Chapter 136: Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit

“You’ve reached the finals,” Flitwick said in a satisfied voice after the duo had returned to the hotel.

“Without revealing anything I didn’t have to,” Harry added.

The Mists of Moria had remained unused. The wasps hadn’t unleashed their full potential. 

“Wandless magic, yes, everything else, no.”

“I already showed my ability for wandless magic last year,” Harry muttered.

The two were sitting in the lobby in front of their two hotel rooms, planning to turn in for the night. 

Harry hadn’t eaten dinner, but wouldn’t go hungry as Snape had suggested. He had other methods.

“Still,” Harry continued with a bored tone. “The bracket organisers are the biggest MVPs of this situation. Only the fight against Apollo was challenging, something I might have actually lost had I slipped up for a second.”

“MVP?” Flitwick asked curiously.

“Most valuable player, muggle term,” Harry replied, dragging his hand along the wooden armrest of his chair. 

Flitwick huffed in dissatisfaction. “I can hardly keep up with the new words used by young wizards and witches, let alone those of Muggles.”

“I’ll be the same when I get older. It’s inevitable,” Harry said dryly. Flitwick couldn’t really be faulted for not understanding Harry sometimes, after all, even for his generation, Harry’s vocabulary was particularly goated. 

“For tomorrow…” Flitwick started before trailing off.

Harry hesitated. He hadn’t been entirely honest with his mentor recently. Perhaps that was unfair. 

But, did the man need to know certain things, or were they irrelevant?

“About tomorrow,” Harry muttered. “I’ve been thinking…”

The professor fixed him with a sharp glare.

“You want to win, don’t you?” he asked.

The redhead remained silent before eventually shrugging. 

“Letting someone like Habsburg win leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. His family…” 

“His family isn’t someone we should make into an enemy,” Flitwick told him brusquely. 

“Is it making them into an enemy if we just beat him in a fair duel?” Harry asked.

“Perhaps not, but we had a plan, Harry,” the professor said gravely.

Indeed, they had a plan, but Snape had dangled something that Harry couldn’t refuse in front of him.

He locked his green eyes onto his professor’s blue ones and saw that the man was just worried.

“What would the consequences be?” Harry asked bluntly. 

“Scrutiny,” Flitwick immediately answered. “Fear. You’d be hounded by reporters more than the winner of the adult competition will be. You’ll be safe at Hogwarts, but not during summer vacation. They’ll dig into your past. Everything you’ve ever done will be splattered on newspapers all over the continent. Everything you’ve ever been. Some will refuse to look you in the eye, being compared to Grindelwald, Dumbledore, and You-Know-Who. You’ll be envied, hated, perhaps even attacked.” 

“You make it sound quite serious.” Harry chuckled weakly.

“Magicals are a superstitious lot. Obviously, you’re not a danger to anyone, other than perhaps yourself,” Flitwick cracked a smile. “They like to follow those stronger than themselves. Powerful magicals can solve problems that weaker ones cannot even perceive. Everyone needs a strong figure, but even strong figures can be strong-armed, and there certainly won’t be a dearth of those willing to try.”

“But Habsburg is trying to leverage the exact same thing,” Harry argued. “Letting him win will give him and his family, his faction, influence. I don’t think they’re planning on using it for good.”

“Worry about yourself before worrying about others.” Flitwick cautioned. “You are my student, not a martyr. Don’t take the ills of the world onto yourself to spare it their just desserts. If the continent wishes to throw itself into chaos over someone like Habsburg, then I say let them. It’s completely unknown if they will even succeed, so why bother interfering? You’ll most certainly suffer if you win, but we won’t know if they’ll prosper if they do.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Harry said with a sigh.

His thoughts were muddled. He was tired.

Quite frankly, if he hadn’t had such an easy path to Apollo, then perhaps he would have already exited at the semi-finals. Although considering Apollo would be the winner if he and Habsburg actually fought, that made him runner-up, minimum.

He’d proven his strength, he’d gotten his practice. The duelling tournament had never been about winning to him. The only thing tempting him were Snape's promises. Liquid luck, instruction, perhaps more…

A hand went up to his hand and massaged his temple. 

“It was my fault, you’re young, or rather, you’re a duelist. Asking a duelist to enter the arena without the desire to win, that’s my mistake,” Flitwick said quietly. “I should have held you back a year, trained you more. You could have come next year and crushed everyone without significant repercussions.”

“I just…”

Flitwick raised a hand, interrupting him. “It’s become clear from this situation that you know more than I expected. It is clear to me that Habsburg has a vested interest in winning. An interest that has led to some dubious matches. Just like Habsburg has a vested interest in winning, perhaps another party has a vested interest in him losing. Perhaps they reached out to you,” he analysed calmly.

Harry remained silent, frozen. Of course. If anyone would know about the shitty things that sometimes happened in competitions like this, it would be his mentor, a former champion.

