The Duellist II

...

Everything was certainly not perfect. For starters (and if his problems were a meal, it'd be nine-course), Harry had forgotten - in his excitement - the sequence to open the wall. That had been embarrassing. He'd spent days memorising the thing, picturing the deft movements of Hagrid's umbrella. Then, in one night, poof! He'd had to hang around near the entrance like a lurching street urchin. When that didn't work - after much gnashing of teeth - he'd bitten the bullet (or was it bitten the spell?) and asked Tom the barkeep.

The old man had chuckled with kind-hearted mirth, and Harry had reddened to an even deeper shade, but soon enough he saw Diagon Alley once more. The mortification was worth it. It had unfurled before him as he remembered in his dreams, but reality held a magic that dreams couldn't touch. Even the madness of the unconscious could summon no rival to its splendour.

Harry had taken in the sights with eyes like saucepans. Wizards and witches hurried about in throngs, their cloaks of many colours billowing about them. A hobbling gentleman who looked older than some middle-aged countries was making dismissive sounds at the shining cauldrons outside Smithson's Apothecary, which were piled higher than Harry stood tall. "Barely half an inch," he croaked, "these days, those Danes, useless..."

Harry had wandered further in before he could hear the rest of his complaint. He had spent at least an hour exploring. The Alley was larger than it first appeared. In fact, Diagon was, as far as he could tell, at least six connected thoroughfares which spread like branches into ever smaller lanes and byways. Soon he had stopped by Eeylops Owl Emporium, wondering which cage had been Hedwig's.

The thought had twisted his gut. In his excitement, he had totally forgotten! Hedwig was out hunting when he had left. Would she know where to go? She was a clever girl, and he'd been talking to her about leaving for Diagon, but still… It had seemed like she understood…

Then there was his trunk. Unless it had grown legs, that was definitely back at the Dursleys.

Anxiety had overtook him for the rest of the day. Feeling sick, he'd retreated back to his room and buried himself in his very comfy mattress, trying his best not to cry before falling asleep. He had dreamt of a smirking, beady-eyed Uncle Vernon* holding a burning match to a squawking Hedwig perched atop his trunk… Move! Harry had wanted to shout. She would not move, but looked at him with imploring, disappointed eyes.

Harry had woken up sweating.

Fortunately, Hedwig had been waiting for him on his dresser. She was staring at him like he was an idiot. She was certainly not imploring, but definitely disappointed.

"Sorry girl," Harry had croaked, sounding like that old man by the pewter cauldrons. "It must've been a surprise when you arrived back at the Dursleys…"

Hedwig pecked his hand as he reached to stroke her proud feathers.

"Ow," Harry winced, "I deserved that."

A speck of blood fell onto the carpet, spreading out like ink…

That gave him an idea.

Two days later, a very confused shop assistant had handed Harry his trunk, wrapped in a comical maelstrom of old papers (Aunt Petunia certainly wanted no evidence she'd handled something as freakish as a wizard's trunk). It looked like a giant newspaper marshmallow. Harry had thanked the man and scurried back off to Diagon Alley, eager to buy every book in Flourish and Blotts. They must have books about duelling!

That brought about the eight other courses of that proverbial nine-course meal. Flourish and Blotts had many volumes on charms and transfiguration, runes, 'arithmancy' (whatever that was), history, herbology, astronomy, literature, poetry, politics, philosophy, theology and music. It didn't have any real books on duelling.

Nor did Synde's Second Hand Works, or Obscurus Books. Or any other shop Harry cared to peruse. The closest relatives to the duelling treatises' he wanted were broad compendiums describing dark creatures and narrow defensive magic. After skimming through Dark Arts Defence - Basics for Beginners, Harry wanted to cry. He didn't understand it all - being written for readers far older than him - but what he understood was damning. It summed up everything that was wrong with all the 'Defence Against the Dark Arts' books he had hoarded.

They weren't practical.

It was almost as though the authors had written them with the intention of misleading their readers. Occasionally, a useful anecdote slipped through. Many could be found in The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts by Arsenius Jigger, a useful little tome he'd picked up in Obscurus Books. Even so, the author was reluctant to describe how to engage in a duel.

In a week, Harry felt like he'd skimmed through every 'DADA' book in Diagon Alley. He'd spent fruitless hours at his desk, patiently sifting information until his eyes burned in his legs ached. Each session only ever ended in frustration. When he did manage to wrest some nugget of useful information from one of the books, he couldn't even practise it.

Not only did he not have a partner, he couldn't use magic. What he hadn't known at the time, but now rued, was that the moment he touched his new Phoenix feather and Holly wand, he had activated something called 'the Trace.' It was an enchantment of vast complexity and power, and spanned - through something called a 'coniungere' - the whole country. Which incidentally meant the British Isles. Magical Ireland had no border of its own.

