Harry Evans Chapter 135: Kill the opps

The U17 dueling tournament was an event that technically took three days, but in actuality, it took more like two days and one morning. On the first day, 64 participants were reduced to 32 through a series of consecutive duels. The duelling arena had four platforms, which meant that eight duelists could compete at the same time. This meant eight rounds before the number was down to 32. After that, two duels would occur at the same time, necessitating eight rounds to go down to 16.

As Harry watched Habsburg’s opponent stumble at a rather suspicious juncture of the duel, without any seeming outside influence, he continued counting.

Today, on the second day, 16 would get reduced to 8, one duel at a time, which would again take eight rounds. Later, eight would go down to four, which would take four rounds. As the big event of the evening, the semi-finals would occur after dinner. Two rounds. The event was missing two rounds on the second day to have the exact same number of rounds as the first day, namely, 16. Instead, it only had 14. The finals, constituting the last round, would happen on the morning of the adult dueling competition as a sort of opening match. The whole tournament of 64 finished in 31 rounds of duels. The asymmetry pissed him off somewhat, but mathematically, there was no solution. If duels happened one at a time, there would be 63 matches, again, an uneven number. 

“You look frustrated,” Flitwick noted next to Harry as they sat and observed the competition. 

“I hate asymmetry sometimes,” Harry replied bitterly. “There’s no way of dividing a 64-person bracket into an even number of rounds without doing something idiotic.”

“What?” Flitwick asked in a deadpan.

“It just pisses me off,” Harry muttered.

The professor didn’t really have much to say to that.

“I see that I still struggle to understand your thought patterns sometimes,” the man eventually commented. “I was rather thinking you were making that face because Pierre has been staring at us as if he wanted to burn us alive for the past fifteen minutes.”

Harry turned to his mentor with a confused look. “Who?” he asked. 

“Habsburg’s teacher. One of our main ops? The duellist who gave me food poisoning once? We briefly met him last year. Do you remember?”

Harry tried. He really did. But he was drawing a blank.

He looked around and eventually saw a taller blonde man with a large nose and the countenance of a drowned rat. He was glaring at them quite heavily.

“Is it the rat-looking guy?” he asked out loud while staring right back. By the intensification of the glare, the words had travelled. Ups.

Flitwick sighed. “Yes, that’s the one.” 

“He should mind his own business. What a loser,” Harry commented before dropping the topic.

In the background, Habsburg won his duel, and for some god-forsaken reason, sent a superior glance Harry’s way. An older version of the boy cheered loudly from the stands. It was easy to see the relation because they both had fucked up faces and lanky brown hair.

“That slip was suspicious,” Harry commented with narrowed eyes.

“He’s improved, though, also, sometimes people just fall,” Flitwick said, noticing the same thing that Harry had yesterday, that the boy had finally trained.

Harry had never told the man about the mental attack incident last year. After deliberating for a while, it had sort of slipped his mind. Ups.

“I don’t think he should be worried about you quite yet. You can only meet in the finals. He’s good, but not quite good enough to get there easily. Similarly, you’re going to be facing the same obstacle you did last year if everything goes the same way.”

“Yeah, I’ll just be facing him in the semis rather than for a spot in the quarters,” Harry noted. His gaze flickering to the side, where Apollo Antrakosis was sitting. The Greek boy who’d knocked him out last year only to go on to lose to Delafleur because he’d spent too much energy doing so.

As if sensing his look, Antrakosis turned towards Harry, quirked an eyebrow and then stood up to walk over.

“You’re having an easy bracket, Ebans,” Antrakosis said mockingly as he halted in front of Harry’s bench. 

“Good duel last year,” was all Harry had to say to that. He looked the boy up and down. Classic black robes, albeit with a different cut than his own. “I like your robe,” he complimented before waving his hand. “Go along now.”

Antrakosis stood there for a second, blinked a few times before turning around and leaving.

“Your duel is coming up now,” Flitwick muttered. “16-year-old Ivana Katalinka, Durmstrang, just like Habsburg. Her spells always toe the legal boundary. She thinks she’s smart, but she already has one infraction. Two more and she’s out.”

“Taunt?” Harry asked.

Flitwick paused before shaking his head. “You’re better than her; just overwhelm her and send her packing. Save the mental energy for Antrakosis. It’s his last chance this year; he’ll be giving it his all.”

Harry nodded and stood up, locking eyes with his opponent. A red-haired girl who was slightly taller than him. She would have been pretty if she hadn’t been scowling like she’d stepped in shit.

“Has anyone ever told you you’d look better with a smile?” Harry whispered in German as they ascended the duelling platform.

“Go die, half-blood,” the girl muttered straight back, seemingly unfazed by Harry’s carefully chosen sexist comment.

