The Faction and the Stone VI

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Previous chapter: Harry tails Hartin and his friends with his Invisibility Cloak, then arranges for Hartin to drink a truth serum that he uses to question him. Hartin admits he intended the prank that embarrassed Susan was meant for Harry, and that he believes the troll incident was faked. Harry challenges him to a duel; Hartin names Lother McConnell as his second, who Harry had never beaten. He obviously intends to have McConnell fight the duel for him…

In the wake of the challenge, Gabriel had quickly closed the session; "That's all for today, witchlings and wizardlings," she'd called out, enhancing her voice with a sonorous charm. They'd only been practising an hour, but Harry couldn't blame her. A nervous, excited energy was running through the session. Duelling and distraction were a recipe for disaster.

Harry smiled to himself at his inventive turn of phrase. I should remember that, he noted, watching the rest of the students trickle out the hall. Alan and Susan were waiting too; Gabriel would want to talk to them. To him, he corrected; and when he said talk, he meant complain.

Not that Harry could blame her for that either.

He gripped his wand tighter; he'd made trouble for himself too, falling right into Hartin's trap. If it was a trap at all, and not just quick thinking on the Ravenclaw's part. Did he intend to bait the challenge? Harry supposed it didn't matter. He was going to duel McConnell for his place in the club. The thought made his insides knot tightly, as though they were turning to stone. McConnell was better than him.

He forced himself to exhale. No, he thought, McConnel is slightly better than you. You can still win.

Glancing up, he met Gabriel's steel grey eyes… Slightly better… right?

Everyone else had left. Harry braced himself.

"Is this the part where I bemoan your troublemaking?"

He let out another long breath. Resignation, not anger, tinted Gabriel's voice. "I suppose this is the part where I ignore you," he replied cheekily.

She let out a genteel snort. "I'll skip the lecture; you already know that this club can't be seen to be a haven for duelling. The fight itself can be your punishment." Her grey eyes seemed to grow yet colder. "But personally, you better damn win - for Susan."

Gabriel swept away, her long brown hair whipping after her.

Harry watched her leave, relieved. That could've gone wo-

"Harry," Susan said.

He blinked, turni-

- Susan's hand whipped straight into his cheek. Bright pain burned his cheek. His face was stinging, while Susan looked at him tearfully, something strange glimmering in her red-rimmed eyes. "That's for being an idiot."

Then she closed the distance, throwing her arms around him, crushing him in a hug. "And this is for defending me."

As quickly as she'd darted in, Susan retreated, following Gabriel out the duelling hall.

Only Harry and Alan remained. They looked at each other for a long moment. In the genetic sense, Alan's eyes were a mirror of his cousin's, but right then they were filled with something totally foreign.

He burst out laughing.

Harry couldn't help but join in, fears of McConnell momentarily lifted. Together they laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until their smiles hurt and they had to lean on each other lest they collapse to the floor.

Eventually Harry restrained himself to a dizzy giggle. "What're we laughing about?"

Alan choked on his laughter. "I dunno really," he managed to wheeze out, "the slap? Thwack!"

He proceeded to burst into another fit of laughter.

But Harry was already sobering, flexing his aching face and rubbing his cheeks. His worries were slowly flooding back. The club. Hartin. McConnell.

"We've got to win," he said quietly. The humour was sucked from his voice, leaving a strange, vacuous hole, an unsettling silence in his soul. "We've got to win."

Alan's smile had slipped by then too, his laughter retreated. "You've got to win. It's really you against McConnell. I've got no chance."

Harry didn't want that to be true; but it was. Alan was better than average for a First Year, but unless McConnell made a mistake - tripped, for instance, or dropped his wand - he'd lose. Alan against Hartin would be a different matter… but Hartin would never fight. No, between now and the duel he'd have an 'accident', which would require McConnell, the far superior duelist, to step in.

Besides, Alan was right in more ways than one. This was his fight. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this."

Alan slapped him on the back. "No worries, mate; who else could you name your second? You couldn't name Susan; she's the subject of the duel after all."

