Before you read:
Greetings and salutations! So, what am I doing with this story? The purpose is to further explore what the Harry Potter 'extended universe' could be. What's going on that Harry doesn't care about? What other magical locations are there? What's the culture really like? What's happening with politics? I'm trying not to contradict J.K Rowling's canon specifically, but expand on her concept, filling in detail where the original text remained vague. However, I am ignoring Fantastic Beasts.
The primary change is an increase in the wizarding world's population to correspond to the scope of the Ministry for Magic. Everything butterfly's from that; more people means more political interests, more locations, more shops, and so on and so forth. This becomes clear from the first chapters.
Otherwise, I like penny-novels like Conan the Barbarian. Conan stories are short, fast-paced and broadly stand-alone. The Duellist's story arcs are a bit like this, though they're unavoidably more interrelated.
There is a Discord associated with this story, where it is a chapter ahead. /mw2vyjM45m is the link. Click 'Join Server' on Discord and a place to enter it pops up. This link should never expire. If it has, just message me through a review and I'll replace the link within a few days.
Enjoy!
JoustingAlchemy
PROLOGUE:
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.
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-
"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 until the end.
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.
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 snook 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.
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.
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 facade. "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 large bronze doorknob.
...
...
Tom listened absently to Mr. Potter explaining himself - for the third time - while he polished a shot glass. The young master was speaking hurriedly, as though worried Tom would interrupt and send him away. What a silly thought!
But it was, he supposed, reassuring in a way; all Muggle-raised children who made this request seemed to act the same way. The Boy-Who-Lived was no different. Whoever Dumbledore had chosen to raise him had definitely kept him humble - just another sign of the man's greatness, Tom decided.
"... 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-"
Looking up at him with his mother's brilliant green eyes, the young master was a picture of modesty. Tom almost shook his head in amazement, stopping himself as he realised the gesture could be taken the wrong way. It was an attitude that would suit the boy well in the years to come, with the world at his feet.
Deciding the shot glass was sufficiently clean, placed it with the others and finally put Mr. Potter out of his misery. He smiled his best smile of reassurance and went to his belt. Searching by touch alone, Tom quickly found the correct key on his chain. Each was unique, cast in its own complex mould; Tom recognised them all by shape. He slid the key to room ten 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. "Room ten. It'd be lovely for you to stay."
The young master looked at the key for a long moment, almost shocked, and Tom suppressed the urge to chuckle. Oh, their reactions always made him laugh! Their amazement had always bemused him, at least until a young Mr. Young (Tom never failed to make that joke) explained that it wasn't normal in the Muggle world for parents to let their children wander off, much less stay at what Mr. Young had called a 'bed and breakfast'... and what Tom called an inn.
Then again... Tom eyed the young master critically. He never saw Mr. Young's parents either. It'd become suspicious, and eventually, the boy had admitted that they treated him rather badly. The Leaky Cauldron had become his respite; would it be the same for Mr. Potter?
He didn't show any obvious signs of neglect. No, Tom thought, it couldn't be; not with Dumbledore watching over him.
Meanwhile, Mr. Potter had taken the key and was weighing it in his hand. "Thanks Tom."
And then he walked away, and Tom went back to his cleaning, quietly optimistic for the future.
The door to room ten, the Leaky Cauldron opened with a long, keening creek. Harry peered inside. Against one wall stood a four-poster bed, the kind he'd only ever seen in films; against the other was an ornamented washbasin, and opposite the door a window looked out onto Diagon. The ceiling was cream, and the carpet green. It was a simple room into which he stepped.
And, he thought, with that strange numbness that arises only out of surprise, it was as easy 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.
It was less than an hour later that Harry realised 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 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 Harry 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. Surely they'd 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.
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.
Harry followed Kneen for the rest of his patrol, shadowing him for almost an hour. It was an amazing experience. People looked at the Auror 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 premier 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 took the time to explain his reasoning behind each move as best he could. It was brilliant. Harry was absorbed, then disappointed; "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…
THE END OF THE PROLOGUE OF
THE DUELLIST
Glossary:
*Keeping up Appearances stars Patricia Routledge as Hyacinth Bucket.
*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.
A/N:
Here's the prologue of The Duellist. I hope you enjoyed it. Be sure to Like and Subscribe!
... Wait, wrong website.
Take care of yourselves,
Jousting Alchemy