The Duellist Chapter 1: The Duellist I, a harry potter fanfic

The Duellist

...

Montague flicked his wand like a badminton racket - shortly, sharply, and strongly - and said some strange words. Debris rose from the flagstones (by itself!) and spun in a peculiar circular array, blocking the onrushing lights, shattering the detritus into ever smaller shards. Crack, crack, crack! The impacts boomed and echoed off the closed lime-and-plastered walls of the courtyard.

From his vantage point, Harry Potter watched, unblinking, through sellotaped spectacles. Bright green eyes had followed every move, every moment, every miraculous twist of elegance and creativity. After the fact, he wouldn't be sure that he'd breathed through these moments.

Harry felt a shift in the air. Slowly, then at once, the spell-fire stopped. His gaze followed the point of Montague's wand to the red-robed Auror, Alexander Kneen. The man appeared winded from his casting, his broad chest heaving.

Quick as a snake, a burst of wind propelled the sharp shards of wood at him. Sidestepping, Kneen blocked the following spells with a translucent shield upon which lights first pinged, then fizzed. By Kneen's expression, Harry thought the fizzing was not a very good sign. Yellow, red and blue spheres of many colours and kinds hit the shield and stopped, fizzing away like pulsing, ethereal timebombs.

Harry gulped, glad to be across the yard and behind a wall. Who knew what would happen if those lights went off?

Kneen was soon flagging; the lights seemed to grow heavier on his shield, drawing him down into a crouch. Even at a distance, Harry saw his arm shaking under the weight. Why was that exactly? Did the lights have real weight? They flew through the air so easily… light didn't have weight, did it? Yet as sure as the sky was blue, Kneen was indeed struggling against the burden imposed upon his shield.

Worse, what did it mean for Harry if Montague won? By all accounts the man was bad. Harry wasn't sure why, but Mr Bellows the ice cream man had said as much - and he seemed very trustworthy, with his massive mutton chops and smiling eyes. And anyway, Montague was running away from the wizard police. That had to count for something, right? Harry didn't want to root for a bad man.

Even so, Harry saw something appealing in Montague, criminal or not. His smile was easy and genuine, and he'd even bowed to the Auror before the duel began! Better even still, he'd given his opponent a moment to recover when he lost his wand! Who did that? It was like watching something out of a story book!

Harry's more cynical side, the side that grew up in the shadow of the Dursleys, told him that Montague probably wasn't that bad for that reason alone; but that not being bad was not a guarantee that he was good either. After all, if Montague had to go up to a judge (wearing, in Harry's mind, a big funny hat) and plead his case, he could at least say he'd fought honourably. If he'd done something really terrible, then that wouldn't matter if he'd allowed Kneen his wand… but if he were only a troublemaker…

Yet before his mind could be made up, it was boggled.

"Hmm," Kneen grunted. His shield was waning; the sheen separating him and the fizzing lights was thinning. Then something odd happened. Kneen forced himself back onto his feet and pushed. "Potestātum vertere!"

Two dozen fizzing spells flew at Montague. He gawped, then cried something Harry could not hear. An explosion rocked the courtyard, throwing up flooring and God knows what else. Harry ducked, pressing himself against the hard plastered wall, covering his face as best he could. Was that it? The explosion had surrounded Montague. Who could survive that?

He peaked above his hiding spot. Smoke coiled where Montague once stood. Kneen's robes were grey with dust. For a long, long moment, nothing moved. The world seemed to hold its breath… then exhale. Kneen exhaled with it.

"Merlin," he muttered, the curse strange to Harry's ears. His voice carried, as did the shuffle of his boots. His stance had slackened. "I hope he's still alive."

A red beam flashed like a ray of light from the smoke.

"I hope I am too," Montague said, stepping from his smoking shell. His robes were torn, his auburn hair dirtied, but a smile cut across his face. "Or heaven's a dull place if you're in it."

The Auror groaned, readying himself once more-

- HP -

"Up!" Aunt Petunia screeched. "Up, get up!"