That was also true. The only other he'd trust to name his second would be Wayne - and he wasn't part of the Self Defence Club. Harry had never seen him duel.

They sank into a comfortable silence. Harry glanced around, noting the dimming sconces - they were enchanted to recognise the number of people in the room; he saw their glimmer of the ceremonial swords in their strange candelabra. His eyes passed over the comedic SLEF poster with barely a thought.

"Any idea how you're going to beat McConnell?" Alan prodded into the quiet.

The knot in Harry's stomach returned, tightening unpleasantly. "No idea," he said, as breezily as he could manage. "I'll just have to… to fly a foot closer."

In Quidditch, the standard professional 'tight' formation involved flying no more than three feet away from each other. Squeezing even closer was extremely difficult; but even the reference to his favourite sport couldn't make Alan smile again. It was dawning on him, just as it had dawned on Harry, just how poor their position had become.

They left together for Transfiguration.

It'll have to be more than a foot, Harry thought morosely. Alan, he knew, was thinking the same.

Harry turned his encounter with Hartin over in his mind for the rest of the day. He struggled to engage with Hermeric's laws in Transfiguration, and almost blew up his potion in Potions. It didn't help that word had spread through the castle like a wildfire. Suddenly, everyone seemed to recall that he was famous. Whispers followed him in the corridors; he saw stares every time he looked up from his textbooks.

Even the teachers seemed to have an opinion.

"Deadly nightshade, for instance," Professor Snape had said, during his lecture on Gilbert's third law. "Lethal by all standards. But when mixed properly with its Gilbertine opposite, hemlock, each poison is neutralised-" his eyes settled on Harry, "-forming the basis for many powerful curatives, usually of the protective kind."

Harry thought he saw a glint of approval in the professor's dark eyes. He couldn't be sure, and would later-second guess himself. He'd always had the distinct feeling Professor Snape disliked him.

Potions was the last lesson of the day. He filed out afterwards feeling dreadfully tired. Both the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were watching him as they departed. Harry kept his eyes on his friends; "We'll meet you by the bridge later," he told Alan before they went their separate ways.

There was no point practising; nothing Alan, Susan or the Lightspeed could do would prepare him for McConnell in a night.

Dinner was awkward. Not so bad as the dinner after the troll incident, but strange in its own way. After that, people had looked at him as though he might combust in his seat. Now there was more... excitement? Anticipation? He could tell there was some mocking, especially from the Ravenclaw table. It wasn't hard to tell what they were anticipating.

Susan tried to keep him talking, keep him distracted. It didn't really work; as fond as Harry was of Sue, she was too quiet to imitate a chatterbox. Sometimes it made him wonder about her upbringing. Why did she never speak of it?

Then again, he was far from an expert on wizarding parenting. He could only really speculate off the Rosiers and their Lyle servants. Halt End was an isolating place, and Harry had never heard of a wizarding primary school. Did the children of wizarding aristocrats all grow up in massive castles or sprawling manors, alone except for their families?

Harry absently swallowed a mouthful of chicken. The plate, finally, was empty. He could leave the attention behind. Susan had finished a few minutes before. "Let's go," he said. He was very careful to ignore the Ravenclaw table.

Alan was waiting for them at the gallery bridge, leaning against one of the wooden posts that supported the canopy. He was fiddling with a model of a broom Harry recognised as a Nimbus 2000.

The sun still hung heavily above the water. Nowadays it was setting later and later; April was upon them. Soon exams would peak over the horizon and, beyond that, second year.

Harry closed his eyes as a wave of nausea overtook him. He'd put it all in doubt. His whole purpose in pushing for the Self Defence Club, unlike Gabriel, wasn't self defence. It wasn't to help others. It was to improve his own duelling. He'd had it all planned out; he'd improved so much since the club started. How much better would he be in seventh year, when it was really his club?

Another wave of lightness hit him, knocking his balance in sickly pulses. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd even used his fame to help start the club, and now - now he'd be exiled if he didn't beat McConnell. What if the Self Defence Club lasted another six years, and he had to watch from afar? Watch as his fellow students improved, as Hartin surpassed him, while he could do nothing?

