytherin.
Piastri’s father had been on the wrong side during the war. A suspected Death Eater and sent to Azkaban for conspiring with the Dark Lord and his followers. Little is known about his mother, and it seemed they didn’t have sufficient evidence that she was also consorting with those on the wrong side to send her to Azkaban as well.
Maybe they took pity on the young boy that would be left alone if both his parents got sent away.
But proof or not, that didn’t change people’s perception that the entire Piastri family had their hand in dirty dealings. That they were full of Dark Lord sympathizers, cowards, and traitors. For all anyone knows, his parents could have brainwashed their son to their same ideals.
Piastri is off-putting, yes. Eerily stoic at times and a growing nuisance to Lando when he bests him at duels in front of everyone. But does Lando think this kid is some evil and dangerous wizard? Frankly, he couldn’t care less about what this kid is.
He just needs to beat him next time they’re opponents.
Getting thrown on his ass by the First Year Slytherin wasn’t going to be enough to rattle him. He wouldn’t let it. Although, he still heard so many of his peers continue to snicker about his tremendous failure in the Great Hall all the way to the Common Room. Knowing his fellow students, they most certainly will not get over it in a week.
But he had to cast all of that away into unimportance as the only thing on his mind now was preparing for the Lion’s Gauntlet.
Just thinking about it sent his pulse racing.
This wasn’t just some tournament. It was the tournament.
Every three years, Gryffindor House holds this exciting event for one day where students must overcome several challenges and obstacles in an all out battle against one another. But not just any Gryffindor could compete. It was invitation-only. Reserved for the best duelists, strategists, and witches and wizards the house had to offer. And Lando was a participant this year.
This was a small and tight, yet brutal competition, but Gryffindor House always viewed it as a celebration. The stakes were high but nothing ever felt heavy. The entire House would gather around to cheer on their fellow housemates, watching as they’d get eliminated one by one until the final victor was crowned, all while they sip on beers and rattle noise makers across the field.
There was nothing grandiose about it, nothing too structured. After all, it started off decades ago by a group of friends who wanted to let off steam after mid terms.
But after time, it catapulted itself to have some real prestige within Gryffindor. It was only in the last 15 years that faculty made a presence in the tournament, regulating the challenges and making sure everything was fair.
The other three houses, however, couldn’t give a shit about their little contest. It held no weight to them. This was strictly Gryffindor business. To win this competition, it meant more to a Gryffindor than a dozen perfect scores on exams.
And for Lando, it wasn’t just about the house comradery or the glory. His family had history with this. His older brother had taken the Gauntlet when he was here, the final duel so spectacular people still brought it up in passing. They’d talk about how the field had lit up with spellfire, how he’d been untouchable from the very first round. His dad had won it too, back in his day, and an uncle before that.
There was an unspoken expectation that Lando would follow.
Lando would only ever hear about how the Lion’s Gauntlet would be. His family spoke as it was one of the best days of their life. But now it was finally Lando’s turn to see it for himself.
It was almost cruel that whichever wizards started this tradition, decided to make the rule that it would only take place every 3 years. Lando is in his second year now, and by the time the next Lion’s Gauntlet would take place, he’d have already graduated. This was his only chance.
He’d been training for it all year, working out spells until his wand felt like an extension of his own hand. Winning tomorrow would mean keeping the legacy alive. Proving to everyone that Lando Norris belonged in the line of champions.
“You ready for it?” George asked as they walked side by side down the corridor after dinner.
“I’ve been ready for months, mate,” Lando replied.
“Wrong. I think he’s been ready for it since he came out of the womb,” Alex said. “It’s pretty much do or die in your family for this, isn’t it, Lando?”
“No need to add more pressure, thanks,” Lando answered flatly.
With Alex in Hufflepuff, he needn’t concern himself with all the fuss that his Gryffindor friends are wrapped up in. He can simply be a passive observer on the side with no attachment to legacy or expectations.
“I know it runs in the family, which is why it’s going to hurt me when I ultimately beat you tomorrow, Lando,” George said as he faked a pout. “But I’m sure I’ll manage.”
Lando grinned. “You can try. I’ll be impressed if you even manage to make it past the first round.”
