Harry Evans Chapter 138: Woah mama

“The Disgrace of Duelling, The Finland Fiasco, Hell in Helsinki,” Tonks read aloud from the pile of newspapers that Harry had Dobby gather up on the morning after the fateful duel in Helsinki.

“That’s three stories, just in the British papers,” Harry muttered and rubbed his eyes.

There were countless other newspapers spread across Tonks’ small kitchen table. Harry took a sip from the quite frankly, rather disgusting coffee the girl had made for him, before sighing.

“Three French newspapers, twelve German ones, two Russian, three Greek, one Spanish.” He could go on. 

“What does the Spanish one say?” Tonks asked.

Harry picked up the El Mundo. The center page picture was of Habsburg being choked while floating in the air, facing a clearly horrified crowd.

“I don’t read Spanish, but I can read French, which means I just about get the gist,” Harry muttered. “”La Cara de las Mentiras,” it’s quite straightforward. The face of lies. Seems to be talking quite well about me, actually. Mostly analyses all the foul play that brought Habsburg to the finals, the attempted kidnapping of my mentor, the polyjuice, the legilimency from Habsburg Sr. They paint me as someone who was righteously furious, rather than just criminally insane.”

“I wouldn’t pay attention to those Austrian newspapers smearing you; they’re clearly protecting their own.” Tonks tried to reassure him. She held up a German newspaper, which had instead chosen to use a close-up shot of Harry’s face. He looked cold and determined, looking contemptuously at the leader. “Die Revolution Naht,” Tonks read aloud. “Look, they’re calling you a revolution! I know that word!”

Harry took the newspaper from her hands and frowned as he read it. “This is arguably worse,” he eventually said, translating for the girl. “Grindelwald’s record was not just broken, but shattered. Against all odds, despite foul play, a young man has dominated the tournament at a younger age than anyone before him. He showcased the magical repertoire of a man twice his age, wandless magic, human transfiguration and wasp conjuration. Revolution has always followed close behind every wizard of great skill and ambition, leaving the world holding its breath as to what sort of change will be forced upon us mere mortals in the following decades,” he briefly summarised.

The pink-haired girl winced. 

“Well, Skeeter seems to like you,” she eventually said, opening the Daily Prophet. “It is hard to describe the situation that occurred in Finland yesterday as anything other than a fiasco of the highest order. This reporter has investigated the situation and discovered a chain of corruption, rule-breaking and thirst for power that fell apart when facing one young British boy who stood up for what was right to the background of the U17 duelling tournament.

For background, the Habsburgs are a powerful Austrian pure-blood family, the cousins of which used to rule a Muggle empire, a connection from which they still derive most of their modern wealth. Despite the fact that their fortune was primarily converted into wizarding currency from Muggle gold, the Habsburgs were some of the staunchest supporters that Grindelwald had 50 years ago. At times, it almost seemed as if they wanted to extend their feudal ambitions to the wizarding world, giving rise to a god-king. There were various rumours about an arranged marriage between Grindelwald and the oldest daughter of the family head, Franziska Regent Prinz Aristokrat Dummkopf Habsburg.

Having lost the war after backing Grindelwald, a man they abandoned the second that the winds shifted, the Habsburgs have been rallying their political power and protecting their industries for the past fifty years. In other words, licking their wounds like a badly beaten dog. Recently, however, the youngest scion of the family has been making waves in the wizarding world as an up-and-coming genius. Having invented two potions and improved thirteen, this wunderkind has been credited as being one of the most successful students the Durmstrang Institute has ever seen, while also being one of the most talented up-and-coming spell-creators of the continent. Rumoured to have created the word-search spell that revolutionised reading and library access across the world, the young Habsburg only needed to win a duelling competition to fully ascend to the throne of a one-per-generation talent.

However, truths have been coming to light that cast doubt on all of Habsburg’s accomplishments. His ascent to the finals was fraught with surrendering opponents, unlikely accidents, suspicious referee decisions and, most recently, the kidnapping of former British champion Filius Flitwick. Filius Flitwick has been mentoring a name you are all likely very familiar with, the most recent genius to break the mold at Hogwarts. Harry Evans has most recently, as an incumbent fourth year, passed his arithmancy O.W.L two years early, skipped one year in Charms and will be attempting the Transfiguration O.W.L two years early at the end of this summer.