Flitwick lowered his glasses and gave Harry a deep look. “I will remind you, Harry. That a promise might or might not manifest. Might or might not have good consequences. But, staying out of the spotlight before you are ready is most certainly the safest path. Undoubtedly.”

Harry suddenly realised something. He’d been getting deluded. By his own “strength,” as miniscule as it actually was in comparison to a real adult wizard. Pride? Maybe. Opportunity, certainly. He’d started learning duelling to have an easier time surviving. Driving too much attention to himself. That had never been his intention, even if he’d done so inadvertently. His mentor had never wanted anything but the best for him.

A sad smile suddenly spread across his face. It seemed that despite being quite old, he was still prone to flights of fancy. More magic, more potions, more tutoring. But what about the cost? Becoming a threat in the eyes of pure-bloods all across Europe probably wouldn’t be good for his health, even if he only ever suffered the consequences of being stressed about potential scenarios. 

But, well, old people were usually the proudest, so maybe he’d just behaved his age.

It was like a weight was suddenly lifted from his shoulders. An anchor.

He stretched his arms and leaned back. One day. Less than 14 hours, really. The finals would happen shortly before noon.

“You’re right,” he eventually said, wanting to slap himself on the back of the head. “I’m just 14. I’m too rational to do something stupid.”

Flitwick visibly relaxed at Harry’s sudden change in attitude.

“I will lose tomorrow, and Habsburg, the moron, will fail at anything he attempts to do with his new “influence.” That’s just the type of person he is. You can’t manufacture a winner, and any movement gathered behind an incompetent figure whose achievements are built on lies will find themselves all the weaker for it.” 

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Flitwick said softly.

“Why?”

“I’m sorry that the world is like this. I thought I could change it when I was younger, but becoming champion only brought more scorn, not less. I’ve grown weary of these sorts of affairs. You’re free to repeat my mistakes, but I urge you to wait until you’re ready to do so. Strong enough to suffer the consequences.”

“My plan was never to face off against the world,” Harry said with a sigh. “I'll try to sleep first. I’m almost too excited.” He paused. “By the way, I won’t be in my room tonight. A decoy will stay behind. Take care.” He waved his hand at his surprised professor and retired to his quarters.

Once the door closed behind him, Harry critically surveyed the space with his senses.

Nothing yet.

“Dobby,” he said, the butler appearing seamlessly and noiselessly at his side. 

“Bring a pig carcass. A medium-sized one, as close to my body-weight as possible,” Harry commanded coldly. 

“Your will be done,” the house elf squeaked before popping away. 

A minute later, Harry was slowly guiding his wand along a dead, clean sow laying on his bed, slowly transforming it into a human. It was a miserable process. Especially because there were actual stakes now, he had to make it convincing. He had to make it stick. Perhaps it was this need, this desire, that helped him achieve greater success than he had in the past.

An hour later, he found himself looking down at a replica of himself. Perfectly chiselled abs, incredibly handsome face, something you’d find on the cover of Vogue. 

Dobby, standing next to him, looked dubiously at the decoy and at his master, looked again. He refrained from saying anything.

“It’s basically me,” Harry said decisively at the figure of the red-haired Adonis lying on the bed. 

“Indeed, master,” Dobby said in a neutral tone of voice. 

“I’m athletic,” Harry said, as if trying to argue.

“Master is very strong,” Dobby stated.

Harry nodded once in satisfaction. “Good, now that that’s out of the way,” he extended a hand towards his servant after covering up the decoy with a blanket. “I’ll sleep in the cave tonight. Bring me there, then get dinner.”

Dobby nodded once, took his hand, and they were off.

-/-

The next morning, Harry returned to his hotel room and didn’t notice anything wrong at first.

His transfiguration had lasted throughout the night, and his magic sense didn’t pick up anything wrong in the room or the body. 

Suddenly, however, he felt something, a small amount of magic within the mouth of the transfiguration which had previously been blocked out by the magic of the body itself.

He stepped forward and unceremoniously opened the mouth of the construct. There was a clear liquid gathered there. No odour, almost no presence. The only reason it hadn’t travelled down the throat was likely because Harry hadn’t given his decoy a functioning throat.

A finger twitch later, the liquid was collected in a glass that had been intended for water but now housed poison.

Harry dismissed Dobby and exited the room at the same time as Flitwick came out of his own domicile next to his. 

“What do you have there?” Flitwick asked with narrowed eyes, finishing up his tie. He’d dressed up especially well for the day and seemed to have even gained an inch or two. 

A modification on the shoes?

“This was in the mouth of the decoy I left behind,” Harry said thoughtfully before shaking his head and handing the glass over to Flitwick, who held it carefully in one hand and waved his wand over it with the other.

“The potion of bad luck, an odourless version, usually smells like rotten beans,” Flitwick eventually said. “I got slipped one of these once, back when Britain still hosted the tournament. It mixed quite well into the breakfast I ate, so I didn’t notice. It will make you trip when you really shouldn’t, miss spells, and dodge the wrong way.” He furrowed his brows.

