Chapter 18: Duel

Boy-Who-Lived in duel to death!

A Daily Prophet exclusive, by Rita Skeeter

At eleven o'clock this morning, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, will stand opposite Jedgar Darrow, sole surviving heir to the Darrow family, in a duel of honour. Potter, as readers will be well aware, stands accused of murdering Edmund Darrow, Jedgar's younger brother. A proper investigation into this matter has repeatedly been blocked by Ministry officials, who give the ludicrous response that Potter was 'acting in self-defence'. Quite how this justifies the cover up of a murder by a fourteen year old, the Ministry has not deigned to explain.

Potter has declined all requests to explain his actions in person, leaving this reporter to conclude that he is justifiably ashamed of his actions. I do not seek to blame him for what has happened, or suggest that he intended to murder Darrow; he is, after all, only fourteen. However, he is being dangerously ill-served by his guardians, if they do not make him face up to the consequences.

Today's duel goes someway towards rectifying that fault. My sources suggest that Potter was advised to ignore the challenge from the Darrows, and stay safely hidden away at Hogwarts, but that he chose to face his accuser. If this is so, then it is the first sign that Potter is actually capable of acting honourably. Readers will doubtless recall the suggestions of dark magic mentioned in previous reports. Perhaps we should take this as a welcome sign that he is maturing into a responsible young man.

Cont. p.2

The article was accompanied by a truly dreadful photo of him. If Harry had to guess, he would say that it had probably been taken after the second task, given the look of distress on his face. He was fairly sure that he didn't look like that very often. He hoped he didn't look like that very often. Hermione had passed him the paper nervously at breakfast, sure that he would lose his temper over it. Bizarrely, it had had quite the opposite effect on him. Well, that wasn't strictly true; Skeeter's determination to slander him in public still pissed him off no end, particularly given that she couldn't seem to sustain a consistent thread of slurs against him. But instead of losing his temper, he stored it up, determining to use it as further impetus to beat Darrow senseless. Seeing the smug grin wiped off the foul woman's face was just going to be extra satisfying.

Reading over his shoulder, Neville looked troubled, and Harry had to conceal his irritation. His friends had been horrified that he was actually going to take part in this duel. Hermione had ranted for several minutes, calling the practice 'barbaric', while Ron and Ginny were simply scared he was going to get killed. Neville had taken it surprisingly calmly, shrugging and wishing Harry good luck. Harry wasn't entirely sure how much of this was because of his resolution not to second guess Harry's actions, but he appreciated it. Draco had actually encouraged his decision, with the sole caveat that if Harry were to lose to 'that jumped up new blood', Draco would never speak to him again.

Harry was confident that he and Draco would be speaking for years to come, though. He had taken every spare moment to train that he could, with both Peter and Moody, and was sure that he would win. He was now pretty evenly matched against Peter, winning about half of their duels, and he could put up a decent showing against Moody, even if he didn't always win. He figured Darrow wasn't going to have half the talent and experience of Peter, and the chances of him being anywhere near as good as Moody were slim, bordering on impossible. He hadn't expressed that to anyone though. He wasn't in the mood for another lecture about 'Constant Vigilance!'

And so, later that morning, he found himself walking through the main hall of the Ministry of Magic. He had never actually been there before, and he had to admit, it was a beautiful place. The walls were lined with shimmering green marble, intricate patterns weaved in gold throughout the stone. In the middle, there was an enormous fountain, with golden statues representing all the magical communities. Closer examination revealed them to be a wildly inaccurate depiction of most of them; house elves might be servile, but Harry refused to believe that centaurs had ever been respectful where wizards were concerned, let alone docile pets. Nevertheless, he had to admire the craftsmanship of it all. He was less impressed with the massive posters of Cornelius Fudge, but that was more to do with his natural cynicism than anything else.

The worst aspect of it all was the crowd of journalists and photographers, their bulbs flashing and blinding him. The moment they laid eyes on him, the journalists surged towards him, baying his name, thrusting note pads in his face, screaming for his comments. He kept a steadfast silence, plodding through the crowd determinedly ignoring them. Peter and Remus stood either side of him, keeping him protected as best they could.