The kidnappers of Filius Flitwick sent a polyjuiced version of the boy’s mentor to his competitor’s bench and threatened unspeakable consequences if Harry did not convincingly lose the finals.

Thankfully, justice prevailed, and our former duelling champion managed to break free from his bondage. Upon glimpsing his mentor safe and sound, Harry Evans proceeded to decisively win the match, but not before another horrible attack occurred.

While duelling the younger Habsburg, the boy’s father attempted some sort of mental attack on young Mr. Evans. Thankfully, the older man seems to be characterised by just as low an actual magical ability as his son and failed miserably in his attempt to further disgrace his family name. Due to an odd interaction with the barriers protecting the duellist, Habsburg Sr. slipped and fell. He is currently in a coma and is being treated back home at the Wiener Spital für Menschen mit Geistlichen Behinderungen (Vienna hospital for people with mental disabilities), which are the best suited for dealing with the complex consequences of incompetently cast mind magic.

While the results of the dramatic events seemed to have concluded without anyone of value getting overly hurt, we must question here at the Daily Prophet how many participants were unfairly bullied out of the tournament by Habsburg on his way to the finals, how many potioneers had their legacy stolen to create the dubious claims of genius, and how valid the rumours of the young Habsburg having created the word-search spell actually are.

The foul nature of the tournament and of the supposed achievements of this once proud family would have never been exposed were Harry Evans not a duellist of sufficient skill to maintain a purely defensive position for ten minutes while his mentor escaped his captors, and then defeat his opponent despite his doubtlessly turbulent emotional state. 

The story does not end here, however. The reader would likely suspect that Harry Evans won the tournament, creating a once-in-a-lifetime achievement for this poor orphan. Unfortunately, that is not the truth; Harry Evans was disqualified just as he was about to defeat Habsburg on the facetious charges of using ‘too much force.’ What too much force actually means is left in the air when one considers that even being devoured by a chimera would be an undeservedly pleasant end for the young Habsburg, whose crimes and lies, already at age 17, would require a longer roll of parchment than he is tall if they were to be fully listed.

In the end, the finals finished without a winner, the first place falling to Greek talent Apollo Antrakosis, who had been beaten by Harry Evans the round before. There was originally meant to be a match between fourth and third place to determine the standing, but the opponent ‘defeated’ by Habsburg was noted to have immediately left the country after her loss and could not be reached.

Suffice to say, despite the British lament that we have lost interest in the sport of duelling, while being so good at it, this reporter can verify that there is nothing of value being lost by our national non-participation.

Harry Evans has proven that the crown of duelling still rests in the hands of the British and that a Hogwarts education is incomparable.

We are the uncrowned champions, and if we would ever claim to be second best, only the shameless and the foolish would attempt to claim first.

This reporter will try to contact Harry Evans for his perspective on this horrible debacle, as well as to hear about his plans for the future.

But for now, this is yours truly, signing off.”

Tonks put down the Daily Prophet and wiggled her eyebrows at Harry. “Damn, what did you do to this woman? She speaks better of you than my parents talk about me!” she joked.

Harry smirked and shook his shoulders.

This fuck up.

He had to shape the narrative somewhat. 

He hadn’t done anything illegal; he knew that. Habsburg senior would obviously never admit, just like how nobody would believe him, that a fourteen-year-old fighting a duel had schooled his ass so hard he’d sent him into a coma. Additionally, Harry hadn’t done anything illegal in his duel against Habsburg Junior. His methods had just been… a tad retaliatory and perhaps veered on the slightly unnecessary in terms of pain afflicted.

The issue was, of course, that even if Harry knew that he hadn’t done anything wrong, he didn’t have the political capital to fight for that to be accepted as the general consensus if his enemies rallied against him.

He groaned. He now had enemies. Going by the newspapers, he now likely had at least one for each European country. He’d likely be persona non grata in Austria for the rest of his life. “I can’t believe this shit,” he weakly muttered.