“Wrong century,” Harry muttered to himself as he took his position, left hand behind his back. “In 20 years, that would have been considered very offensive.”

The referee finished the countdown.

Harry finished his own countdown.

3

2

1

He walked off the platform and returned to his seat next to Flitwick.

“That was a very inspired shield-breaker,” Flitwick commented. 

“Yes, well, at least Quirrell was good for something, the asshole,” Harry replied, causing the Charms Professor to grimace at the memory.

“Please don’t remind me ever again, that year never happened,” the small man muttered, before brightening up again. “Anyway, you’re in the quarter-finals now, one position further than last year! Something to celebrate.” A crease of the brow. “Your next opponent isn’t anything special either.” 

“I get easy brackets, the duelling tournament gets some hype. Nothing wrong with that,” Harry said.

“I’m just worried. Your road to the semi-finals might be relatively easy, but Antrakosis had to beat some tough eggs to get there. He’ll be more exhausted than you.”

Harry didn’t say anything to that. Flitwick didn’t want him to win this tournament. But what Snape had offered was too valuable. A year of instruction from one of the most powerful wizards alive, again, three vials of Felix Felicis to help with his investigation and also…

Well, he’d worry about that after he won.

“Your nemesis is gone,” Harry said suddenly to distract his mentor.

Flitwick glanced to where the French duelling master had been sat previously.

“Probably powdering his face,” the Charms Professor said in a bored tone of voice. Quite frankly, the man really had already seen it all, regardless.

Half an hour later, Habsburg’s opponent surrendered, complaining about an injury from the previous round. 

Habsburg was the first to enter the semi-finals.

Twenty minutes later, a rather severe-looking dark-skinned girl from southern Russia joined him. 

Antrakosis won his round after that.

As for Harry?

Well, he wiped the floor with his opponent easily enough.

The quarter-finals were set.

Habsburg vs. Aliyah

Antrakosis vs. Evans

-/-

Harry and Flitwick were sitting in the same spot where they’d eaten the first time they’d arrived in Helsinki. On the dock, next to the fish market.

This time, Flitwick had even joined Harry in his consumption of a salmon cream soup with more parsley than salmon.

“It is quite good, actually,” the half-goblin eventually admitted. The man heavily leaned into liking British food for some reason, despite his extensive travels, so the compliment was quite serious.

“I’d do a sauna right now,” Harry said idly. “There’s a good one on the southernmost point of the city. Next to the sea and all, for dips in between sets.” 

“Is it really the best time to expose ourselves like that?” Flitwick asked.

“Antrakosis is harmless,” Harry stated. “I’d be more worried about what comes after, if I win.” 

“We’re keeping the Mists of Moria as a secret for next year,” Flitwick reminded

Harry breathed in the smell of the sea and watched far-away dockworkers scurry to unload a large cargo ship containing what seemed to be primarily food.

“Mists of Moria for next year,” he eventually agreed.

“This breaks down your chances by a lot. Antrakosis also worked on his fundamentals, although you’ve certainly had more to improve on. But he’ll be going all out. Still, I think there’s a chance there, so answer this question. Will you lose?”

Harry remained silent as they hailed a cab and drove south.

He remained silent as the two duellists did three sessions in the sauna and three dips in the incredibly cold Baltic Sea.

He remained silent as they drove back.

He remained silent as Aliyah barely put up a fight against Habsburg, slowly getting pushed back until she let herself be disarmed after a few minutes of a very boring match.

Harry remained silent.

Flitwick let him.

It was unwise to interrupt an athlete when they were clearly adjusting their mental state.

Going up to the duelling platform in the evening under the gaze of a full stadium, all the people who came to spectate the adult competition, coming a day early, he finally spoke.

“Nah,” he told his professor, who was walking beside him, finally answering his question. “I’ll win.”

-/-

The duel between Harry and Apollo started off just like it had last year, with a wary exchange of disarming charms.

Quick red beams of light passed between the two duellists and were all dodged with flawless footwork.

Apollo’s fundamentals had already been nearly perfect for this level last year.

Harry’s fundamentals had caught up.

When the other boy sent out a wave of golden fire, Harry retaliated with a deluge of water. The two spells cancelled each other out.

Harry transfigured the steam into several ice spikes, which he sent at his opponent.

Apollo countered with an explosion.

Harry braced himself and deflected the explosion right back with the duellist’s riposte. 

Apollo dodged and summoned a golden shield to his arm.

The duel sped up. Now the boy didn’t bother dodging anymore, simply deflecting any incoming spells with his shield while attacking with his wand-arm. 

Not to be outdone, Harry started slapping whatever spells he recognised out of the air while retaliating with his wand. 

The commentator, whom Harry had always ignored, really liked that one, as did the crowd.