They quickly took cover in one of the lifts, travelling down to the hall where the duel was to take place. Remus looked down at him, concern written all over his features. "Are you sure you're going to be alright?"

"That rather depends on how rough he is, doesn't it?" Harry pointed out. Remus frowned disapprovingly, and Harry relented. "I'll be fine. It's just some spoiled little rich kid with an axe to grind, I can handle him."

"Don't get cocky," Peter warned. "We don't know anything about him yet, he could be brilliant."

"I know, I know. Don't worry, you've seen me in action. Besides, he doesn't have a sentient piece of dark magic in his head, I bet you."

"I'm sure that's true…" Remus scowled at the mention of Titus, but didn't make comment. "I realise this may be a strange idea Harry, but we do take an interest you know. We do care about what happens to you, and we'd rather not see you killed because of you're too proud to let this go."

Harry looked up at his guardian indignantly. "You know what would happen if I didn't duel him! I'd basically be found guilty of murder, I'm not going to let him walk over me like that! Besides, you told me my dad would have done exactly the same thing."

"Yes, but that's not necessarily a recommendation, as you're well aware."

Harry shrugged. He had made his decision, and he was comfortable with it.

He was even more comfortable with it when he saw Darrow, as they all entered the duelling hall. He was hardly an imposing physical specimen. He did look intense though, as if nothing was going to prevent him killing Harry. He looked forward to proving him wrong.

The duelling hall itself was curious. There was a typical duelling platform in the middle, but the room was rather more ostentatious than he had imagined it would be. Not exactly the marble elegance of the entrance hall, but pure white stone, with murals depicting famous battles from wizarding history on the walls. It was rather ominous, and for the first time that day, he felt a tremor of nerves. By the platform, there was a stand, where two men in blue robes were waiting patiently. The official recorders; they would monitor the duel for the Ministry, and be in charge of releasing details to the press afterwards.

Darrow was standing with a dapper young man, who kept brushing his flop of brown hair out of his eyes excitedly. He looked over at them as they walked in, and bounded over to them with a yelp of delight. Something about him reminded Harry of Sirius. He grabbed Harry's hand enthusiastically, grinning at him.

"Good morning Mr Potter, good morning! Fine day for it, isn't it? I'm Barty Crouch, the independent adjudicator, pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Harry blinked in surprise. He had pegged the man for Muggle born, Halfblood at most. It was rare to find a Pureblood in a suit, unless they were going 'undercover', so to speak. The tabloids regularly published articles about his dissolute lifestyle, but Harry knew better than most that the papers weren't always reliable. Perhaps Crouch was a decent guy after all.

"Hi," he responded, shaking Crouch's hand. "Nice suit."

"Thanks!" Crouch smoothed a small crease out of it proudly. "Say what you like about the Muggles, they can cut a decent set of clothes."

Well. Maybe not.

Peter's hand on the small of his back reminded him of protocol, and he made the undesirable trek over to officially greet Jedgar Darrow. The young man sneered down at him, and Harry idly wondered what it was about Purebloods that naturally disposed them towards the expression.

"Potter."

"Darrow."

They briefly touched hands in a pretence of politeness, and Darrow bared his teeth. "I'm going to kick your arse all over this room, boy."

Harry grinned mirthlessly, and matched Darrow's whisper. "I'd like to see you try, you arrogant piece of shit."

Darrow squeezed Harry's hand tightly, and then walked away. Harry watched him go, rubbing his hand vaguely. Darrow had quite a grip on him, and was stronger than he looked. He mentally raised the man's threat level up a notch. At the platform, Crouch clapped his hands, gathering their attention.

"Alright gentlemen, we all know why we're here! Let's get this underway, shall we? Simple matter, should be out in time for lunch, don't you think? I want a nice, clean duel gentlemen, be careful with each other. Usual rules apply: no Unforgivables or spells that could bring the spectators into danger. Understand?"

Harry and Darrow nodded, their gazes level. Crouch spread his arms.

"Then let's begin! En guarde…"

Harry and Darrow bowed slightly, and shifted side on, legs spread and their wand arms outstretched, ready to cast.

"Ready…"

Harry adjusted his grip on his wand minutely, making it more comfortable in his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Remus giving him a thumbs up.