Harry also groaned, wishing he was back in his dream. Not a dream, he reminded himself while fumbling for his glasses, a memory. That had happened. Two men, Montague and Alexander Kneen had really fought outside Mr Bellow's ice cream parlour that day in Diagon Alley, and Harry had really been there to witness it.

Now he was back in 4 Privet Drive, wishing he were somewhere else. Something small and wiry slipped through his grasp; Harry heard it tap against the floor. Damn, he thought. Dudley's second bedroom really was playing tricks on him. It was far larger than his cupboard. Sometimes, he almost missed it.

"Sometimes," he muttered to himself, careful to swing out of bed on the opposite side to his fallen glasses. The last time he'd broken them, Vernon had locked him in that cupboard for a week. It was his favourite punishment if he thought Harry had done something wrong, or hadn't done what he should. Which included, but was not limited to: cooking breakfast, sometimes tea, always washing up, often gardening, and even letting Dudley hit him.

Harry sighed. Duelling wizards were a long way away from Privet Drive, Little Whinging.

He day-dreamed of them anyway throughout the day. Breakfast almost burnt as he recalled the deft flick of Kneen's wand when he battered away a particularly vibrant curse. Dudley almost caught him in the park as he imagined Montague's fearless grin. What would it be like to be like that?

"He's a bad man Harry," Mr Bellow reminded him inside his head. "His family ran with the wrong sort in the dark times. Bad eggs, the lot of them." Then his face had brightened, and he'd heaped another scoop of ice cream onto Harry's bowl. "Not that I serve eggs mind, so maybe I don't know much about them."

Mr Bellows had said that after the fight was over, after Montague had been captured.

Back in his new bedroom, Harry frowned. Yes, he had been captured. Kneen had stalled Montague long enough for a group of 'Hit Wizards' (whatever they were) to arrive. The end had been swift thereafter, though Montague had fought untill he could fight no more.

That, Harry felt, almost wasn't important. Even at eleven, Harry knew no one could run from the police forever. It was what you were hunted for that mattered - what was inside. And despite Mr Bellow's avowals, Harry wasn't quite so sure about Montague… his instinct told him to be sympathetic. Harry didn't think that made him bad too, even if Montague was a bad man. After all, people did sometimes root for the bad guys on television, right? Was rooting for a troublemaker - an underdog - so different?

Not that Harry had seen much television. The Dursleys hadn't allowed it, for more reasons than one. Aside from wishing to deny their nephew the meanest joys, television sets also had a strange capacity to blow up if he stood near them too long. Which, he now realised, must've been his magic reacting to the electricity.

That only underlined the point to which his mind was inexorably moving. He did not belong. He belonged in Diagon Alley. He belonged with wizards and witches, with their funny hats and strange clothes and queer sayings. He belonged away from Little Whinging.

And most of all: he wanted to be a duellist.

- HP -

Sitting in bed that night, he promised himself that, when he awoke the next day, he'd get up early, eat breakfast, and take the first bus into town, then into London. Finding Diagon Alley again wouldn't be difficult. He recalled the street - Charing Cross Road - and the inn which doubled as the entrance - The Leaky Cauldron. He just had to ask Tom the barman for a room… and he'd be given one. He'd give a room to an eleven-year-old.

Harry sighed, sensing his dream begin to retreat. Would he? Children weren't allowed to roam around in the Muggle world, doing what they pleased. And those that did tended to grow up spoiled and mean like Dudley. Harry made a face. He wouldn't want to grow up like Dudley.

But he did want to grow up to be a duellist. Duellists surely didn't slave away for their Muggle relatives. And 'Harry Potter' was famous, the-Boy-Who-Lived, they said (which didn't mean much to Harry). But to wizards, he was famous. That mattered, didn't it? Uncle Vernon always said celebrities got preferential treatment, and Harry could believe it.

Eventually he decided it would be better to try and fail rather than stay at the Dursleys for the rest of the summer, doing chores and dodging Dudley. He put his head on his pillow and closed his eyes, and thought of coloured lights and whirling wands.