George shot a glare in his direction and Alex couldn’t contain his laughter.
Lando slowed his pace down as they reached a junction in the corridor.
“I remembered I need to grab something,” he told his friends. “I’ll catch you lot up.”
They both simply nodded, already heading towards the staircases on their left.
What Lando needed to grab were his Quidditch boots. He’d planned on wearing them tomorrow for the Gauntlet. The changing rooms were empty, with the scent of broom polish and damp leather being the loudest presence in there. His boots sat where he’d left them earlier, dark red and scuffed up from Quidditch practice.
His older brother’s voice rang in his head, recalling the times he’d tell Lando about his own Lion’s Gauntlet from years back. He mentioned how everyone played dirty in small, clever ways. How the really clever ones never walked in unprepared. A Featherlight Charm used on boots to get that extra fraction of a second off the ground. A tiny cushioning spell woven into a sweatshirt so blasting hexes wouldn’t knock you flat. Even the best duelists in Gryffindor didn’t rely solely on skill. They fought in the time before they ever set foot on the field. If Lando were to have a decent chance of winning against older students who also knew of these tricks, he’d have do the same.
With his boots in hand, he walked out of the changing rooms and into an empty, quiet corridor. Lando drew his wand from his sleeve.
“Aero corpus,” he murmured, tracing a neat arc over each boot.
The magic settled instantly against the leather, lightening the weight in his hands until it all but vanished. His boots now felt like air, like he was holding barely a gust of wind. It was perfect. Just the whisper of an edge that would help him in the challenges tomorrow.
He slung the now featherlight boots over his shoulder, when he caught sight of someone. It was a student walking toward him on the opposite side of the corridor.
Green robes and that particular brunette head of hair.
Piastri.
Lando tried his best not to roll his eyes at the mere sight of him, unable to suppress how annoyed he still felt from their encounter today. Seeing Piastri again was just another reminder of how Lando came up short.
Still, the two of them are in the same Dueling Club, they’re not strangers, so it’d only be polite to acknowledge him as they’re the only two people in this corridor.
Begrudgingly, Lando fakes a smile and barely lifts his hand to wave at the younger guy.
But Lando is met with nothing. Not a smile or wave in return as Piastri now walks completely past him. And it’s not like the Slytherin didn’t see him make the gesture. Lando noticed as his eyes shifted to him, so he saw him, and chose to ignore him.
Lando’s eyebrows shot up to the sky as his greeting went unreciprocated.
“Prick,” he muttered under his breath.
After giving it a second thought, maybe people do have a reason to dislike that guy so much.
Lando could hear the distant chatter of his housemates gathering on the field far ahead. Red and gold banners were seen on the horizon as Lando continued to make his way closer. Most of his fellow Gryffindor competitors for today had already gathered out onto the field after getting ready in the changing rooms.
He trailed behind a cluster of his housemates who were wearing Gryffindor flags around their shoulders. Somewhere below, a horn sounded, and the small crowd answered it with cheers. The celebrations were already beginning at this point.
The event wouldn’t start for another half hour and Lando was taking his time traveling down through the courtyard, making sure to soak in everything he could. Gryffindors who get to experience the Lion’s Gauntlet during their First Year are lucky enough to be able to experience it again during their Fourth Year. But for Lando, this would only happen for one day and one day only.
He was three strides from the archway in the courtyard when a sharp voice cut through the noise.
“Mr. Norris.”
Lando stopped dead in his tracks. He knew that voice. He turned his body around to see Headmistress McGonagall standing in front of him, arms folded.
“Yes, Professor?”
“You’ll be unable to compete today,” she stated.
He blinked at her. “What?”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Due to information that has recently come to light, you are disqualified.”
Lando felt the air leave his lungs in a short, shallow burst. His heart might have actually stopped, he’s not sure.
“P-pardon me?” he manages to say.
She straightened, her tone crisp and absolute. “It was reported to me by a student that you charmed your gear. Upon inspection earlier in the day, we found traces of the Featherlight Charm. Such behavior is unsportsmanlike and against the rules. You will not be allowed to take part in the Gauntlet.”
The words landed harshly but he still couldn’t grasp them.
