Harry Evans Chapter 137: Are you not entertained!?

There was an insufferable smirk on Habsburg’s face, the kind you’d find on the face of a child who’d just called their parents to sue the school because the teacher had given them a bad grade.

Many such cases.

Harry’s face, on the other hand, was as blank as could be.

He’d shut it all down, his anger, anxiety and his fear. Occlumency was not a direct way to control the mind, build nonsense mind palaces and mind artillery. But… It was a great way to practice self-control. Or more specifically, control of one’s own thoughts.

Harry knew that this duel was going to be incredibly difficult for quite a long time.

After all, until Snape succeeded, if he did, Harry could only defend. 

A disarming charm whizzed past his head. An explosion was deflected upwards.

Harry had taken on a picture-perfect standard duelling posture. A posture that even Flitwick would not have been able to find fault with.

Right leg forward, left arm on the back, head tilted to look at the enemy.

Habsburg attacked in a grandiose manner, adding unnecessary flair and elegance to even the most rudimentary spell chains. The audience seemed drawn in, and to the amateur spectator, it probably looked like Harry was being put on the ropes. 

To a professional, of whom there were many in the crowd, Habsburg likely just looked like a grade-A idiot.

Harry, allowing an opponent with more openings than Swiss cheese to take advantage of him, probably looked like a grade-S idiot. 

Another deflection, one side-step, a small amount of fire on the floor to counteract the encroaching ice. 

It was a challenging duel in the same sense that making a good steak was technically challenging. Hard to learn, yes, but not something you would fail if you knew what you were doing most of the time. 

It was a minute or so after the duel had started that Habsburg angrily narrowed his eyes and tightened his offence. It was nothing compared to Apollo’s, but finally reaching some modicum of skill. 

Harry weathered the breeze without much effort, regardless.

This duel was easier than last year’s duel against Habsburg because, at least this time, nobody was attacking him mentally while they fought. 

A small swarm of wasps emerged from Harry’s wand and deflected one spell each while Harry caught his breath for a moment.

A glance to the left showed that Snape had yet to make a return.

Defence again, it was becoming a bit of a struggle. After all, it wasn’t easy to only defend in a sport where attacking granted one reprieve and was a core method of battling over one of the most important parts of duelling, tempo.

Harry couldn’t attack, however, if he accidentally defeated Habsburg before Flitwick was safe…

He gripped his wand harder and smashed a stunner into the floor.

What came next was a relatively grey, if still legal, cutting spell.

Harry snorted and dodged, watching in slow-motion as a drop of sweat ran down Habsburg’s slightly malformed features and fell to the ground.

He heard the announcer say something, but he couldn’t tell what it was. 

The referee was looking at the duel with hawkish eyes, as if trying to find fault in something. 

A black figure suddenly appeared in the periphery of Harry’s vision as Snape returned to the seat he had previously occupied. 

A tendril of mind magic was sent Harry’s way, and he’d never been so grateful for all the months spent practising telepathic connection with the hat, which is what made him so efficient and quick in deciphering the image content.

A silent scene, Flitwick stunned and bound in the bathroom set aside for the contestants and their mentors. An easy place to take advantage, plan an ambush, when there were only two contestants left. 

Harry saw what had occurred from Snape’s perspective, entering the bathroom, wand raised. Finding a hooded wizard standing over the unconscious Flitiwick in a bathroom stall.

The brief exchange of spells before the wizard was knocked down. Snape floated both him and Flitwick to the event organisers, who received the news of what had occurred with wide eyes.

Harry could win now, he realised. But there was no point.

Snape had wanted Habsburg to lose. That had already happened. Harry glanced at the fake Flitwick, who was intensely staring at the match happening on the podium. He looked at his sweating opponent, who was giving it his all, only to fail even breaching Harry’s stubborn defence.

Habsburg had already lost.

He was disqualified. He and those behind him just didn’t know it yet.

But while Snape perhaps didn’t care how Habsburg lost, Harry now had blood rushing in his head and anger coursing through his veins.

He suddenly stepped forward and slapped away a spell with his hand. He raised his wand, not casting a spell but simply channelling his telekinesis through the amplifier along with all of his rage. 

Habsburg didn’t expect retaliation. He choked on air as his duelling robes suddenly slammed shut over his body and immobilised him on his feet.

The cloth twisted and spun, revealing the boy’s form completely, with no more looseness to interrupt everyone's seeing the skinny, unathletic frame. Habsburg’s face ran red immediately as he coughed for air. 

The sound was annoying. 

Harry slashed his wand once more, transferring the control of his cloth to his left hand. The incantation of human transfiguration hushed over his lips.

Habsburg’s eyes widened as his mouth melted like hot plastic, his lower lip crawling up and his upper lip crawling down. 

Harry could see the confusion in the boy’s eyes. 

“Human transfiguration,” Harry explained slowly, “cast on another human, is usually reserved for matchups of greatly unequal skill. A professor might transform their student into a ferret as a punishment. A witch muggles into frogs as a curse. The reason why I could do it to you?” He shook his head. “Your will is weak. Your resolve is nonexistent. If feelings of superiority would transfer into strength of character, you would be a god, but they simply represent cognitive dissonance, making you scum instead.”

To his credit, Habsburg resisted somewhat, managing to wordlessly channel a disarming charm through his wand.