"Duel!"

Harry snapped off a stinging hex, testing Darrow's guard and reflexes. His opponent was slow, but he whipped up a decent shield charm, sending the hex ricocheting back at Harry. He ducked lazily, muttering the incantation for a banishing jinx. Darrow cast a perfect Haurio shield, absorbing the spell's magic. He grinned contemptuously at Harry.

"Best you got Potter? This is going to be embarrassing!"

Before Harry could reply, Darrow threw an overpowered reducto at him. Harry dived away, and fired a spell back. Once again, Darrow absorbed it, using it for a spell Harry didn't recognise. His timing slightly off, it nicked his cheek, leaving a few spatters of blood on his face. At the side of the platform, Harry heard Remus gasp, but he blocked it out, focusing solely on Darrow.

Darrow began to prowl towards him, his confidence showing. He clearly felt Harry was a soft touch. But Harry had merely been testing the waters, so to speak. He felt he had a decent measure of Darrow now. He flicked a spell at him as fast as he could, and as expected, Darrow blocked it immediately. But it had only been a distraction, and Harry took advantage of it to close the gap between them, while letting rip with the largest fireball he could muster. Darrow whirled away, slashing his wand down to cut the flames away from him, but some of them made contact, licking at the sleeves of his robes. He spun around, his robes whirling and trailing fire and smoke, but quickly sent a curse back at Harry. He extinguished the flames while Harry dodged, and then they both aimed spells at each other. The bolts of light clashed in mid air, showering sparks everywhere and illuminating the platform eerily.

They paused, eyeing each other carefully, edging backwards and forwards, keeping up the pressure on each other. Darrow wasn't looking quite so cocky now.

"That looked like it might have hurt. Want to give up Jedgar?"

Darrow growled at Harry's jibe, and twitched his wand through a complex series of movements. Harry threw up a shield, realising too late that it wasn't a single, powerful spell, but several rapidly cast. He blocked the first two; the third and fourth stabbed into his left arm and his hip. He cried out in pain, staggering backwards, and Darrow pressed his advantage. He flicked his wand, and Harry felt himself snatched into a vice like grip, and he hunched in on himself, as if he was being squeezed like a sponge. He gritted his teeth against the pain, forcing it down as best he could. The pain was incredible, but he managed to loose a spell in Darrow's direction. Fortunately for Darrow, the spell missed, instead slamming into the platform. The platform exploded, peppering Darrow with splinters of wood, although the hole immediately repaired itself. It was hardly a fatal blow, but he was distracted for long enough for Harry to break out of the spell he was under.

He jabbed his wand frantically in Darrow's direction, with a cry of "Perforatus!" Razor sharp shards of metal zipped at Darrow, tearing into him. Astonishingly, Darrow barely flinched, sweeping his wand round in an elaborate movement; as it moved, a stream of fire burst out like a whip. Harry ducked backwards to avoid it, and Darrow whipped it back over his head, cracking it back at Harry as swift as possible. It burnt a black scorch mark into the platform where it hit, and Harry aimed his wand carefully as Darrow coiled it back – when it next lashed out at him, he dived, while simultaneously casting a freezing charm. The flame whip turned to a solid spike of ice, which shattered instantly as it slammed into the ground.

As Darrow aimed another spell at him, Harry whipped his wand around him, and the scattered fragments of ice soared into the air, ripping towards Darrow. They smashed into him, scratching at his skin and cascading off his body, and Harry slashed his wand across, casting a beautiful slashing curse with a cry of "Caedis". This time, Darrow did stop, crying out as the spell ripped his chest open. The power of the spell knocked him off his feet, and as he fell, he slammed the tip of his wand into the platform. Harry charged towards him, but was flipped into the air as what felt like an earthquake tore through the platform, and he landed on his back.

Darrow twirled his wand again, still gritting his teeth against the pain, and a volley of silver arrows arced from the tip of his wand. One hit Harry's arm, pinning him to the platform, and drawing a yell of pain from him. Darrow grinned at him viciously, revelling in the damage he was dealing.

Harry was beginning to worry. This wasn't as easy as he had thought. He had barely hurt Darrow, or so it seemed, while he had several cuts and bruises, and now an arrow through his arm. It was time to finish this. From his prone position, he aimed his wand, and barked out an incantation.