“The pure-bloods of Britain are stuck between national pride and disgust that it was all accomplished by a half-blood,” Tonks eventually said, holding up ‘Hell in Helsinki.’ “Maybe congratulations are in order?” she asked uneasily. “Your father’s identity has been nailed down as someone of the purest of blood, and your mother hailed as the exemplar mudblood. You are now a proto-pure-blood?” she asked rather than stated. 

Harry glared at the newspaper she was holding up. A pure-blood rag magazine. He glared at it so hard it would have burst into flame had he had magical abilities.

Oh, wait.

“Ouch!” Tonks exclaimed, dropping the suddenly aflame piece of paper in her hand.

It curled up and landed on the floor as a small pile of ashes. 

“You better not mess up my deposit,” Tonks threatened as she put her burned finger in her mouth.

“Sorry.”

A letter suddenly popped into existence above the small kitchen table and gently floated down along with a note.

Harry would recognise the toxic green ink anywhere. Skeeter was reaching out for an interview. An interview that he definitely owed her.

A note floated down next to it. 

Tonks promptly picked it up.

“The curse mail has been sorted?” she asked out loud.

The very next second, a tightly wrapped block of letters slammed onto the table, almost breaking the poor little thing. 

The wood creaked painfully, and Harry quickly released the table from its suffering by casting a lightening charm on the stack that was half as tall as he was.

“Merlin’s balls,” Tonks muttered, looking at the industrial amount of paper that had suddenly invaded her small green-tiled kitchen.

Harry looked bleakly at the stack.

He knew a thing or two about public relations.

Half of those letters would be encouragement. If he replied positively, he would gain supporters that would stand in his corner in the court of public opinion if that’s what it came to.

A pained grimace spread across his ashen face, highlighting the dark rings under his eyes.

A great sigh escaped his chapped lips before he opened Skeeter’s letter.

It only contained one sentence plus one word.

‘5 pm, same place as last time. URGENT!!!’

“Seems like I have an appointment in,” Harry looked at the clock on the wall, “six hours.” He turned back to Tonks. “Say, have you ever wanted to help me answer a ridiculous amount of mail?” he asked.

Tonks dubiously crossed her arms, looked conflicted, before sighing. “You’re lucky it's the weekend," she grumbled, before freeing a letter from the stack.

-/-

Harry was tired. Not the kind of tiredness that came from running a marathon. Not the kind of tiredness that came from studying, or casting magic all day. No, his body and mind were suffering from a metaphorical holocaust of spirit.

He’d experienced as many extreme emotions in the last two days as he had in a year.

The situation with Voldemort in the last chamber had drained him less, and that was saying something.

“May you live in interesting times,” he muttered as Dobby brought him back in front of Tonks’ door.

It would be time to return to reality this evening, return to his family, contact Flitwick, and find a way to talk about what had occurred.

But he needed her support. She’d helped him with his situation just as much as he’d helped her with the werewolf back then.

Six hours of answering letters, and they’d barely gotten through half. Tonks had said she’d continue while he met Skeeter.

He’d seen the way her wrist had been shaking, yet she’d simply popped a pain relief potion and kept going.

The meeting with Skeeter was conductive.

Rita was someone now, someone with a voice. Someone whose opinion mattered, at least in Britain. She was one of the most successful reporters at the Daily Prophet, the premier newspaper in Britain.

They’d made a press strategy. One week of releases, by the time they were done, everyone’s opinion on the matter would be firmly formed. 

First, they’d start with Harry’s painful life story, a history he’d never wanted to dredge up. Never wanted to see the light of day. Then they’d mention his achievements during the first year of Hogwarts, his exam results, his skipping of a year in Charms and his arithmancy advancement. Then would be the second year, after that, his first time competing in the duelling tournament.

Third year, then the most recent fiasco would merit two editions.

The British public would lap it up. A tragic hero beset on all sides by unfairness and injustice, facing it all with that stiff upper lip and massive reserves of pure-bred British talent and a Hogwarts education. Harry trusted her opinion.

It was now 9 pm, around the time that he’d been supposed to return to his family in the original timeline.

They’d strategised for an hour, and he’d gotten interviewed for three. Got it all out of the way early.

He knocked on the door.

It opened on its own; there was nobody there.