But when dawn brushed his window, Harry hadn't gotten any sleep. He was too excited. And in the light of day, too anxious. The night before, all his plans had seemed so simple, so achievable. Now they appeared absurd, distant. How was he supposed to convince Tom to give him a room? And what if a concerned adult stopped him before he could reach the alley? What would he say?

He did not set off for the bus. Instead, he burnt the bacon at breakfast, broke a brush while cleaning and nearly fell asleep while weeding. Harry crawled into bed the next night, despairing.

Then he awoke to Aunt Petunia's usual morning greeting.

"Ugh," he moaned. Harry's head felt like it was constricted by a metal band. When adults talked about hangovers, was this what it felt like? Sleep deprivation called him back to his pillow, but worry propelled him out of bed. The room spun. Dudley's old toys stared at him blankly, but for a creepy moment Harry could've sworn they were laughing at him. He shook off the thought, then winced as his migraine rebelled against the movement.

Not willing to risk his aunt's wrath, Harry dressed himself, brushed his teeth and lit up for breakfast. And, when his aunt and uncle had eaten their fill and busied themselves with the television, Harry sneaked a paracetamol and swallowed it dry. The tablet burned down his throat - for a moment Harry thought he was going to choke, but by the time he was finished gardening (it was pink hyacinths this time) his headache had vanished. He threw the trowel down with glee, sweaty and satisfied.

"I'm done," Harry announced to the back of Aunt Petunia's head.

She didn't even turn to look at him. "Hmpf," she said. Her eyes were glued to a rerun of Keeping Up Appearances*. "Off with you then, and stay out of trouble."

Harry left at once, before she could come up with something else for him to do.

- HP -

Stepping out into the Dursley's tidy front garden, Harry watched carefully. He was surrounded by a cul-de-sac of carefully maintained suburban houses. The pavements were deserted. Dudley was supposed to be spending the afternoon with his friend Piers Polkiss. He was a scrawny, rat-faced boy who was the brain to Dudley's brawn (in the relative sense). They usually stayed at his house and played Nintendo, but on sunny days like this…

After a long and anxious pause, Harry stepped onto the pavement. Still nothing. Which was not unusual. After all, what reason was there to go down a dead-end? Slowly, then with growing confidence, Harry made his way toward the park. There he could get lost; there he could dream of Diagon, and duelling.

But on the way, something made him pause. A big red bus was coming his way. It would stop right by him, if he only stayed still. It would not take him straight to London, but it would stop at the bus station, where another bus would take him straight to Charing Cross every other hour…

Harry stayed still. He was in a daze. What was he doing? He couldn't go to London by himself, he didn't have any mone- the ten pound note he'd slipped into his back pocket for just this eventuality seemed to burn a hole in his trousers. He didn't have his trunk either… it was still at the Dursleys…

The bus got closer.

And closer.

It stopped.

The doors opened with a pneumatic whoosh.

"Yer gettin' in son?" the driver said.

Harry stared.

"Well?"

"Y-yes."

Harry fumbled for his precious ten pound note and stumbled onto the bus. He also prayed he did not cause the bus to break down.

- HP -

It was past teatime when Harry approached Charing Cross. The buses had only broken down twice. Strange men were already patrolling London's grimy streets. They looked at him oddly, and Harry tried not to look at them. The city was very different to the wizarding street hidden therein. Crisp packets, plastic bags and fag-ends littered the pavements. Gaunt women loitered on street corners under vast buildings of moulding stone. Harry tried not to look at them either. They didn't wear very much.

London had been unsettling even when chaperoned by Hagrid, the giant. Too many people were whizzing about, each of whom seemed entirely in his own world. That had been at lunchtime, when the sun shone bright.

Now the sun was descending, and all that was weird and untidy seemed to be ascending from their daytime hidey-holes. And Hagrid wasn't there.

Harry hurried along.

Under a smog-blackened arch, he stopped. The shadows had lengthened worryingly. And he had no memory of this landmark. Harry slunk quietly into the arches' shadow. What to do? Where was the Leaky Cauldron? He could've sworn it stood by the junction across from McKanna Meats*, but he'd passed that by a while ago. At the time he thought he must've been mistaken, but now… Could he double back? What if the loiterers noticed him retracing his steps, and realised he was lost?