"Cremo!"

It was a risky manoeuvre, given the unpredictability of the spell, but it paid off: a nearly solid wall of flame rushed across the platform. On the sidelines, Crouch leapt away, swearing to himself, and Peter applauded. Darrow had to jump backwards to avoid being completely incinerated. Harry tapped the arrow with his wand, Vanishing it from his arm. It hurt like blazes, but it had to be done; he could be patched up later. Following Darrow's lead, he also smacked the platform with his wand. A plank broke off into several fragments, and another couple of spells had them Transfigured into long spikes. Harry levitated them, and sent them shooting through the flames. He was rewarded with a cry from the other side, and he extinguished the flames, leaping over the embers.

Darrow was kneeling on the floor, clutching his shoulder, which had two feet of metal sticking out of it. Harry grinned, but Darrow was still in control enough to zap him in mid-air with a spell that held him in place, suspended from thin air. Darrow staggered to his feet, looking unsteady, and aimed his wand at Harry.

"Told you I'd kick your arse, didn't I?" He was breathing heavily, and clearly in pain, but there was a vicious light in his eyes, and a manic grin on his face. "Any last words?"

"Go fuck yourself. Solaris Diem!"

Darrow threw his arm in front of his face as the blinding light blasted from the tip of Harry's wand, breaking the spell on him and sending him crashing to the floor. As Darrow roared in anger, still blinking away the spots from his eyes, Harry stabbed his wand into his opponent's wand arm. Darrow's robes rippled, then tore apart as the flesh beneath his arm twisted and changed, turning to stone before their eyes. Darrow screamed, but was unable to hold his wand in his suddenly rigid fingers, and it fell to the floor. Harry kicked it away, before firing a banishing hex straight into Darrow's chest. The young man cannoned backwards, and hit the end of the platform with a sickening thud, and a loud crack. He did not move.

Silence rang throughout the hall. Unquestionably, that meant Harry had won.

Harry limped over to Darrow, feeling as if every part of his body was in pain. Darrow had recovered a touch, and was blinking, moaning slightly, and struggling to move his altered arm. It was too heavy for him to even lift, and the thought of Transfiguring it back didn't even saunter across Harry's mind. Darrow looked up at him, his eyes narrowed, and he tensed, as if waiting for something. Harry squatted next to him, looking him straight in the eye.

"Guess what? I won. Told you I would, didn't I? Guess you'll know better next time, huh?"

Darrow spat blood out onto the platform and looked away, unable to meet Harry's eyes. Harry stood up, still watching Darrow.

"Mr Potter! You know the rules, Mr Darrow's fate is now in your hands. What will you do?" Crouch did not look so enthusiastic now. He was watching them both with a cold, calculating air about him. Harry looked over at Remus and Peter, their faces carefully blank, and then looked back down at Darrow.

"I've heard that mercy is the mark of a great man." He placed his wand back inside his pocket with a sigh of relief. Darrow looked up at him, his mouth dropping open slightly in shock. "Besides, I'm not a killer. Am I, Jedgar?"

"No. Apparently not." Darrow's words were solemn and heavy. For some reason, he seemed… embarrassed, that Harry had spared him. Harry ignored this though. He didn't care about it now. His part was done.

"I'm sorry for your brother's death. Sorry that it was necessary for me to defend myself and my cousin with such force. Let this go, please. I don't want this to happen again, understand?"

He noted the Ministry officials nodding approval, and gave himself a mental pat on the back. That would be released to the press within the hour. He would love to know what they made of it. He knelt down again, placing his mouth by Darrow's ear.

"Tell your master that if he wants me, he's going to have to do better than this."

Not bothering to wait for a reply, he stood up, and limped back over to Remus and Peter. Remus grinned at him, and wrapped his arm round Harry's shoulder. "I'm proud of you pup."

Harry smiled faintly. "Awesome. Let's get out of here."

Jedgar Darrow stood in front of his mirror, carefully lacing up his finest tunic. It was an intricate process at the best of times, and it was made worse on this occasion by the fact that his hand was not fully healed. Altering your collar with fingers that were partly stone was a tricky business. Lesser men would have given up, and summoned a house-elf to assist. Not Jedgar. That would be beneath him. And at the moment, he needed to conserve every scrap of self-image he could.