Harry really felt sick now. He could feel his stomach turning, threatening to bring his chicken dinner back up.

"Harry," he heard Susan say softly. Her small hand took a gentle grip on his arm. "Harry, breathe deeply, okay?"

Slow, right? Slow and steady, that's what they always said…

Harry breathed in, emptied his mind, and breathed out. The imminent fear of vomiting immediately receded.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Slowly, Harry dared to crack open his eyes. Alan was in front of him, watching worriedly.

"You okay, mate?"

Harry breathed in the sweet, fresh air of the Highlands. Now that was over, his thoughts felt strangely... clearer. The anxiety remained, hidden in the corner of his mind, but no longer did it control him. "Yes," he said. "I'm okay."

The sun was glimmering with mystery in the reflection on the water. Harry leaned over the bridge's edge, resting his elbows on the balustrade, and watched. It was a warm afternoon; the breeze was mild, tugging gently at the trees on the shore. Their swaying was like the breathing of the earth. Harry breathed with them. "I'm okay," he said, almost to himself. "I'm okay."

They watched the sunset together, then went to bed.

…

…

Harry flicked his wand out of a flipendo and into a stunner, then fumbled into a sloppy disarming charm. "Dammit," he said to himself, flinging his wand onto his bed. It was half six; he hadn't been able to sleep, and now he apparently couldn't hold a wand properly!

Merlin it was pointless, what was he doing, he wasn't going to win anyw-

"Calm," he told himself, glad for the enchanted curtains of his four-poster bed. He would've surely woken the whole dormitory otherwise.

"Calm."

He picked his wand back up. Eleven inches, he heard old Mr. Ollivander's voice in his mind, reverberating like the creaking of old oak, holly and phoenix feather. He twirled it in his fingers. "Just one other feather," he whispered to himself. Did that give his wand some extra power? Was that how it worked?

Harry shook his head. Even if it did work that way, it didn't matter - not one bit. He was working his Giswiften movements too quickly, straining his wrist too hard. Sloppiness would lose him the duel no less than power might win it.

Intellectually, he knew pushing himself was pointless; he didn't have enough time to improve before the duel. Emotionally…

He felt his anxiety subsumed by a burgeoning anger, building like a crackling, poisonous fire. He wanted to scream into his pillow - mostly at himself. It was the same rage that'd landed him in this mess to begin with. If only he'd let the prank go…

Susan's red-rimmed eyes flashed through his mind.

No, he thought darkly, no.

He shoved his wand back in his holster, straightening himself, ready for the day. "I'm going to win," he said to nobody. "I'm going to win."

Up in the common room, bright light was dappling through the small, round windows, and the brazier at the room's centre had turned itself down. It was like the first day of spring. It did not match Harry's mood.

Nor was his mood improved by breakfast. Not only was the whole of Hogwarts' student body staring at him, he was in the paper. Really in; in for something he'd done, not like the Prophet announcing he'd officially become a Hogwarts student (page five on the second day of school). This time, it was not 'The Boy-Who-Studied' but 'Potter's Duel of Dignity' - a far more sensational title, bound to draw the eyes of the nation.

It was on page three. Susan's face had turned ashen when she saw the title. "I thought… I thought R.O.O.N would keep it out the Prophet," she muttered to herself.

Harry was too busy craning his neck to read to immediately process her words. The writer, Griselda Garrion, was rather positive about him. At least, he thought wryly, she was fair - even if she'd spread his private business all over the Daily Prophet as though it were genuine news.

It was Justin who broke him from his reverie. "What's Rune?"

"R-O-O-N," Susan corrected, in that stern but quiet tone that was hers alone. "It stands for Reasonable Oversight of Newspapers. The old minister declared an emergency during the last war - ROON* controlled what the papers can print. It's never been repealed. My aunt says they only really use it to bury bad news about Hogwarts nowadays."