“Professor, please, I—,” Lando frantically raked a hand through his hair. “I have to compete today, please. I’ll–I’ll wear different boots, okay? You’ll see that nothing has been tampered with, please,” Lando couldn’t believe he was practically begging at this point. “Professor, please, is there anything I can do to be able to participate today? Please—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Norris, there’s nothing you can do now. You know the rules and there are no exceptions. We must uphold Hogwarts’s values,” the Headmistress said. “You’re welcome to join the rest of your house in the celebrations but your name has been taken off the roster.”
These words got buried into him. They lodged their way somewhere behind his ribs and spread cold through his chest. Lando stood there, staring at her, but his mind was already miles away.
All those years. All those stories he’d hear from his family about the highly coveted day. All those afternoons practicing the strangest spells with his brother to “prepare him for anything.” All those moments imagining the cheers when his name would be called. Gone. Not lost in a fair fight but taken from him before he even stepped onto the field.
His family’s faces flickered in his mind. His dad, his mum, his brother who’d stood on that very field years ago, holding the Gauntlet trophy high. The Norris name etched into the plaque. He’d been meant to add to that, to carry it forward. Now, he’d just be the gap in the family legacy. The one who didn’t even get the chance.
All he could feel was the despair at first, heavy and suffocating, but it didn’t sit alone for long. Anger followed, sharp and hot, clawing its way up his throat. He’d charmed his boots, sure, but so had others, and worse. He knew that. Even his own brother had done so. And yet here he was, the one being punished, while the rest got to keep their secrets.
He couldn’t even call them out. He couldn’t even defend himself by saying everyone else is breaking these so-called rules as well. By doing that it would burn the trust that held the house together, and that was something you didn’t break. Not if you were a Gryffindor worth anything.
So the anger had nowhere to go now. Nowhere except straight at the one person who had put him in this position in the first place. He grit his teeth and his hands curled into fists at his sides.
“Who reported me?”
“I cannot reveal that information. I’m sorry.”
But he didn’t need her to. He already knew. There had been no portraits in that corridor, no stray Gryffindors drifting by, no audience for that whispered spell. Except one.
Oscar Piastri.
It could only have been him.
The name alone lit a fuse in his chest. He might have only been deeply annoyed by his existence before, but now? His hatred for the Slytherin now burned so hot he could feel it in his jaw, the way his teeth pressed together until it hurt.
Ever since Piastri arrived at Hogwarts, he kept himself quiet to look just harmless enough that certain people might disbelieve certain rumors about him being dangerous. But Lando sees the boy is clever, and calculating and he’s just as dangerous as the rumors suggest.
Lando might never have cared to feed into all the talk about Piastri and his family, but he never trusted him either. He never liked the way his eyes gave nothing away, like he thought he was always three steps ahead of everyone else.
And now Lando was certain he knew exactly what Oscar was capable of. He’s exactly the kind of person who enjoys making Lando look like a fool in front of everyone just for the sake of it, in more ways than one. The bastard had gone and ripped away the most important day of his life with one trip to McGonagall’s office. No hesitation, no decency, just deliberate sabotage. And for what?
This tournament didn’t mean a thing to Piastri. And it meant everything to Lando.
Why would a First Year Slytherin kid care enough to do this? Maybe the reason is that he’s exactly like how everyone said he is. That he’s as sick and twisted as the stories claim him to be, not caring about who he hurts as long as he hurts someone. But why did that someone have to be Lando?
Lando’s hands were shaking now, his fingernails biting into his palms. He wasn’t sure if it was from the anger or the humiliation. Or rather it was a mix of both with a touch of heartbreak.
He’d never felt this before. Not for a rival on the Quidditch pitch, not for a daft classmate he once quarreled with. This was something else entirely.
All he knew was that Oscar fucking Piastri was the worst kind of person.
But that was a year ago.
A lot of things have changed since then.
Now, Lando stands in the tunnel surrounded by his Gryffindor Quidditch team, listening as the pre-match murmurs of the crowd get louder outside.
The Gryffindor and Slytherin teams stand shoulder to shoulder, the scarlet and gold cloaks brushing against green and silver. Lando keeps his eyes on the heavy wooden doors in front of them, but his body practically can’t keep still. It’s not from the anticipation of the match to come, but from who is standing a few feet to his right.