A twitch of Harry’s fingers sent the spell careening to the side. A twitch of his wand stuck the wand to the boy’s hands so he couldn’t let it go anytime soon, thus ruining what came next.

The boy would faint soon, so Harry quickly continued.

“Your duelling etiquette is lacking,” he said simply. “You seemed to have forgotten the fact that a victory unearned is a loss. So let’s start from the beginning.” His hand swept forward as he turned around.

“Ten steps is common, but let's do two since we’re already quite apart,” Harry narrated as he took two steps towards the edge of the podium, Habsburg unwillingly mirroring the movement on the other side. 

Harry could see the polyjuiced Flitwick’s ugly face scowling at him, red with rage. The man dragged a finger across his throat. 

Harry simply smiled at him and turned around.

“We bow,” he said, making Habsburg’s forehead almost touch the ground while he simply lightly tilted his head. 

“And then we fight.” He let go of the cloth, at which point Habsburg sank to the floor like a boneless corpse. 

But the rules of the duelling tournament were quite strict. You only lose if you were knocked off the podium, fell unconscious, lost your wand, or surrendered. 

Harry sent a knockback jinx at the boy’s face, essentially slapping his face to the sound. A crisp smack that resounded through the suddenly empty arena. 

“You don’t have the strength to face your enemy when they’re no longer encumbered by threats,” Harry mocked before shifting his tone to a baby voice. “Is my widdle pwince scawed? Is he scawed :(. Is he gonna cry to his mommy?” he mocked in a shrill voice before laughing out loud. “Did he deserve better just bewause the bwood in his veins is bwuee!” Another knockback jinx, this time from the top, smashed the boy’s figure into the ground with a ruthless crunch.

Habsburg rolled around in agony, rolling around in pain.

Harry narrowed his eyes as he saw the boy try to roll off the edge. 

But his will was broken, a simple accio brought him back to the middle, scratching at the ground and leaving behind bloody trails on the floor.

An attack suddenly assaulted Harry’s mind. A great ball of searing hatred.

Harry metaphorically caught the tendril between his fingers, followed it back, found the mind behind it and smashed it forward with all his strength.

He saw a man in the stands smash his head into the railing in front of him, leaving a triangular indent in his skull.

“A duel’s no fun if it’s not fair, Habsburg!” Harry shouted at the boy who was crying, trying to scream and trying to throw away his wand. 

“Enough!” A voice suddenly shouted from the side. The referee had finally had enough. The man in the chequered robe was red in the face. “You’re already won, don’t bend the rules to torture your opponent, or I’ll disqualify you for unprofessionalism.”

“You’re right.” Harry said softly. The man hadn’t been bribed then. He technically needn’t have issued a warning. Could have just disqualified him. This was disorderly conduct. Perfectly valid to punish it.

“But this isn’t about winning,” Harry whispered as the anger within him surged once again. “This is about sending a message!” he roared. 

His wand swept up and threw Habsburg in the air, where the cloth on his body once again began choking him. 

“You’re a big boy, Habsburg! A champion! A born winner! The next in line for the throne of fools!”

The referee shouted something in the background.

Harry spun the boy around slowly. “Why don’t you face your adoring audience, the people you sought to impress so badly? Those who came for entertainment but instead found a farce, a political game played by the trash of society!” 

Nobody in the crowd seemed to be having much fun. They were all pale. Many were leaving. Whichever kids were present were having their eyes covered by their mothers.

Harry turned towards them, raised his hands, and saw the fear in their eyes. “You applauded when it was me on the backfoot! I’m crushing him, shouldn’t you be happy?” He screamed. “Are you not entertained?!” 

Silence.

“Drop your wand now, you are disqualified, contender Evans!” The referee shouted, having made his way onto the podium, pointing his light brown wand at Harry. 

Harry could feel the cloth constricting Habsburg’s neck. One more push. One more crack. He could end it all in front of everyone. 

He wanted to.

He wanted to so badly.

A look over the referee’s shoulder, he saw Flitwick, the real one. Pale, surrounded by tournament officials. Still standing.

He looked horrified and just a little bit, just a little bit… scared.

Scared of Harry.

Harry dropped his opponent to the ground. Let go of the cloth. Untransfigured the mouth. Dissolved the sticking charm.

He tucked his wand away in his robe and turned towards the crowd one last time.

“It was my pleasure to lose this duel in front of you today!” he said, before hopping off the duelling platform and storming off.

Down the tunnel, past a bend.

“Dobby,” Harry whispered, face torn between anger, sadness and guilt.

It spoke well of the bond between servant and master that Dobby simply popped Harry away, no words needed.

One second later, he was back in Britain, in front of an apartment door in an empty corridor.

He stared at it for a bit, looked at the doorbell. Pressed it. 

Footsteps, stumbling, cursing from within.

A pink-haired woman in a fluffy red bathrobe opened the door, looked at Harry, and blinked.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Finland right now?” Tonks asked in a confused tone of voice. 

“I don’t think I’ll be going back there for a while,” Harry mumbled, before hiccuping as a sob escaped his throat and his eyes welled up. 

Tonks looked at him, alarmed. She’d never seen him cry before, nor be worried, which was saying something considering they’d fought a werewolf together.

Wordlessly, she swept him into a hug and pulled him into her small flat.