This and much more he had learned from his only distraction from the endless monotony of uninspiring DADA books. The Shape of Modern Magic by Daedus Cobbs was an eclectic mess of a tome he'd found in Synde's Second Hand Works. The shopkeeper had recommended it herself. It bridged the gap between magic and politics, and attempted to explain the curiosities of wizarding customs. Harry didn't really understand it at all, but at least Cobbs was engaging - and informative. Already, he felt he knew something more of the legend of the-Boy-Who-Lived, and 'Harry Potter's' place in wizarding society.

Cobbs painted a figure he didn't understand. He didn't know that person. Nor did he care to. Harry just wanted to duel. Reading about the exploits of 'the ancient magicians' as they were often called only exacerbated his desire. And he had one last gamble before he went to Hogwarts.

- HP -

- HP -

It was three more agonising days before he saw him. Harry had almost given up, retreating to the hope that Hogwarts might run a duelling club. Considering the dearth of books on the subject, Harry suspected otherwise. He was cheering himself up with a bowl of vanilla ice cream, enjoying the semi-melted perfection no Muggle shop could match. Bellows' ice cream was heated from the inside with a special blue flame that didn't burn.

Harry looked up from his table absently. Then he did a double-take. The Auror, Alexander Kneen, was on the beat in the courtyard, striding watchfully just yards from the spot where he fought Montague. Harry scoffed the rest of his chocolate flake, coughing as he choked it down. He wiped his hands on his trousers and raced after him.

"Auror Kneen!" he called, "Auror Kneen!"

Kneen whirled around, his red robes fluttering.

Harry paused in his step, spiked by sudden anxiety. Kneen's eyes were narrowed, his thin lips tightened to a frown. The man was intimidating up close, with dark eyes and a harsh widow's peak. Had he made a nuisance of himself, approaching like that?

Deciding on caution, Harry pretended to rub his forehead, secretly peeling away the Hideaway Patch from his forehead. It was designed to obscure teenage acne, but he found it was no less effective on cursed scars.

"Good morning sir," he continued. "I hope I'm not bothering you."

Kneen eased his stance. Only then did Harry see that the auror's hand had been inching close to his wand. Perhaps this was a bad idea…

"Not at all young fellow," Kneen said, ruffling Harry's hair. "How can I-" his eyes widened, "-help you?"

The scar on Harry's head felt like it was burning. He restrained the urge to adjust his fringe, displaying his identity as surely as a name tag. "I, um, did you have a duel here last week?"

"I did young master. Am I looking at a potential Auror?"

Harry reddened. That would be incredible. Getting paid to duel! "I-I hope so," he said, cursing the crack in his voice. "Who was the wizard you were duelling?"

Kneen frowned. "Euan Montague. A bad man. And I'm Alexander, if you didn't know."

"I'm Harry Potter."

There it was, the flicker of something across Kneen's face. Awe? Surprise? Harry didn't know. All he knew is that he had to plough on, to use it, to try. He swallowed hard. In the Muggle world, this would never work… "I, um, was wondering if… if I could speak to Montague."

The words sounded like coarse rocks coming from his mouth. Stupid, clumsy, idiotic. Why would they ever let him, celebrity or not? Harry felt the heat on his forehead stretch down his cheeks all the way to his neck.

And yes, Kneen appeared bemused. He raised a dark eyebrow. "Erm, I don't see why not…" he said slowly, "though I don't understand why you'd want to. His family supported You-Know-Who, you know?"

That was no surprise to Harry. He'd already guessed as much from Mr Bellows warnings. But Euan Montague had been too young to fight in the war. He was no party to Voldemort or his parents' deaths… and he, an outlaw, might be willing to tell him something about duelling.

Harry knew that a Muggle policeman would never let a child visit a jailed prisoner without specific reason. But he had also realised that the wizarding world was a very different place. Witches and Wizards, as far as Harry could tell, lived in a state of… relaxation, for lack of a better word. Muggle health and safety inspectors would have a field day - or a heart attack - if they so much as set foot on the cobbles of Diagon Alley. There was something freeing about it, so far from the stuffy, neat hedgerows of Privet Drive.

"I know sir," Harry said. "But if I want to be an Auror, I need to look criminals in the eye… I thought I could start here, you know, as I saw some of the duel."

"Some of the duel?" Kneen said sharply. His eyes narrowed dangerously.

Harry felt his stomach drop, and thought back to that day, so vivid in his mind… That spell, potestatum veretēre… was Kneen supposed to use that? He recalled Montague's surprise…

"A bit of it," Harry added hastily, "Montague was hitting you with spells at the time. They were collecting on your shield - but then I left. It… it seemed too dangerous."