It’s the very same Slytherin kid who has been a thorn in his side for the past 12 months.
Lando never confronted him about being the one to have reported him to the Headmistress.
He wanted to. So many times.
He wanted to pull the bastard to the side and ask him what the fuck his problem was. He wanted to beat the shit out of his perfectly unassuming face until it revealed how twisted he was on the inside.
But what would have been the point? Piastri would have only smirked or denied it, and Lando refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how distraught it made him. Instead, he let the grudge settle in his chest, slow burning and heavy. A fire that would just never go out. He made sure Piastri felt it too, with every glare across the Great Hall, every cold shoulder in the corridors. If looks could hex, Piastri would’ve been in the Hospital Wing for months by now.
The worst part? The little snake seemed to enjoy it.
It was as if it was his personal mission to keep needling him and to make sure Lando could never forget about his existence. Dueling Club had become a spectator sport for the rest of the members, everyone leaning in when the two of them were paired up to spar. Lando had managed to beat him on a couple of hard fought occasions. But the matches Piastri won always seemed to matter more, as if he knew exactly when to humiliate him in front of the right audience.
Then this year, Piastri had wormed his way into his Potions class, “too advanced” for the Second Year curriculum, they said. Now Lando had to spend every lesson with the smug little know-it-all breathing down his neck, both of them locked in an unspoken battle for being top of the class. One would get praised for perfect timing on a tricky brew, the other would come back the next week with a flawless antidote, and so on, week after week. It was relentless.
Both of them also became Prefects and unfortunately, there Piastri would be again, infecting his line of sight whenever they’d have meetings with Prefects of every house.
And as if the universe was actively mocking him, Piastri had made the Slytherin Quidditch team, as the same position as Lando, a Chaser. Because of course he would.
That meant every match was a running tally of who was faster, who scored more, who could turn the tide for their house. Conversations in the stands weren’t about Gryffindor versus Slytherin anymore, they were about Norris versus Piastri.
And today was another opportunity to prove, once again, who was better.
The sound of the crowd continued to swell from beyond the doors. Feet pounded on the stands and shouting voices merged into a single wall of noise. Lando tightened his grip on his broom handle as the doors were about to open.
Piastri might have taken so much from him already, but for the next hour and a half, Lando is going to try his hardest for this win not to be taken from him.
The doors burst open, and the roar of the stadium crashes over them in a way they’ve grown used to now. The sunlight stings their eyes for a moment after being in the dim tunnel, and Lando kicks off from the ground hard, shooting into the air with the rest of the team.
Then the whistle shrieks.
The Quaffle is released and the game is now set in motion. Lando swoops low, immediately in the thick of it, but the Slytherin players seize control fast. And of course, it’s Piastri leading the charge.
He’s infuriatingly quick, darting through Gryffindor’s defense like he already knows the holes before they open.
First goal by Piastri. Second by Piastri again, clean through the left hoop. By the time the scoreboard reads 40–10 to Slytherin, Lando’s fists are clenched so tightly around his broom handle, his knuckles ache. He tries to push back, making a clean pass to another chaser, gets it back, dives in for a goal, but Slytherin’s Keeper swats it away and for fuck’s sake, there’s Piastri again, already halfway down the pitch.
The gap continues to widen, having it now 100–40. Piastri racks them up like it’s nothing, and the Gryffindor stands get quieter with every Slytherin cheer.
Carlos is one of the best Keepers the school has seen in a long time, but even he was having a hard time keeping up with how many goals their opponents were making on them today.
But then the rhythm starts to shift and Gryffindor finally finds their footing. Lando takes a hard pass from his teammate, spins out of the reach of a Bludger, and slams the Quaffle clean through the right hoop.
The Gryffindor stands gain a bit of hope again.
The momentum builds and Gryffindor’s chasing hard now, the cheers returning in full force. Lando catches the flicker of a frown on Piastri’s face, and it’s almost enough to keep the fire burning throughout his body.
But Slytherin doesn’t seem to let up easily. They tighten their defense and close the gaps. Then Piastri scores another fucking goal.