Instinctively, Harry pressed himself closer against the cold stone of the archway, retreating further into the shadows. His legs froze beneath him; and at that moment he realised that he wasn't the Boy-Who-Lived in Muggle London, that he wasn't famous, that he wasn't a duellist. That he was a scrawny little boy miles from home… Perhaps he could wait here, awhile? Surely a policeman would come around the corner sometime on his beat. Then he could take him back to the Dursleys.

Sure, Uncle Vernon would throw him in the cupboard, but that was better than braving the dark-lit streets of London and their strange occupants. Yes, he decided, beginning to curl deep in the shadows, that would do… just wait, just keep wa-

At that moment, someone stepped onto the pavement - as if from nowhere! He wasn't a policeman, true, or a firefighter, or even a traffic warden… he was wearing robes. Robes. And striding down a main road without a care! He strode past Harry too; but unlike the Muggles, whose eyes slid over his figure, Harry kept a steady watch, and followed.

The man took a right, another right, then a left down a narrow alley. Harry lingered at the mouth. Who knew what sort of wizard he was? When he was definitely gone, Harry rushed after him, wincing with every echoing footstep. Hopefully, his- (what was the word? mark?) hopefully, his mark did not stray too far, nor notice the loud footfalls behind him.

Harry turned the corner and beheld a familiar black façade. "Thank God," he spluttered, heaving in grateful gulps of air. In dancing golden letters, The Leaky Cauldron was scrawled onto the adjoining sign. It fluttered in the wind - both the sign, and the letters therein. Harry watched it for a while as he regained his breath. Wizards, he had noticed, had an eye for detail.

"Just got to convince Tom then Harry," Harry said to himself bitterly. "Yes, here you are my boy, one room for the summer, no questions asked!"

And that was not even mentioning the conundrum with his trunk - or Hedwig, who'd been out hunting when he'd left.

Even so, he was walking toward the inn, as if pulled by some inescapable power. His feet seemed to move themselves. "This is never going to work," he warned the air. The air did not answer; Harry only felt a vague sickness in his gut, buried beneath that great wave of something (excitement? Apprehension? Dread?) that pulled him toward the Cauldron.

He pulled open the creaking door by its intricate bronze doorknob.

- HP -

"... I live with Muggles you see, and I'd like to see more of the Wizarding World before I go to Hogwarts, and I won't be any trouble and I'll pay and I won't leave Diagon Alley I've got money and-"

Tom the bartender smiled crookedly - toothlessly, too - and, by way of response, slid a key of Byzantine complexity across the counter. "Here you are H- my boy!" He corrected himself, trying his best not to draw attention to the celebrity in their midst's. "Room ten. It'd be lovely for you to stay."

No one had ever said such a thing to Harry before. He felt his heart clench, but then a queer feeling settled in his gut. He looked at the key blankly, almost insulted. He didn't even say 'no questions asked'! Harry thought they all had to say that. What sort of people were wizards, to permit a child to rent a room at a pub without so much as a raised eyebrow?

Harry took the key regardless. It was weighty in his hand. "Thanks Tom."

And then he walked away. It was as simple as that. But inside Harry Potter's young head and older heart, the latter of which was neglected by disuse, a kaleidoscope began to spin. Euphoria burst through that odd blankness; excitement tickled at his breast. Bafflement set a giddy kink to his steps. He was on his way out of the Dursley's forever! He was on his way to magic! He was on his way to becoming a duellist!

Everything was perfect.

A/N:

*Keeping up Appearances stars Patricia Routledge as Hyacinth Bucket.

*McKanna Meats is a real place. I honestly have no idea how close it is to Charing Cross exactly, or if it was extant in 1991.

Thanks for reading the first chapter of this Harry Potter action/adventure fiction, The Duellist. I hope to have another chapter up relatively soon, but uploads will eventually slow as the story increases in complexity.

Take care of yourselves.

Jousting Alchemy.