Justin raised one of his unusually thick eyebrows. "Bad news about Hogwarts? Why?"

Susan shrugged and went back to trying to burn a hole in the paper with her eyes.

"My uncle," Wayne interjected teasingly, "said that a lot of people want to shut Hogwarts down."

Harry saw Justin's face twist into a rictus of disgust and disbelief. "Shut Hogwarts down!" he squeaked, his voice breaking. "That's mad. Whatever for?"

Harry agreed; Hogwarts was amazing.

"This castle," Wayne replied in a snotty, impressionistic tone, "is an edifice to privilege - that's what they say anyway. But I know for a fact neither Dumbledore or Malfoy's men want the school shut down, so when something unflattering happens, they keep it hush."

Harry was listening intently. When he first arrived in the wizarding world, he'd been given the impression that aristocrats ruled; it'd been all 'Lord Rosier this' and 'Lord Rosier that'. Now he wasn't so sure; it all seemed a great deal more… complicated that he'd first assumed. "And this duel is 'unflattering'?" he prodded.

"Gabriel wasn't joking about the duelling epidemic, Harry," Susan said timidly. "A lot of people died."

"It nearly crippled the country," Wayne added. "Many of our best wands died fighting each other rather than fighting the French or the Dutch. The suppression has been good for us."

Anti-Honourism, Harry recalled; but his knowledge didn't take the sting out of Susan's words. He was doing this for her. Wayne's addendum he could ignore. "Well, I'm not one of Britain's best duellists, and neither is McCo- Hartin," he said heatedly, "and we're not going to kill each other either."

Susan shrunk back. Harry felt like he'd kicked a kitten. "Sorry," he said.

Susan shook her head, scarlet hair swaying."It's o-okay. I-I appreciate it."

Further in the paper, Harry discovered, was a disparaging piece by Wayland Mokesword, head of the Anti-Honourist League. Apparently, Harry Potter was a stuck-up snob, obsessed with the 'false glories of times, thankfully, passed.' Reading it through made his blood boil. He threw the paper down on the table, where it made a satisfying thud. "Who is that idiot?"

Wayne peered over. "Oh, the Anti-Honourist League? I'm surprised they're still running."

"So nobody important, then? How's he got his rubbish in the paper?"

Wayne flicked his hand dismissively. "Relevency to the subject, I suppose?"

Wayne had a point. Harry returned to his breakfast, still smouldering, picking over the remains of his bacon. The article wasn't so bad; the writer seemed more interested in 'the Boy-Who-Lived' instead of the 'barbarity' of organised duelling. Did that reflect the Prophet's readership? Was the average wizard unbothered by duelling? But the comment by Mokesword was galling. And, unfortunately, relevant - as Wayne had noted… Something clicked in Harry's mind.

Slowly, he got out of his seat and made his way to the upper years. To Dennish Falkirk specifically.

"Falkirk?" he said, dropping his voice to a whisper, "you know when you offered your help, at the start of the year… well, could you help me draft a letter?"

Falkirk looked like he'd simultaneously hit the jackpot and swallowed a lemon. "Oh - oh, yes, of course! But… but Melissa isn't going to like this, is she?"

No, Harry thought, grinning to himself as he explained his intentions, she wasn't…

Drafting and redrafting his letter to the Daily Prophet kept him and Falkirk busy until ten. Susan and Alan had joined about half way through, and together they left the castle for Hagrid's hut - away from the interests of the student body.

A bright sun bathed the winding path down the valley in brilliant light, drawing attention to new-bloomed wildflowers that dotted the rolling grasses that surrounded Hogwarts. In the distance, the Forbidden Forest appeared just a little less foreboding, and whose trees were leaning in harsh gusts of wind. If the day had a fault, it would be the wind. It blew cold, straight through the bones. Harry knew his hair would be an unsalvageable mess by the time they reached Hagrid.

Alan knocked on the door. Strangely, the curtains were shut tight.

"Maybe he's not in," Harry said.

Just then, Hagrid's voice boomed through the door; "Who's that?" he said gruffly.