The seconds bleed away, the snitch is still unseen, and the scoreline stays stubbornly out of reach.
When the final whistle blows, it’s 180–140 to Slytherin. It’s close enough that the loss stings pretty badly, but far enough that there’s no arguing the win.
Lando coasts to the ground with the rest of his team, every chest of theirs heaving. Across the pitch, Piastri’s being clapped on the back by his teammates. He catches Lando’s gaze, but he doesn’t even give him the smug grin Lando would expect. He just keeps his face steady.
Lando doesn’t even know which would annoy him more.
It doesn’t matter that they play as a team, or that his teammates are equally responsible for the performance they did today, because this was between Lando and Oscar. And today Lando lost.
Once again, he has to swallow his pride and concede defeat. But he’ll wait eagerly for the next opportunity that he can break Piastri.
The Gryffindor team pile into the changing rooms, their breaths heavy and gear clattering as everyone peels off gloves and chest guards. Some drop onto the benches and others lean against their cubicles, everyone visibly tired.
Charles is the last one to enter, coming to stand in the middle of the room. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and even like this, even after a loss, he still manages to look so good and give everyone his easygoing smile.
“Alright,” he says, voice clear and loud enough to pull everyone’s attention. “That second half? That was pure Gryffindor magic. We fought hard. We pushed them. We made them work for every goal, and I’m proud of all of you for that.”
A few teammates nod in agreement, but most are still chewing on their disappointment.
“I don’t care that the scoreboard doesn’t have our name on top today,” Charles continues. “What matters is that we didn’t give up. We managed to make up 100 points in that second half and that’s the kind of team I’m proud to lead.”
There’s a round of light applause followed by a few tired smiles. Charles does his job as captain well. He’s good at lifting everyone’s heads when they’d rather stare at their boots. Lando knows it and he respects it.
But that doesn’t change how much frustration is boiling inside him.
He forces himself to clap with the others, even manages a small nod when Charles’s eyes flick to him. But Charles’s words can’t erase the image of Piastri sailing past him, goal after goal. Can’t dull the sting of watching that venomous look from across the pitch.
He knows they’ll say it was a good match. That they should be proud. But pride’s not what Lando feels right now. Not when all he can think about is how close they came and how, once again, it wasn’t enough.
He sees Carlos approaching him from the corner of his eye, dropping down to sit on the bench beside him. A solid tap to Lando’s knee draws his attention.
“You applied for the Cup, right?” Carlos asks.
“Of course I did,” Lando replies.
“I hear they’ll announce the finalists tomorrow,” Carlos says, leaning back with a grin. “Better get some sleep tonight.”
Lando doesn’t answer, merely smirking at his friend in shared excitement for the news that’s to come tomorrow.
It’s that time of year again. The Auror Trials Cup.
Every year, Third and Fourth Year students in the Auror Pathway have the chance to prove themselves in the Cup. Duels, magical theory under pressure and real world simulations are just some of what the Cup holds for them. These trials are designed to break all but the best.
It’ll span over the course of months of grueling challenges that will end with only one student’s name engraved on the trophy.
The trophy is nice. It’s heavy and gold. The notoriety it brings is even nicer. But the real crown jewel of the prize, the reason why everyone fights so hard to win it, is the apprenticeship the student wins with one of the most respected and successful Aurors in the wizarding world.
Being guaranteed a place under the wing of a crazily successful Auror would open every and any door worth opening. It’s essentially a gateway to a long and influential career.
Lando’s good friend, Max, had won it last year in his Third Year. And it changed everything for him. He got the honor of landing Sebastian Vettel as his mentor. He skipped his Fourth Year in its entirety, graduated early and now already has a position in the Ministry because of it.
Just like that, doors opened for him that would take most people years to find.
That’s what Lando wants. That’s what he’s always wanted. That’s what he’s been working towards since his first year.
The Lion’s Gauntlet held its own importance, of course. It’s always been about house pride and legacy, becoming a Gryffindor legend for years to come if you won it. But that was where it ended.
The Auror Trials Cup, on the other hand, was different. It wasn’t about bragging rights. This actually had career opportunities attached to it. This could shape his future and give him exactly the start he’d been working toward since he first picked up a wand.
