Chapter Five

The Dunstable Duelling Championship tickets for the quarter-final, semi-final and final duels had sold out months before Harry found himself cast back in time. When he had initially mentioned ticket purchase Rosmerta had looked at him askance.

"Merlin's beard, Harry," She'd exhaled rather heavily and shaken her head, lips quirking at him. "You'll never get anything good, seats at the back of the stands I'd expect, or unsheltered."

Apparently, certain duelling championships in England and throughout Europe were heavily attended events, by all walks of wizarding society. Not wanting to lurk in the Hog's Head and pay more than the original asking price for any of those more worthy tickets Harry had contented himself with, and hoped Mr Flume did not object, tickets for the final day of the pools. These duels would determine who moved on to the quarter finals. As Rosmerta had indicated, the seats were not very good. The tickets, when they arrived by owl, bore runic seating numbers. Harry suspected that he recalled the strange arrangement of lines had been towards the end of Hermione's beginners rune chart in third year.

Anyone wishing to leave Hogsmeade for the final day of the Dunstable Duelling Championship was to be at the portkey at the northern most point of the town by 8.30 a.m. sharp. Mr Flume, therefore, collecting Harry on his way past the Three Broomsticks, ambled into the inn at eight. Harry, having provided food for those overnighters whom desired it for the first few hours of the morning shift, was leaning against the customers side of the bar chatting with Mrs Cuffe while Rosmerta loaded up shelves of clean glasses behind the bar.

Mrs Cuffe, extolling the virtues of her grandson in such ardent words as to cause anyone who heard them to disbelieve them, was cut off by Mr Flume's expostulation. "That what you're wearing boy?"

Harry glanced down at himself. He had just been upstairs to change, all his clothes were newly laundered and looked tidy. His robe was freshly pressed. He was not, after all, a messy looking barkeep. "Yes?" He ventured.

"Won't do." Tutted Mr Flume looking him up and down.

"Why not?" Asked Harry warily.

"Duelling, James!"

"Yea…" Harry frowned. "I know we're going to the duelling, but I'm not participating. These clothes will do."

Mr Flume's pipe almost appeared to sputter in expression of its wielders disbelief. "Ain't you ever paid any attention in life?"

Harry caught sight of Mrs Cuffe shaking her head and looked properly at Mr Flumes oddly dapper ensemble, a robe of heavy grey fabric, a frilly… thing…around his neck and what looked suspiciously like spats above his shoes, "What? I can't wear this outfit?" He asked of the two of them.

There were two matching emphatic shakes of the head. Mrs Cuffe spoke, "It's a veritable who's who of the wizarding world once you get beyond the national competitions. You'd best put on some formal day robes, dear."

"Formal day robes?" Harry had owned dress robes ever since his fourth year but, the equivalent of a muggle tuxedo, they were definitely for evening wear. He couldn't remember anyone ever mentioning anything of the kind for daywear.

"Yes, boy! Now back upstairs. Quickly." Mr Flume ordered glancing at his watch.

Rosmerta, stacking the last of the glasses behind the bar, joined the conversation. "I don't think Harry knows what you mean."

"What?" A small line formed between Mrs Cuffe's brows.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "I don't, sorry. I certainly don't own anything by that name."

Mrs Cuffe stood, hands on hips, glaring, "Young people these days! You're worse than Barny! Come along, dear. Lets get you to Gladrags. Flume!" She turned as quickly as her aged gait would allow and headed towards the exit.

In what Harry could only describe as the strangest shopping trip of his life, if one discounted his first experience of Diagon Alley, he was entirely redressed with the exception of his dragon hide boots which Mrs Cuffe "rather fancied" in the space of fifteen minutes. Rousing the shopkeeper, Mrs Weaver, who Harry had not often seen as a cashier before, at such an early hour had won them no favours, but it seemed to Harry that Mrs Cuffe was quite prepared to make up for it by spending nearly all his remaining coin. She'd acquired the full involvement of the shopkeeper, demanding to see every piece of wizards wear that might possibly match the dark glinting dragon scales adorning Harry's feet.

"Hungarian Horntail, is it?" Mrs Weaver asked, apparently rhetorically. "Well, there's the usual dully coloured formal wear towards the rear. It seems to be popular." Her tone implied she couldn't comprehend why. Her own, very yellow, ensemble accounted for this. Mrs Cuffe pursed her lips in agreement.

"I've got a few things that have just come in out the back," continued Mrs Weaver.

It was more than a few things and Harry, changing through outfits quicker than a chaser throws a quaffle, became a mannequin.