Honour, that was the thing. It was the driving force behind any Pureblood family, whatever they might say publically. How you presented yourself, how you acted – it was what really made them different from the Muggles. It wasn't that Purebloods were necessarily any better at magic than Muggleborns – although generally of course, they were – it was the culture. From what he had seen, Muggleborns had no sense of their place in society. The Darrows had earned their place through generations of hard work and sacrifice. They had always, always, stuck to their principles.

The Dark Lord had engineered this whole plot to subtly undermine both the Ministry and Harry Potter, but in all honesty, Jedgar didn't care about that. He had cared about little since his brother had been killed. What a fool Edmund had been. Jedgar hadn't been particularly bothered that he was dead, it was merely the manner of it. To have been killed in a public brawl with a fourteen year old… It had to be avenged. It could only be avenged with death, and Jedgar had intended that death to be Potter's. He always had, no matter what he said to his Master.

He knew that was why Crouch had been officiating at the duel – he had been there to keep an eye on everything, make sure that Jedgar toed the party line. He scowled at his reflection in the mirror as he fumbled with his cravat, remembering how it had felt to be watched like an incompetent child. Of course, there had been good reason for Crouch's attendance, given his own intentions, but that wasn't the point.

Then, of course, Potter had beaten him, quite soundly. Jedgar had considered that possibility, of course, but only briefly. He had been sure he would win. And in the unlikely event that he lost, he was sure of what Potter would do. The boy had a Pureblood background, didn't he? Of course, no one really knew where he had grown up, but the Potters were an old family, whatever their current fortunes. He would, at least, understand the proper procedure.

And then Potter had spared his life.

How could he? Didn't he realise what he had done? He had not just beaten him, he had shamed him. Shown that he didn't consider Darrow a threat, that he was beneath him. That he wasn't worth the effort and attention necessary to do what should have been done. Jedgar could never represent his family with honour again, not after being dismissed by a fourteen year old. Even had the old traditions not called for it, he would have felt compelled to carry out this one final act. He had gambled his reputation on the duel, and he had lost.

Darrow pulled on his over robes, brushing them down with pride. He gave himself a final examination: perfect. As it should be. He turned his back on the mirror, and marched from his room, his head held high. There was honour in this, he told himself. I have failed, catastrophically, but I now redeem that failure. This is good. His parents were waiting for him in the hall, and they greeted him stiffly. He took no offense. They were disappointed in him, and rightly so. At least he would die knowing that he had restored their faith in him.

Because Jedgar Darrow was going to die.

He had accepted that fate the moment he realised that Potter had beaten him. It was appalling that Potter hadn't had the decency to do the deed himself, but that could not be helped at this stage. But he would not – could not – live his life beholden to someone else. To go on now would be living in Potter's debt. No Darrow had ever been beholden, and he was not going to start now. Quite apart from his own personal feelings on the matter, such a debt would compromise his service to the Dark Lord, which was equally unacceptable.

"Mother. Father." He bowed his head. "I have failed you, and I am sorry. I can only hope that my death will absolve me of that stain."

"It will, my son. Go onward in peace and honour," his father intoned, completing the ritual phrasing. Protocol had to be followed in these matters, after all. Jedgar felt a little thrill at the successful conclusion. He turned, and marched into the study. There was a potions vial on the desk, and he took it in his hand. It was a simple poison, and would kill him quickly. He turned round, facing his parents, who were watching the proceedings calmly. He saluted them, and they bowed.

"We will tell your friends that you died with honour Jedgar, don't worry." His mother's final farewell, a typically affectionate gesture. He smiled at her consideration.

"Thank you mother, I appreciate that. Farewell." With that, he tipped the potion down his throat. It tasted surprisingly pleasant. Placing the vial back on the desk, he took a seat, closing his eyes while he waited for the effects to kick in. After a moment, he felt his chest constrict tightly, and he nodded.

Honour was satisfied, at last.

A/N: Sorry it's late, I forgot to update… Next one at the weekend, I promise.