He’s certain his name will be on the list tomorrow. He’s ready for every trial they throw his way.
And this time, that Piastri prick isn’t going to ruin it for him.
Dinner in the Great Hall the following evening is the same as always; loud chattering voices and the smell of freshly baked bread constantly wafting about. But Lando and his friends in the same Pathway know that important news is to be announced tonight.
Lando is mid-bite into a shepherd’s pie when the scrape of a chair on stone cuts through the noise. Professor McGonagall stands at the front with perfect posture and the candlelight catching the silver in her hair. The entire Hall hushes almost instantly.
“As you all know, it is that time of year that students in the Auror Pathway will participate in the annual Auror Trials Cup,” she begins, unrolling a piece of parchment. “After reviewing each student’s application and assessing their magical prowess, the finalists to participate in this year’s Auror Trials Cup have been chosen.”
A current of anticipation surges all across the Hall and Lando feels his heart rate pick up. His fork pauses mid air as he leans slightly forward, wishing he could pull the names out of her mouth faster. Around him, his friends are all holding their breath just the same.
“The first finalist,” McGonagall announces, “is Charles Leclerc.”
The Gryffindor table explodes into cheers and applause. Lando grins wide, leaning across the table to meet Charles’s eyes. The older boy flashes him a bright smile as Lando joins his housemates in applause. This outcome had never really been in doubt. Lando wouldn’t have expected anything less from their fearless Quidditch captain and a practically walking Gryffindor poster boy.
The cheers settle down as everyone else awaits the next name to be called.
“The next finalist,” McGonagall continues. “is Lando Norris.”
A rush of relief floods Lando’s chest so fast he exhales in a half-laugh, half-sigh. Cheers erupt again, and someone claps him hard on the back. His grin widens and his shoulders practically deflate. He was confident his name would be called, but there is always that shred of doubt. But hearing it aloud makes it real. All those months of training, late nights in the library and hours fine tuning his spellwork were actually all worth it.
“Carlos Sainz,” the headmistress continues to read the names off.
Another surge of celebration from their table, and Lando joins in, whistling loudly as Carlos leans back with a cocky smirk.
“Alexander Albon. George Russell.”
The Hufflepuff table has their turn to break into applause for Alex, followed by another burst from Gryffindor for George. Lando’s heart feels full, smiling from ear to ear as all his close friends make it as finalists. The thought of competing alongside them actually excites him quite a bit.
“And last but not least…” McGonagall pauses, scanning her parchment. “Oscar Piastri.”
Lando’s smile dies so fast it feels like the air’s been punched out of him.
You have to be fucking kidding me.
The applause is more muted this time. It’s polite at best, save for the cluster of Slytherin Quidditch players excitedly slapping Piastri on the back. Lando’s gaze drags across the Hall to land on the younger boy. Piastri’s expression barely changes, wearing only a faint smile aimed at a dark haired Slytherin boy sitting beside him.
Lando looks back to his own housemates, catching the same baffled expressions mirrored in their faces.
What the actual fuck?
How the hell did Piastri even get accepted? He’s a fucking Second Year!
The Auror Trials Cup isn’t open to just anyone. Only the most skilled Third and Fourth Years even dare to apply. And somehow, Piastri had wormed his way in?
His eyes flicker back to the Slytherin table. He finds Piastri already staring back at him, boring those deeply dark eyes into him. It’s enough to make Lando’s skin prickle.
Lando feels like he could bend the cutlery in his hand by how hard he’s gripping it. He forces himself to look away before he does something stupid, but his pulse is still hammering, and the taste of his earlier triumph is already soured.
After dinner is over and students spill toward the doors, Lando barely waits for the crowd to thin before weaving through the sea of people. His eyes are fixed on the tall, unmistakable figure of Professor McGonagall gliding toward the main corridor.
“Professor—” he calls, lengthening his stride until he falls in step beside her.
McGonagall slows down, turning her head to regard him over the rim of her spectacles. He takes a deep breath and tries his best to sound calm, even though his nerves are still tight from the announcement.
“I just have a concern,” he starts. “I suppose I’m just a little confused about the Cup finalists. The apprenticeship is only given to Third or Fourth Years.”