"Mm…. That one's reasonable." Declared Mrs Cuffe at one point.

"No. That one. Definitely that one." Stated Mrs Weaver.

Only seconds later to assert, "The last one was better."

Mr Flume had been put in charge of hats with instructions to "find something that doesn't dwarf the poor boy." Harry felt a little insulted by this.

In the end Harry was thrust into a heavy sort of fabric that turned out to be a skirted robe that came to mid calf under which one wore slimly fitted trousers. It was dark aubergine in colour, with very large grey lapels, and black and gold detailing adorned its double breasted buttons, cuffs and collar. He'd also been equipped with a starched white shirt, golden cravat, a shining mahogany cane and grey leather gloves.

"It's a good thing you keep your beard and hair so neatly." Observed Mrs Cuffe, patting at the last adamant tuft of Harry's hair that fought his diligent taming.

Mr Flume merely handed him a top hat. "Here, have the modern thing, boy." Harry supposed this was meant to be sympathetic.

Harry felt like an absolute idiot. Not even a Malfoy could have put this ensemble together. It was a good thing Ron wasn't here to see him. He would never have lived it down. He thanked Mrs Weaver for opening the shop, paid her, thanked Mrs Cuffe for her efforts and then departed with Mr Flume, his cane clacking alone as they walked. They, somehow, made it to the portkey — apparently a large barrel — in time.

Several gut wrenching seconds later Harry stood, his portkey technique had improved over the years, in the middle of a field. It was surrounded some yards from them by tall poplars on each side. Unlike at the Quidditch World Cup there was no one to greet those arriving by portkey; merely a row of large weather beaten crates. Attached to the nearest was a sign instructing travellers to discard their portkey and then head to the north of the field. A rag tag procession of wizards and witches, and a few individuals of other origin — if their loping gaits were any indication — could be seen wending there way across a flattened track of grass, warm cloaks wrapped firmly around themselves. A burly fellow traveller, whose dress robes, fraying near the cuffs, looked a little worse for wear, lobbed the Hogsmeade barrel into one of the emptier crates with an unnecessarily violent flick of his wand and then set off following the trail of compacted grass.

Harry glanced at Mr Flume. The old man looked a little pale. "Are you all right?" Harry inquired.

Flume grunted. Took a breath and then said, moodily, "Well? Best foot forward, boy."

Struggling to contain a grin, Harry ambled off across the field, his cane sinking slightly into damp ground.

As the imposing height of the narrow trees neared Harry began to hear the sound of chatting voices and the boom of a loud speaker or sonorous charm. He felt a keen sense of anticipation. The wizarding world always held new surprises, some good, some bad, and Harry treasured those moments in which he felt like that wide eyed eleven year old who had looked on stunned as a half-giant had bashed down the door to the hut on the rock.

Those in front of him were disappearing, one by one, between two wizened looking poplars — the gap between them inconsistent with the even distance that spaced the others in the row. Checking Flume was right behind him, his colour significantly returned, Harry stepped between the trees, dodging a gnarled root that threatened his footing. He felt a warmth pass over him and, looking back to extend a hand to Flume, and saw the air shimmer as the old mans right leg moved to take a step. It rippled as Flume's body moved through.

The old man glared at Harry's hand. "Ain't a cripple, you know." Then stepped forward past him. "Right then, what theatre are we?"

Harry glanced ahead as he shoved his hand in his pocket and stopped. Looming before them, behind a large crowd of people who seemed to be moving every which way, was a large circular grey stone building that continued up for several metres. Although any entrance to it was concealed by the crowd, Harry could see several great archways dotted around its exterior. Surrounding it, like tiny ducklings crowding around their mother, were several smaller buildings. Above them great white flags hovered, fluttering in the breeze. Each held a rune inscribed in large blue strokes. Pulling his hand from his pocket he glanced down at the tickets clutched in his grasp.

"Um…" He squinted. "We're…" There was a squiggle that looked a little like his scar, followed by something that looked a little bit like an F. He glanced back up at the signs. He could see several clearly. None matched anything on the ticket. "Is there a sign somewhere that looks a bit like a lightening bolt?"

Flume frowned and, stepping closer, glanced at the tickets. "Sigel," he pronounced.

Harry blinked. "Sea Gel?"

"Sigel. Nargles in your ears during school, boy?" The old man trailed off. He looked as though he was waiting for Harry to reply but jabbed a finger at the ticket instead. "This rune here," he indicated the mark that looked liked Harry's scar. "It's called sigel. It's the rune for the sun."