Harry’s heart sped up. His magical sense blared. If anyone had dared hurt…

He calmed down.

He recognised the magical signature.

Entering the small flat on the outskirts of London, he took off his shoes and made his way to the kitchen.

“Hello, headmaster,” Harry greeted and unceremoniously went to make himself his fifth cup of coffee for the day.

Had the bearded wizard not been sipping his own tea on the messy kitchen table, full of newspapers and letters, he would have added a heavy helping from Tonks ‘hidden’ firewhisky stash.

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore greeted. “You’ve had an eventful two days,” the man said before taking a sip from his tea. 

Harry glimpsed the brand of the teabag. His lips curled into a smirk. “Lipton uses slave labour to harvest their leaves,” he said.

The headmaster frowned and put down the cup.

“Millions of people, crazy stuff.”

“It saddens me to hear this, Harry. But I came to talk about something else,” the headmaster stated, steepling his fingers. 

“You came to discuss the extent of my fuck up?” Harry asked. “How one mistake will probably lead to a controversy that will follow me for life.” 

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled at him aggressively from over the top of his half-lunar glasses. A severe smile, but a smile nonetheless, hushed over his face.

“Harry, you are a child who was beset on all sides by things no child should have to deal with this year. Your reaction is not your failing, but rather the failing of all the adults around you,” the headmaster stated without recrimination.

Harry’s shoulder sacked. He hadn’t even noticed that they’d been tensed. 

A wave of relief, stronger than any orgasm, cleansed his body of some of the stress that had been endlessly accumulating since yesterday.

“Thanks, headmaster,” Harry said weakly, definitely not crying.

The man wordlessly conjured a handkerchief. Harry looked at it blankly. “Thank you, but I don’t need one,” he said, but eventually took it nonetheless. “I’m not crying,” he told the man and wiped away the sweat off his face.

“You most certainly are not, Mr. Evans.” The man’s eyes twinkled again. “Professor Flitwick was in a similar state of not crying yesterday evening in my office. A shared memory revealed the rather unfortunate situation the world conspired to put you in.”

“I’m sorry for running away. I just couldn’t look at his face,” Harry muttered. “I knew I destroyed our bond.”

“You two are very aligned. Flitwick said something similar, said how ashamed he was that his own inattentiveness put you in the situation it did.”

“It would have been better to just quit while I was ahead or skip the year. They would have done something even if they hadn’t succeeded in the kidnapping. I even ignored their attempt to poison me, thinking that it was just a children’s duel subconsciously. I didn’t imagine that it was a matter of life or death for them,” Harry muttered.

“You will find Harry, as you fully manifest your talents, that some have to scheme and connive for decades to achieve what you can accomplish on a whim,” Dumbledore cautioned. “In that sense, my advice would be to remain humble and sometimes unassuming.” He grinned. “Or even a bit batty. After all, nobody suspects the fool, no matter how powerful they may be.” His face grew more serious again. “As for the Habsburgs,” he tutted. “I’m afraid to say that they have overplayed their hand. They only represent half of Grindelwald’s old friends, and even within their faction, there is always someone willing to step on the back of the ones ahead. It truly is coincidental that it is today of all days, that the factions aligned against and with the Habsburgs have suddenly decided to reveal every bit of dirt they had on them. Old things, new things. I’m afraid that the newspapers of tomorrow…” he looked at the table in front of him. “Will be much more united in voice than they were today.” He shook his head. “And not in the favour of the Habsburgs.”

“That's good news?” Harry asked.

“Very good news,” Dumbledore confirmed. “Additionally, I’m happy to share that the ICW, as the body responsible for international relations between magical sovereign nations, will not be considering any action against the person Harry Evans. They will, however, lead an investigation into the people associated with the successful and attempted matchfixing, the falsification of several potions credentials and the suspicious and unsubstantiated claim that the young Habsburg contributed to the creation of the word search spell.”

Harry blinked, not unhappy with the news. “That seems almost excessive?” 

“Wizarding traditions are often based on secrecy and inheritocracy. That involves spells. If anonymous contributions were so easily stolen, then those good souls among us who do so out of the sheer kindness of their heart might not wish to continue sharing. It is perhaps not criminal, but so against wizarding culture that it might as well be.”