“That’s never been an official rule, Mr. Norris. We have criteria, and Oscar Piastri met and exceeded our expectations,” Her tone is perfectly even and unwavering. “He’s extremely talented, and his OWL and NEWT scores were quite spectacular.”
Lando feels his jaw tighten. He really doesn’t need a lecture on how wonderful Oscar Piastri apparently is.
“Second Years are not barred from the competition,” she continues. “It was never a formal rule that only older students could participate, merely a pattern of the finalists we’ve seen over the years.”
Before he can argue further, she gives him a look that politely ends the conversation. “I look forward to seeing you at the orientation meeting tomorrow, Norris. Have a good night.”
And then she’s gone, ascending the stairs with the same unshakable poise she always has.
So that was it.
Lando stands there, hands curling into fists at his sides. It’s not just that Piastri is in the Cup, it’s just that it’s like clockwork. That little snake always manages to appear anywhere Lando sets his sights. Every. Single. Time.
The following morning, the finalists gather in a small briefing room just off the Great Hall. The six chairs are arranged in a neat semicircle facing the front, where McGonagall stands with her hands folded on the podium.
All chairs are filled, except one.
Lando wouldn’t mind if that chair stayed empty the entire time, but unfortunately the meeting couldn’t commence until the pesky Slytherin arrived.
Professor McGonagall fidgets with the stack of parchment in her hands, glancing toward the door once again for the third time this minute. “We’ll wait until all six finalists are gathered.”
George leans sideways, keeping his voice low enough for only Lando to hear. “Always has to draw attention to himself, doesn’t he?”
Lando huffs a sharp, humorless breath in agreement. “Tell me about it.”
Truthfully, all of his friends and the majority of Gryffindor House already couldn’t stand Piastri, all without Lando’s help. But once he told them that it was Piastri who got Lando disqualified from the Lion’s Gauntlet last year, their distaste for him almost rivaled Lando’s.
Still, none of them could hate him the way Lando does. That’s a personal record Lando isn’t letting go of.
Finally, the door creaks open and Oscar Piastri strolls in like he’s unaware of the concept of urgency.
“Sorry I’m late, Professor,” he says lightly, sliding into the empty chair.
“That’s alright. Thank you for joining us, Oscar,” McGonagall says softly.
Oscar?
So the little snake gets first name treatment from the Headmistress? Why does that not surprise Lando?
Suddenly so many things make sense now. Maybe it was leniency and not actual ‘criteria’ he apparently exceeded. Of course he would become a pet to her. He’d always been the brown nosing git. And now it makes perfect sense that she would take his accusation of Lando last year so seriously.
“First of all, congratulations to you all for making it as finalists for the highest honor we offer young wizards pursuing the Auror Pathway,” the Headmistress starts. “And a special recognition to Oscar Piastri for being the youngest finalist we’ve seen in a long time.”
Lando can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes as McGonagall offers a warm smile to the Slytherin.
“There will be a total of ten Trials, testing a different Auror skill,” McGonagall begins reciting the rules. “Trials may be individual or in pairs. You will not know who your partner is in advance. You will be scored on a cumulative points system. Points are awarded for skill, teamwork and composure. Points may also be deducted for recklessness, dishonesty or rule violations. The use of Dark magic is strictly forbidden.”
Lando forces himself to listen to the rules instead of drifting his eyes over constantly to the Slytherin at the other end of the chairs. But his presence is so loud.
What was Piastri even doing that was more important than showing up to the orientation meeting on time? Lando wouldn’t even want to know what the Slytherin occupies his time with nor what goes up in that twisted mind of his.
“Injury is a possibility,” McGonagall’s voice catches his attention again. “An Auror’s path is dangerous and so are these Trials. The Final Trial will test your character beyond any spell you’ve learned. You are to uphold Hogwarts’s values throughout the entire competition. Sabotage to any competitor is frowned upon. Cooperation among competitors is allowed. But remember, only one of you will win.”
The last line lands heavy in the room.
“You will be notified soon when the first Trial will begin,” the Headmistress says, closing out the debrief.
She steps away from the podium and the six wizards take the cue to rise from their seats as well.