Harry nodded, he supposed a lot of wizards did seem to have a knowledge of runes. He'd always thought they were just highly academic, like Hermione.

"That theatre is usually around the back," Flume continued.

"Usually?" Harry queried, wondering if this place was going to be like the staircases at Hogwarts.

"Well, they've got to align right, don't they?" Stated Flume, as though his meaning were obvious, before setting off purposefully through the crowd. Harry shook his head, mystified.

The crowd, it soon became apparent, was a mess of spectators trying to find where their seats were, officials helping marshal them to their areas, others looking for food at the nearby stands, and a row of booths labeled Greywacke's manned by that businesses usual miserly custodians. Outside the wide gaping entrance of the main structure — it looked quite old and worn, Harry noted — were more goblins, a dozen or so surly looking males, or so Harry hoped. One or two of them, he noticed, were holding placards, words scrawled across them in a lopsided hand.

Wands for Goblins read one sign, it's wielder giving it a vigorous wave whenever a wizard passed by.

Down with Wizard Supremacy read another. The goblin holding this one was engaged in conversation with a long nosed member of the species who was holding a length of fabric above his head with two hands. It read Remember Longpick.

"Who was Longpick?" Harry asked, raising his voice a little over the rising noise of their surroundings.

Flume shrugged carving a path through the crowd to the left of the central arena with a pointed jab or two of his knobbly elbows.

It took only a few minutes following in Flume's wake before Harry was trudging up the slippery, moss covered steps that made the tiered seating inside the Sigel arena. Around them others were slowly taking their seats and high above them, Harry saw, stony outcrops sporting elaborate awnings and old carved wooden chairs had obtained one or two occupants. There were similar awnings surrounding the long boarded area of piste upon which the duellists would fight. Directly opposite Harry could see several bore crests or flags. A yellow and blue themed area, currently housing a few similarly attired officials, and sported a couple of horns. Sweden, perhaps.

They waited another half an hour or so watching people in various resplendent outfits trickle in before the loud pause that precedes a sonorous charm resounded.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," boomed a faceless voice. "The final rounds of the Dunstable Duelling Championship are about to commence. Please take your seats."

A few moments pause were given as those still standing or arriving late made their way to their allotted position. After many a "'scuse me", "sorry", "Elladora, mind the man's leg" the voice spoke again.

"Magnus Magnusson and Octavia Duval."

Two figures cloaked in black approached the long boards at the arena's centre. Magnus Magnusson was a tall blonde, bearded man, a few scars across his otherwise fine features. His opponent, a short dumpy witch of uncertain age, eyed him challengingly, her round blue orbs darting up and down his person. A short individual wearing a bright yellow robe and a few key pieces of dragon hide moved forward and exchanged a few words with both parties. The umpire, Harry supposed. After a moment both figures moved to the end of the piste, flicked their wands in salute, then a shrill whistle blue.

The aim, of course, was to disarm or incapacitate with no irreversible injury; a long list of more questionable jinxes, hexes and curses being banned from the highly regulated competitions. However, no duel could remain clean despite the best of intentions. Within ten minutes it became apparent that these two individuals had a history. Magnussen's nose appear to be broken, blood running down his upper lip. Duval had considerably less hair now than when she'd first walked onto the piste, the smell of singed keratin no doubt apparent to those closer to the action. The volume at which they were verbalising their incantations was steadily increasing. Harry wondered how either of them hadn't been knocked out, so labourious was their battle.

"No, you fool." Muttered Flume under his breath as Magnussen's choice to open up his torso by raising his arm to perform the correct movements of a bludgeoning hex. Flume's concern was proven correct as a sharp swish of Duval's stubby wand saw the front of his robes brought up in front of his face, Magnussen's arm tangling in them as he brought it forward in a flick. Duval's quickly executed expelliarmus saw the dual end.

"That," Harry felt obliged to say, "was just dumb."

Flume shook his head. "The French." He said knowingly. "Apparently, he's her ex-husband and she left him for some no-good Italian." He looked keenly at Harry. "If there's one thing to know about duelling, boy, it's never let your emotions rule your wand. Duelling is like a woman. Never lose your head, it always ends badly."

Harry nodded. He knew this, logically, to be true. He'd always had a second instinct with defensive magic. It was his strong suit, most people in his time would agree, he knew. 'Harry Potter,' they would say, reverently, 'is uncommonly gifted with the patronus, never seen anything like it in all my days.' But with the ever changing Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers he'd never had any continual and consistent training in defence that didn't come from his own will power or the benevolence of people like Remus Lupin. His skill had been in his emotion, in wanting the magic to work, in wanting to stay a live, needing to survive, or, in that final battle, wanting to die.