“So what, you waved your hand and everything went away?” Harry questioned dubiously.

Dumbledore shook his head.

“No, indeed, it seems that you have allies that have even more connections in the ICW and on the continent than I. The attack on Habsburg has been and will be ruthless. Almost premeditated. The information is all there, painstakingly gathered and compiled. It seems someone was just waiting for a blunder; the fiasco that was the finals might have just been the stroke of luck of a decade for an influential group you seemingly aligned with by sharing a common enemy.”

“The non-blood-purist neo-Grindelwaldians?” Harry asked.

At this, the headmaster could only shrug. “I am an old man, not that interested in the affairs of Europe as I once was. Some things are not worth exploring further when the dice have already fallen in your favour.”

Harry thought about the New Year's party he’d attended at Snape’s behest. The half-bloods and muggleborns of the continent that paraded around Grindelwald’s mark, not knowing its deeper meaning, yet stealing the symbol nonetheless.

“Minister Fudge and James Potter were quite impassioned by the letters you sent them. Perhaps the first time they agreed on something.” Dumbledore continued. “An auror detachment has already been sent to guard the home of your family in case of retaliation.”

A bucket of cold water was thrown over Harry’s slowly improving mood.

“What happened?” he asked harshly.

Dumbledore shook his head. “Nothing, and nothing will. When your very existence is being unwound at its seams, it's hard to think of revenge. Just a precaution.” He paused. “When you return to Privet Drive, you will likely feel new wards around the property. Some of them are mine, some of them were contributed by Filius.”

Harry sagged in his heat, cup of coffee forgotten in front of him.

So while he’d been talking to Skeeter and sending letters, Dumbledore and Snape had essentially already resolved everything.

“I have to commend you on the letters you sent; they spoke very deeply to those that received them, as should be obvious from the response,” Dumbledore said with a chuckle. “I was particularly amused at the barely legible response to my missive asking if you are well, and that I will be pursuing matters at ICW headquarters until the late evening. It assured me that you were fine, and thanked me for my consideration, before telling me that it is important in times of crisis that we stand by each other, the small links of British wizarding kind forging a chain that dark forces dare not try and break.” He tapped at his chin. “Your writing greatly resembles that of Ms. Tonks. A coincidence, I’m sure.”

“I just got off a meeting with Skeeter,” Harry admitted. “There will be seven articles in the next few days, detailing my journey and struggles.”

Dumbledore slowly nodded. “I have noticed that she seems to have taken a liking to you.” Then he shook his head. “But Harry, I must ask. For all the intelligence you’ve put into managing the crisis, why did you cause it in the first place?” he asked somewhat reproachfully. 

Harry looked up, dodging the man’s gaze and looking at the white ceiling of the kitchen. A spiderweb in one corner attracted his particular attention, its inhabitant wrapping up a fly as if it were a Christmas present.

He’d told the headmaster the truth after the third corridor debacle, and nothing bad had happened.

He was starting to understand why so many people trusted Dumbledore with their problems. He was kind, helpful, influential, but also wouldn’t allow for immoral missteps if he identified them.

“What I did at the tournament was already the measured response,” Harry eventually admitted. “Habsburg will carry no permanent injury, other than his hopefully shattered pride.” He breathed in deeply. “I had his clothes. I could have applied tons of pressure, squeezed his limbs right off. It’s scary, in hindsight, having that much power over someone. The fact that I didn’t use it is my mercy.” His gaze steeled itself. “Threatening me with the death of a loved one, my mentor, is nothing less than a war declaration. Habsburg is lucky I treated the issue as a skirmish rather than a total war. He was like a bug in my hand; it would have been the easiest thing.”

Dumbledore breathed out thoughtfully.

“If you’d been alone. In the middle of nowhere,” the man started slowly, looking at Harry with a penetrating gaze. “Would you have squeezed?”

Harry thought about the question before eventually shaking his head.

“No,” he admitted. “If there hadn’t been an audience, I wouldn’t have squeezed.” He met the headmaster’s gaze and let him see the conviction in his eyes. 

“I would have done something much, much worse.”