“Before we conclude the meeting, does anyone have any questions?”
Charles slightly raises his hand, stepping forward. “Professor, I had a personal question I’d like to discuss—”
“Of course, Mr. Leclerc,” she says, already gathering her parchment. “We can speak in my office. Does anyone else have any concerns they’d like to express at this moment?” The other five just shake their heads. She turns her attention to Piastri now. “Oh, Oscar,” she says as if she remembered something. “We can still meet in my office later this afternoon, alright?” Her tone is much gentler than Lando had heard her speak as of recently. “Anyways, good luck, finalists. Leclerc, you can follow me.”
She turns to exit the room with Charles in tow, the door shutting behind them. The moment it does, Lando sees George turn to the only Slytherin in the room.
“Hey, Piastri, you’re welcome to come extremely late to the first Trial, as well. That would help us out a fuck ton,” George says, heavy with snark.
Their rival shifts his head towards them, eyebrows furrowed.
“A million apologies for inconveniencing you,” he retorts, stone faced.
George scoffs, licking his lips, clearly not liking the tone of the younger one. “You know, we deserve a little respect to our time, don’t you think?”
“I seriously fail to see the respect you claim you deserve,” Piastri shoots back.
George’s mouth falls agape like he couldn’t believe a Second Year could talk back to him like that.
“Hey, watch it,” Carlos directs at Piastri with a stern voice.
“Fucking git,” Lando hears George mutter under his breath.
“If you’re not going to respect us, then at least be respectful of the Headmistress’s time,” Carlos says.
“She clearly didn’t seem as upset about it as you lot are,” Piastri replies.
Then Lando just couldn’t help himself.
“So, do you have McGonagall in your pocket or something?” Lando interjects. “Is that the only way you even got this slot?”
Piastri tilts his head towards Lando now, a smirk sliding into place. “Are you daring to question our dear Headmistress’s judgement, Norris? Or can you just not comprehend that a Second Year might just be better than you?”
A smirk curls at the corner of Lando’s own mouth. “Tell me, Piastri. Does it ever get tiring carrying that ego around? It looks exhausting.”
“I think you would know all about that,” the younger boy snaps back. “And if anyone has someone in their pocket, wouldn’t it be you with your father working in the Ministry?” he continues, cocking his head to the side. “I’m sure he could just pull some strings and you’d be right alongside Verstappen by next year. Isn’t that right? So what are you even doing here?”
Lando gives him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. He’s had to live his whole adolescence having everyone think he gets special privileges when that couldn’t be farther from the truth. It’s the same old rubbish and he’s certainly not going to take it from that little Slytherin shit.
“I’m here because I fucking earned it,” Lando answers steadily. “But I guess the concept of earning things fairly is something you and your family aren’t familiar with though, right?”
If Piastri wants to throw familial jabs, then so can Lando.
That clearly struck a nerve under his rival’s skin. Lando could see from the way his smirk faltered.
Good.
But then that damn smirk is back on his face in no time.
“Well, then maybe you can help me grasp that concept then?” he says, feigning innocence. “Though, I doubt you’d know how to win this thing if you did play fairly.”
Lando’s eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t even want to know what I could do if I didn’t play fairly.”
Then Piastri’s expression turned frustratingly smug. He was practically smiling.
“Careful, Norris. Wouldn’t want to get disqualified from something again.”
A nerve in Lando snaps in half.
The lack of shame this bastard has to bring that up is astonishing.
Heat floods through Lando’s body, all the way up to his head, filling him with pure impulse as he takes a couple steps towards him. Lando wasn’t even sure what he was intending to do. Hex him? Shove him? Break that smug look off his face?
But Alex’s arm shoots out, pressing against Lando’s chest before he could get any further.
He almost forgot he was surrounded by his three other friends and that it wasn’t just him and the little snake alone in the room throwing sharp words at each other.
And the bastard didn’t even flinch when Lando moved towards him. With Alex keeping Lando still, the Slytherin simply turns on his heel and strides out the room, ending the conversation completely, as if he won this round.
Lando watches as he walks out the door and the fire in him is burning hotter than it ever has.
Now more than ever, he’s certain he’s going to completely destroy Oscar Piastri.