“This is very worrying,” he said as the two of them started their way to the arena. “I protected my room with the same spells as I did yours. Considering that it was breached, the only way to avoid this attack is to have a magic sense that is developed enough to sense the presence of a stranger even when asleep.”

“That’s the reason nobody manages to assassinate people like Grindelwald, Dumbledore and the Dark Lord?” Harry asked.

Flitwick nodded. “Yes, I am not yet at the level where surprise attacks don’t work anymore, especially when I sleep, but you can forget about getting rid of a dark lord that easily.” He paused and sent Harry a reproachful look. “I’d recommend against calling him the Dark Lord; however, only his followers do that.”

Harry shrugged. “You-Know-Who sounds so childish, and I don’t want to get into the habit of calling him Voldemort.”

The professor pursed his lips and shook his head. “I suggest sticking to You-Know-Who, it’s easier.”

They finished the last of the trip in silence and eventually arrived in the preparation room given to each duellist once the brackets thinned out enough.

The crowds had increased by a lot. After all, the final of the U17 tournament would serve only as an introduction to the real competition.

“You were right to tell me to lose,” Harry eventually said. “Having to be wary of poison, sabotage. It’s not worth it.”

“It’s worth it when you find something to fight for,” Flitwick corrected. “But wait until finding that cause when you’re an actual adult, rather than just a student.”

“Should I just surrender?” Harry asked. “Losing convincingly at this point, it might be hard. I avoided getting poisoned, and Habsburg really isn’t good enough to make a win on his part look convincing.”

Flitwick paused. “I’m sor-”

Harry interrupted him. “Stop apologising. It’s not your fault.” He sighed. “I see now what I have to do. It’s really not worth the trouble. Already being in the finals got me too much attention. Everyone on the way here was looking at me, whispering.”

“Next year will be yours,” Flitwick said before standing up when he saw that Harry was ready. “Let’s go out and wait on the bench.”

The two of them stood up and exited the tunnel into the arena.

The crowd applauded politely. Harry turned his head to see that Habsburg and his mentor were already present.

His opponent in the finals threw Harry a constipated look, but relaxed when Pierre leaned over to whisper something in his ear.

Harry and Flitwick sat down.

“It’s full,” Harry commented, looking at the crowd. Today he’d be the centre of attention, especially after he did what he had to. 

He saw groups of scattered adults standing at the railings and immediately recognised the adult duelists who would be participating immediately after the finals.

He was sorry to disappoint, but at this point it seemed inevitable.

“One last opportunity for a bathroom break,” Flitwick reminded him. “We’ll go together.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said and sighed. “This whole thing is just sad,” he commented.

“That it is, my boy, that it is,” Flitwick said as he stood up and left.

The time to the start of the finals ticked down from thirty minutes to twenty minutes, then ten.

Harry eventually narrowed his eyes and looked at the referee, who was preparing the platform.

Was Flitwick taking a big shit or what? How long could someone of his size possibly need? 

He was just about to stand up and go check when his mentor stumbled back towards the bench and shakily sat down.

“Is everything all right?” Harry asked suspiciously. Had something happened?

Flitwick adjusted his glasses and blinked at him with a dark look in his eyes. “I’m afraid not,” the man said in the professor’s usual voice, but with a sudden shift in accent. Unrecognisable, but different.

Harry’s thoughts spun before he narrowed his eyes. His tone of voice deadened. “If you do something to him, I’ll kill you,” he said frankly, losing some of his composure and control of his magic.

The impersonator froze for a second. “If you lose convincingly, nothing will. If you don’t…” he let the threat hang in the air.

Harry turned his eyes away from the clearly polyjuiced person and put up a hand to rest his chin on.

His eyes scanned the crowd and eventually found Snape.

He’d been planning on losing, no matter how many mental detours he’d taken to get here.

Flitwick had been the first person to support him. Unconditionally, no interests in mind. Just sheer love for the game. No exchanges of homework or favours, just someone who’d been in his corner since day one, more than two years ago, when he’d first wanted to create the word-searching spell.

Hatred, brutal and raw, bubbled up inside of him. The sort of hatred that he’d cast the killing curse with. The sort of hatred that made him short of breath.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t experiencing rage.

An unnatural cold spread across his body, and his mind reverted through all the confusion to formulate a very simple plan.

The air around him crackled. 

The person disguised as Flitwick seemed uncomfortable and scooched away a bit, giving his “student” some space.

Harry steepled his fingers under his chin as the countdown to the finals entered its final minute. His eyes found the gaze of Snape in the crowd. An arrow of magic and silent communication. The black-clad man nodded and stood up.

The final seconds.

3

2

1

0

“Do what you have to, boy,” the impersonator said contemptuously as Harry finally stood up to go up the duelling platform after the referee reminded him twice.

But Harry wasn’t there anymore.

The only thing left was a cold abyss in the form of a fourteen-year-old boy.