Harry, Susan and Alan exchanged puzzled glances. What was going on?

After answering, Harry found himself being bundled inside - and Hagrid shut the door behind them with a slam. The first thing he noticed was the heat. Despite the warmth outside, the fire inside was stoked hot in the grate. Too hot - especially for Hagrid, with his size and the big coat he always seemed to wear.

When they were all sat, tea was swiftly thrust into their hands, and stoat sandwiches offered. Susan made a face.

"'Ave read about yeh duel in the papers, 'Arry - an'a can't blame yeh fer being angry." His kind, dark eyes settled on Susan for a moment, who was clutching her teacup tightly. "Twas a cruel prank. Dumbledore'll be proud a'yeh fer standin' up fer yeh friends."

Harry wouldn't keep the smile off his lips even if he could. "Thanks Hagrid. I'll do my best."

"Yeh do that Harry, an' I'm sure you'll win. Yer dad was a great duellist." Hagrid's beard twitched in what Harry assumed was a smile. He patted Harry's shoulder with a dinner-plate sized hand.

An image of the Mirror of Erised flashed through Harry's mind - one of Harry himself garbed in an Auror's cloak, his parents standing over his shoulder. A well of emotion sprung from his chest; for the first time, he felt like he could really win.

But Harry's reverie had built up an awkward silence, which was eventually broken by Susan blurting out; "We were shown Devil's Snare last week."

Hagrid grunted. "Nasty stuff," he said. "Enough t'scare yeh, I'd waer? Can be tamed, though; good fer guard duty."

Guard duty? Something struck that as odd to Harry. "Like the cerberus?" he found himself saying.

Hagrid's eyes widened. "Fluffy?" Yer've seen 'im?"

That dog had a name? Harry recalled its massive teeth, glaring eyes and stinking breath … "Yes," he began to explain. "Hartin ambushed me at Christmas, and I stumbled across… Fluffy while running away."

"Little bugger," Hagrid muttered under his breath - though he spoke so loudly they all heard it anyway. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, yeh should stay away from Fluffy, leave 'im to 'is duty. Big softy really, music'll send 'im t'sleep - but still, 'e's got his job, so you leave 'im well enough alone."

Harry, Susan and Alan shared a look. With their focus on schoolwork, then Hartin, the mystery of the third floor corridor had almost been forgotten. But whatever it was that Hagrid had taken from Gringotts vault seven-hundred-and-thirteen - whatever he had delivered to Dumbledore - it was being guarded by 'Fluffy' (the name, Harry decided, would never become less ridiculous) and, probably, devil's snare. That seemed like Professor Sprout's idea; had all the teachers assisted in guarding the whatever-it-was?

"Blimey, Harry!" Hagrid suddenly said, "look at the time. Yeh should be gettin' goin', I think."

It was eleven thirty. He'd duel McConnell in half an hour. Harry suddenly felt sick again.

They said their goodbyes to Hagrid and made their way back to the castle in silence. Harry spent his time trying to keep his breathing under control, while his mind - having a life of its own - jumped to the worst potentialities. Aside from anything else, losing would be embarrassing. He was the one who issued the challenge, after all.

Exile from the Self Defence Club would stunt his progress too; but knowing it was there, knowing people were practising, joking, learning, while he was barred from joining in… the idea sent shudders of nausea through him. It would be like Saint Gregory's all over again.

Eventually, they reached the duelling hall at ten to noon. The doors were wide open, and the hallway packed. People looked at him as he passed by - sometimes whispering, sometimes not even bothering to lower their voices. Harry kept his eyes ahead, and felt Susan squeeze his hand.

Despite it all, he smiled. He was going to win. He was. He had to.

The hall was as crowded as the corridor. Students of every house, pureblood, half-blood and muggleborn, lined the room. Some sat, but three times more stood for lack of chairs. Yet it wasn't their number that hit Harry the most; it was the noise. People were shouting over each other to be heard.

And as he entered, they all were looking at him.