The Auror visibly relaxed, and so did Harry. That spell was definitely suspect then.

"A sensible decision Mr. Potter. Always remember: flee if you can. Fight if you cannot." Kneen touched the silver badge on his robes and smiled. "Well, until you earn that Auror recommendation."

Harry smiled back, hoping it didn't look fake. He felt sick. He didn't want to broach the subject again, but… "So… could I…?"

Kneen nodded. "Hmm, I don't see why not. Prisoners can have visitors. Usually it's people they know, but there's no rule against it." He chuckled. "Maybe you'll convert him to the light."

Harry laughed, but had no idea what the light was.

- HP -

- HP -

Harry followed Kneen for the rest of his patrol, shadowing him for almost an hour. It was an amazing experience. People looked at Kneen with such respect; they parted when he passed. It was as though he were lord of the manor, and they his faithful servants. Harry could almost pretend they were looking at him like that as he hurried to match Kneen's longer stride.

Though, he soon noticed, this respect was not universal. A pair of shabby, belligerent-looking twins scowled at them as they passed Second-Hand Brooms. Harry frowned. "If you don't mind me asking sir, don't you have a partner?"

"I wouldn't need Proudfoot to deal with those two. He's on standby duty." Kneen said, then stopped. He crouched, so that he was on a level with Harry. "The only time an Auror would patrol in pairs is in Knockturn Alley," he said severely. "The entrance to which is right behind me - no, don't even look. I want you to promise me you'll never go there. It's not safe for a child - and certainly not - Harry Potter. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded, feeling a tremor of fear flutter down his spine. The man was deathly serious, his voice edged with warning. What was in Knockturn Alley? Would he even want to know? As promised, he did not dare look past Kneen's head.

"Not- not until I've earned that recommendation."

"Ha!" For the first time, Harry saw the flicker of a smile ghost across Kneen's harsh features. "You've got doxy young master, I'll give you that."

Having no idea what that was, Harry could only smile back.

The rest of the patrol was uneventful. Harry asked questions about the duel, which Kneen answered as best he could. It was a frustrating experience. There were so many concepts that an untrained eleven-year-old did not understand that Kneen had to simplify his explanations to the degree that they became almost worthless. If it weren't for years of keeping his tongue, Harry was sure he would've said something stupid in his exasperation.

But he restrained the urge. Only when Kneen began to explain Montague's behaviour did Harry gain any insight. "It's honour," the Auror had said. Was that respect in his voice? Harry couldn't quite tell. "It's all he has left. The Montagues are broken otherwise."

"Broken?" Harry said. Did he mean 'broke'? He didn't know much about wizarding robes, but Montague's, he thought, were well cut - bespoke even. The man did not give the impression of poverty. "What do you mean?"

Something strange darted across Kneen's face. It was there for a split moment… then it was gone. "Many families found themselves reduced after the last war, young master. The Montague's were proud. Now they are a shadow."

A shadow. That didn't sound good. Something that felt like lead settled in Harry's stomach. Was this a good idea? Would Montague hate him, merely for living?

But it was too late to back out now. Finally, the odd pair reached the lock-up*. It was a squat, circular building of dressed stone with a cone-shaped roof. It looked rather like a chubby-faced wizard wearing a pointy hat. The elaborate arched doorway resembled a mouth open in surprise.

"The Birdcage," Kneen called it. "Come on young master."

He took a surprisingly dainty silver key from his interior pocket and turned the lock. It came open with a solid click and swung - oddly - outwards. The inside was far larger than the outside; the sensation of passing into the expanded building was indescribable to Harry. He blinked, his anxiety temporarily forgotten. "I love magic," he muttered.

Below his feet ran a series of interconnected stone bridges, spreading out like a spider's web. Yet further down, at least a dozen hexagonal cells were sunk into the ground. These hexagons were capped with flat glass roofs, so it was perfectly possible to lean over and see exactly what the occupants were doing. Except, Harry noticed, for a small section of the cell covered by fabric. It could only house a toilet.

"No need to rush," said Kneen. "He's not going anywhere." He led Harry to a spot above a particular hexagon. "Stand there."

He pointed to an x shaped marker indented into the bridge. Harry obeyed, then stumbled. The ground shifted unpleasantly. The bridge was moving! No; he saw Kneen's smirking face recede. He was moving down, while Kneen was remaining still.

Harry peered down. The cell was drawing closer… and the glass. He tensed, waiting for the floating lift to crash down. It never did. Somehow, the glass melted as it was touched, parting like a shining silver sea. The lift touched down silently on the white-tiled floor.