Harry didn’t let himself get distracted. When Apollo tried the same trick as last year, the sound missile, Harry cast a protection on all his senses.

When he retaliated with a lumos as bright as the sun, Apollo did the same. 

The exchange continued on like that for several minutes.

Harry had a very large spell repertoire, but some of it wasn’t suited for a fast-paced duel with a fellow professional. 

He’d lost to Apollo last year, and the boy had improved even further since. But, even without the Mists of Moria, Harry had improved more.

His fundamentals alone evenly matched everything Apollo could throw at him. 

The boy was starting to grow frustrated. It was clearly visible on his face.

In his mind, he needed this win much more than Harry; after all, he was 17 now. It was his last year to cause a splash in the international arena before being swallowed up by the adult circuit and not regaining any significance for five years, the amount of time it took for a new entrant to finish anywhere other than last.

Harry used his impatience against the boy.

He let him exhaust himself while he simply dodged and deflected. He made him make broad sweeping gestures with his shield arm to deflect fast and lightly curving disarming charms. 

Harry had had an easier time getting to the semis, and it showed in terms of energy. On the same level, with more stamina, he simply outpaced and outlasted the boy.

Desperation slowly started creeping in.

Flitwick had made a mistake when he’d thought Harry couldn’t win the tournament if he refrained from using the mist. He hadn’t accounted for the duelling tournament committee to “allegedly” fuck up the brackets.

He hadn’t accounted for Harry to improve so fast. 

How could he have? 

Nobody had truly foreseen the mentoring by Voldemort, which had pushed Harry to the brink of life and death on a weekly basis, sharpening his instincts and reactions.

Time moved glacially for Harry as he pushed Apollo further and further into the corner.

The crowd had grown silent.

Perhaps they had finally realised what it meant. A fourteen-year-old entering the finals.

The implications.

Or maybe they were just engrossed.

The Greek’s face twisted itself in a rictus of concentration as he dropped his shield and summoned a golden whip from his wand.

A wave of the weapon deflected the newest barrage of jinxes heading his way.

Harry dramatically raised his wand for a grand slashing gesture.

An irresistible opportunity.

The golden whip struck like a snake, wrapping itself around Harry’s wand arm and entangling him from elbow to wrist. 

High-level competitions were either decided by a series of small mistakes or a single big one.

Apollo had forgotten one thing.

He’d already used the whip once against Harry, last year.

That meant that Harry had an answer.

As Apollo tugged at the whip with a victorious and relieved smile, Harry pulled back.

Entangling someone with a rope one didn’t plan on letting go also meant entangling oneself. Even if the golden whip burned Harry’s skin as it dug into his forearm, for that one moment, they were both pulled off balance.

There was a split second of indecision on Apollo’s face: should he let go of the spell, or compete in a tug of war?

This indecision distracted him for a very critical moment.

A moment that Harry knew how to recognise.

His free hand made a small throwing gesture as if he was bowling.

A wandless knockback jinx hurled towards Apollo.

To his credit, the boy made the correct decision. He promptly let go of the whip and deflected the kinetic ball of force with the tip of his wand.

Unfortunately, that left him open.

A red disarming charm dug itself into his left side, dug itself into his torso, before flinging him back.

Apollo held onto his wand… For a second. Then it flew out of his hand and into the air, into his awaiting hand.

The silence of a second stretched out into a century. 

Then. When Apollo landed on his back with a defeated scream of anguish, right at that moment, when his body loudly thumped on the platform, the arena exploded with applause.

Harry stood there stunned that he had won, before the referee stepped up to him and raised his arm in the air. 

Apollo soon joined the two and sullenly took back his wand.

He threw a complicated look at Harry, and as the two descended from the duelling platform, he whispered something into his ear.

“Habsburg’s cheating, take care,” the boy warned, before nodding and leaving.

Harry didn’t need the reminder.

He walked towards the sneering face of the other finalist on his way to Flitwick.

“You’ll never win, you know?” the boy said arrogantly, leaning against a wall. “Half-bloods just don’t have it in them.”

Harry stopped, turned around, and locked eyes with the hook-nosed man clad in black, looking who’d remained seated while all the other audience members started dispersing. The Potions Master was staring right at him.

Turning to Habsburg, Harry just shook his head. “You’re the reason abortion exists,” he said before walking off.

“It’s not possible, just let it go already, you pretender!” the other boy shouted at him, but Harry wasn’t listening anymore. 

When he’d exchanged glances with Snape, a single message had floated towards him in the intransient world of the mind.

‘I was told to brew a bottle of the undetectable unlucky potion,’ the message said. ‘I suggest you don’t eat until tomorrow and avoid sleeping in your room. They bribed their way through the double-blind system and know where it is.’