The duelling platform was raised a foot off the ground. Harry stepped up swiftly and, as his feet touched the circle-that-wasn't-a-circle, a strange calm washed over him. The shouting of the crowd seemed to dampen; his worries seemed to fade. None of it mattered. Only him, his wand, and his foe.

Speaking of, at the hall's far end a gap in the crowd had appeared. He could see Hartin's friends - Borehill, Moon, and a few others, all stepping aside to allow Hartin by. His arm was in a sling.

Harry ground his teeth. Cowardly.

But no less than he expected.

Lother McConnell prowled beside him, leaping up the duelling platform like some feline predator.

A hush fell over the hall.

"A potions accident has burned Matthew's wand hand. It'll be two more days until he recovers." McConnell said. "Do you accept the interceding of the second, or would you rather wait?"

Harry knew how waiting would be viewed - and he was sure McConnell knew he knew. The obviousness of it all was galling. "I do, but I don't think it was an accident."

McConnell's smile was sharp. "I don't think it was an accident that you challenged someone you know from experience is a lesser duellist than you."

Those were harsh words, for Hartin as well as Harry. They touched on something in the back of Harry's mind; why was McConnell even helping Hartin? From what he could tell, the two were - barely - friends. More like acquaintances, really. Did McConnell have some hidden motive too? Did he know about SLEIPH, whatever it was?

Harry quickly dismissed his errant thoughts. Now was not the time. His wand hand twitched.

Sterndale, the troubadour, stepped up between them. He gave Harry a brief, tight smile as the platform was raised. ""Melinda Blishwick will provide medical aid if necessary. The duelling shield will prevent injury to spectators. The duel is to first blood, unconsciousness or until the opponent is out-of-bounds." he said. "Are you satisfied with the preparations?"

His words were ritual, passed down for hundreds of years.

Harry drew his wand and slipped into the basic Gireht stance; McConnell mirrored him.

"I am," Harry said.

The hall itself seemed to hold its breath.

"I am," McConnell said.

"Very well," Sterndale checked his pocket-watch. "It is noon…" There was at least thirty long, horrible second's pause. "... Now! Begin!"

Harry felt a sudden lurch in his stomach as McConnell's first spell launched toward him. Harry sidestepped the grey-blue disarming charm, and all his fears with it. Now there was only the duel.

He returned with his favoured Relashio, twisting his wand into a hail of similar hexes and jinxes. From previous experience, this was his advantage; McConnell was a slower caster than him.

The older boy evaded with neat footwork - better than Harry could manage - pivoting, twisting, darting by Harry's spells. Worse still, McConnell's stance was so strong, so practised, he could return fire with an impressive barrage of his own. Multi-coloured lights began to flash by them both, and Harry felt himself begin to sweat.

This was where it always went wrong; their previous duels were repeating themselves. McConnell's spells were somehow quicker, more accurate; Harry felt himself being forced back. Just one step, then another. McConnell, older and stronger, didn't even look tired. Soon Harry was back-peddling every few seconds, and he was beginning to lose his own stance.

A disarming charm forced him back, then two Impedimentias; but Harry knew he couldn't raise a shield. The concentration required for a Protego charm would anchor him to a point and prevent him casting back. McConnell would be free to grind his shield to aether.

Still he retreated. McConnell was just too strong; he employed spells Harry had never seen, jinxes and hexes that hurtled at him at an uncanny speed. And with every step he withdrew, the edge of the duelling circle drew closer, and closer, and closer…

Until, after jumping - almost slipping - even, away from a jelly-legs jinx, he sensed the end of the platform right behind him. Harry ground his teeth, forcing himself to breathe. No, he thought, almost teetering on the edge. I'm not going to lose, Merlin dammit!

He redoubled his efforts, digging deep, firing two stunning spells in lightning-fast succession, one aimed at his opponent's chest, the other a foot to his right. McConnell stepped left; and Harry was waiting with a Relashio, searing straight where McConnell would be.

Harry saw McConnell's eyes widen… and the charm was going to hit…

And then his scant hope was shattered.