"Harry Potter. Europe's greatest celebrity. What brings you to my humble abode?"

Behind the bars that separated Harry's landing zone from the cell proper, Euan Montague watched him with glimmering eyes.

Harry started, then gulped. The leaden feeling returned. He checked his fringe. It was covering his forehead. "H-how do you know my name?" he said, cursing at once his timidity. How could he become a duellist, if he were afraid of a man behind bars?

"I saw you that day, in Bellow's courtyard. You were peeking from behind a wall." He smiled sardonically, bitterly... "You were less careful with the placement of your hair."

How? Harry thought. He was mid-duel against a dangerous opponent. How did he have time to see me?

Montague seemed to read his thoughts, but said nothing.

Harry opened his mouth… and paused. What could he even say? Would Montague even answer? He felt keenly the inscrutable gaze watching him. He had to say something. He led with the only thing he knew. "Why did you start with Mcarthy's Bone-Breaker? I'm told it's slow and unnecessarily cruel."

"Oh?" Montague's brow rose. "Oh. Have you been peeking into your tutor's textbooks, young master? You should only learn about that in fifth year."

Harry felt himself go blank. Tutor? He could he fake that, he di-

It was too late. Montague's eyes were wide. "You don't know anything, do you!?"

He spoke in an awed whisper. "How? How could Harry Potter not be told anything! Merlin, Dumbledore said you were with Muggles, but we never truly believed…"

A lull tempered the air. Montague settled himself. His demeanour seemed to soften. "I started with the Bone-Breaker because it's slow. It catches people off guard, especially because it resembles many other spells. An opponent might very well use the wrong type of shield or counter parry. Cruelty has nothing to do with it; fight to win, or don't fight at all."

Harry frowned. He understood the reasoning behind using the spell; it was like the slow bowl in cricket, which his Uncle Vernon had often stressed was employed to catch the batsman out (Uncle Vernon had hated that. He wasn't a very subtle man). But winning? Montague had practically returned Kneen's wand to him! "What about…" He itched to say honour, but what if that offended him?

"What about honour?" Montague finished easily. "What about it? A man must have his boundaries, or he's not a man."

"But you've ended up here because of it." Harry couldn't help but blurt out. His anxiety had vanished; only curiosity remained. While Montague's valour was deeply appealing, it was also - for lack of a better term - mad. Confounding.

"When I fenced those compasses I knew the risks. Authorities punish their enemies and reward their friends… but I don't think you're old enough for that yet, young master. Why are you here?"

Harry squared himself. "I want to be a duellist."

Montague smiled. "And you've scoured Diagon Alley, and found a pack of pathetic 'Defence Against the Dark Arts' books? I understand. Ask away."

And so Harry did, for nearly half an hour. Together, they dissected Montague's duel with Kneen moment-by-moment. Harry did not understand it all, or even most of it, but Montague patiently explained his reasoning behind each move as best he could. It was brilliant. Harry was disappointed when it was over. Where had the minutes gone? "Time's almost up," Montague warned.

He was leaning about the wall of his cell, quietly pleased about something. Did he think he'd begun to win Harry over to his side? There was no way of knowing, and Harry didn't really care. He had learned a lot from the man. Now there was much to think about.

A simple timer was ticking away between them, which had filled with sand the moment the lift had broken the glass (or so Montague had said). The top was almost empty. Harry sighed. "I understand. It was nice to talk to you."

Reluctantly, he stood back over the x.

"Tell Kneen it was a good duel," Montague said, closing his eyes. "Oh, before I forget, if you're interested in duelling, you should find yourself a Lightspeed. They're little capsule-like devices, usually golden. Bounce one against a wall; see what it does."

"But even if I got one, I wouldn't be able to use it until Hogwarts, right?"

Montague chuckled. "I forgot. Muggle-raised. The Trace doesn't work in magical areas."

Harry blinked. He was too surprised to be angry. That would come later.

The lift shuddered for a moment, then began its labour. Harry steadied himself. It was a rather sickly sensation, moving without obvious reason. "Where can I find one?"

"They were banned a few years ago," Montague called, smirking, "so you'll have to venture off the beaten path. Try Rosier's Trifles, in Knockturn Alley."

And Harry's stomach turned to lead once more, as Montague told him to go exactly where Kneen told him not to…

A/N:

*You might say, *Uncle Burn Them*.

*Village lock-ups were common in the 18th and early 19th centuries. They were generally employed to detain thieves, drunkards and cattle rustlers. Usually circular and small, they were obviously less elaborate than the Birdcage.

Here's chapter II of The Duellist. I hope you enjoyed it. Be sure to Like and Subscribe!

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Take care of yourselves.

Jousting Alchemy