"Flantem Scutum!*" McConnell cast, creating a long, flat shield that absorbed Harry's spell, then shattered.

Harry braced himself. This unknown charm had ended the fight last time.

This time, he was ready.

The glimmering shards of the shield suddenly flew at him. McConnell hadn't even waved his wand; in fact, he was still casting.

Harry ducked flat, almost touching the duelling platform. Now immobile, he could only cast; "Incendio!"

A great gout of hot flame launched from his wand, obscuring McConnell from sight - and vice versa. Harry fired two quick Relashio's through the fire, hoping surprise would win the day. A gasp went up from the crowd, and Harry felt a moment of triumph. Had one of the spells hit? Had he forced McConnell to drop his wand?

Beyond the rapidly dissipating fire, he could hear the thud of feet pounding against the wooden platform. Was McConnell running to his wand?

The fire finally burned away. McConnell wasn't running to his wand; he was running to him.

The larger, taller boy was running straight at him.

Harry almost fell off the end of the platform in panic before he began to fire shaking spells at the advancing McConnell.

They splashed against a wavering shield the other boy was holding.

He was only ten feet away when Harry realised he wasn't going to penetrate McConnell's shield in time, but that wouldn't stop McConnell trying to stun him when he got close enough…

"Protego!" Harry cast. A dull silver shield surrounded him.

And the two boys converged, their respective shields phasing through each other.

Then McConnell dropped his wand and reared his fist back.

Harry gaped, disbelieving. He fell back, and McConnell's swing missed. It was a wild thing, really, an unskilled haymaker - but he couldn't allow himself to be hit. Harry reached up, grabbed ahold of McConnell's collar, and held on tight. McConnell pulled back… and together they went a-tumbling. Harry's world spun; they were head over heels, propelled by their own momentum…

And then there was a sudden, horrible drop.

They were both on the floor of the hall, and therefore both out of bounds.

But Harry had landed atop McConnell.

"Potter wins!" Sterndale called out to the silent hall; the crowd erupted in cheers, applause, jeers - everything under the sun.

McConnell was grimacing up at him, irritated but strangely composed, completive rather than furious.

Harry dragged himself off the older boy and breathed a deep, soul-searing breath. He'd never felt so bone-tired in his life. He let himself lay on the cold stone floor of the hall, only standing when Alan hauled him up, overjoyed.

"You did it, Harry, you did it!" he cried.

Susan stood nearby, smiling shyly. Her face was flushed red.

Slowly, Harry began to take it all in. The crowd was still cheering. Sterndale and Blishwick came over to give congratulations. It was all… so much. His head felt light, free; a great weight was lifted from his shoulders. It would all be okay.

Gabriel kept a politically appropriate distance, but smiled and nodded. Well done, he saw her mouth. Harry beamed back. It was better than okay, it was amazing! He'd done it; he'd really done it! He wasn't going to have to leave the club!

That afternoon, just one moment tempered his delight; he caught Hartin himself - who, in the excitement of the fight, had almost been forgotten - storming out the hall, tears in his eyes. He looked very young in that moment, and Harry felt a momentary pang of doubt. Then Hayes ruffled his hair, and all his doubts were forgotten...

Glossary:

*Flantem Scutum literally is the present-active-imperative for 'flat shield'.

*Control of the flow of information is incredibly important in warfare, Muggle or wizarding. In fact, because of the sheer quantity of news in the modern world (in this case, beyond the 1920s, but especially past the Second World War), government guidance over the news is keener in the modern world than the old world of kings and emperors. Aside from being a sensible lore addition, the existence of ROON can also explain a great deal of canon Harry Potter's (much maligned in fanfiction) plot holes.

A/N:

So… Harry wins! Woooooooooo. I mean, you all knew that was going to happen, right? It was just a matter of how, and of the consequences thereof.

In other news, isn't spring brilliant? Feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin is such a relief after the cold.

As usual, the next chapter will arrive in a few weeks, as Harry approaches the end of First Year in The Stone.

Either way, see you then (or there),

JoustingAlchemy