It wasn't until aurora training that anyone had suggested controlling one's magic, the skill in winning a duel, the difference between life and death wasn't in one's desire to live, or the rush of adrenaline one experienced, but in the calmness of the moment, taking the time to see with clarity the move you needed to make, the moves your wand would take to see you through as the victor of a swiftly excited confrontation. He could do that now, he hoped. It'd been as hard as any failed attempt to learn occlumency but he wasn't sure that the Calm, as the aurors called it, was right. Not totally.

He watched as the dumpy Ms Duval waved to a cheering portion of the crowd. It was hard to imagine her in any sort of affaire de couer. As for Harry and women… Well, Harry had always had Ginny not necessarily officially, or even without interference early on, but she'd always been there. He wasn't sure he'd lost his head but it had ended well. He smiled and glanced up at the patchy sky. Wherever Ginny was, wherever they all were, he hoped the peace was continuing and that they were happy.

"You got a woman, boy?" Flume asked, aged watery eyes flicking back to the piste as Duval and Magnussen shared the most token of handshakes.

"No," Harry heard himself saying. His chest felt a little hollow.

The next duel was much more skilled. Apparently, one contender, a Mr Padraig O'Sullivan, had been runner up of the Irish National's two years before and it was purported he had recently changed instructors.

"Vagin's old man took him on, you know." Informed Flume. "Don't think old Caractacus Browne could see him any further but now, with this knew Eastern European fellow, people are expecting great things."

Despite O'Sullivan's ruddy open faced complexion and short, practically cropped muddy colour hair Harry shivered, an echo of Ollivander's voice in his head.

"Oh, yes. You will do great things, Mr Potter. After all, you-know-who did great things. Terrible but great."

Flume was continuing. "O'Sullivan's muggleborn, they say."

Harry frowned. Perhaps disliking muggleborns was, in part, generational.

"Last time a muggleborn won Dunstable, the next day they found his house burnt to the ground, him inside it."

"When was that?" Harry was surprised. He had always thought violence against muggleborns was contained to periods of you-know-who's activity.

"About ten years ago now. I've forgotten his name."

"Evans," said a voice behind them. Harry turned sharply to find himself looking into a pair of shrewd brown eyes, behind large tortoiseshell framed spectacles.

"Oh! Hello. Didn't see you there. That's right, Evans." Flume nodded. "Welsh chap."

The brown eyes continued to look expectantly at Harry.

"Oh." Flume mumbled. "This here is Harry James. He runs the Three Broomsticks these days."

Typically, no introduction of their new companion was forthcoming from Mr Flume whose gaze returned to the piste.

A gaunt, pale hand, a few liver spots speckling its back, extended and shook Harry's. "Mr James, how do you do? Angus McLeod. A pleasure to meet you."

"Er… You too, Mr McLeod."

The hand receded over the back of their stone seats, adjusting the dark frames perched on Mr McLeod's nose. He cloak, Harry noised, was entirely tartan.

"Are you related to the Edinburgh James'?"

Harry shook his head. "No, sorry. I –"

McLeod clucked his tongue. "Never mind. Thought they'd died out long ago. Common enough name, mind. Muggle originally, being biblical. Your family don't originate from Wales, do they?"

"Er…" Harry tried to buy himself time. He should just opt for England, surely. He could claim ignorance. Or should he claim to be muggleborn and avoid further interrogation?

"Ha!" Yelled Flume, the hand cradling his pipe coming to knock Harry's injured shoulder. "Don't mind ol' Angus, he's too much into drawing trees in his mind. Ain't nothing wrong with a wizard as long as he can use his wand arm. Watch this! O'Sullivan's been hit and the Hun," His pipe gestured towards Mr Friedmann of Germany, "He's favouring a lot of earth movement."

"There's nothing wrong with knowing one's roots," muttered Mr McLeod turning his gaze away from Harry and to the duel.

Despite his set back and some rather spectacular earth works on the part of Mr Friedmann, O'Sullivan won as expected, in under twenty minutes. The following duels had an equally high turn around. Flume was visibly torn. It would be nice, he claimed, to see a prolonged battle of skill but at the same time it was a treat to so many duelists. Once, he'd had seen a duel that had gone on all morning. As the morning progressed Flume began to yell tips at the duellists.

"WATCH YOUR POSTURE, LAD!" Carried around the theatre at volume during a tense moment of audience silence.

At another point he yelled, "WHY DID YOU USE A CONFUNDUS? THE MOON COULD SEE WHAT YOU WERE ABOUT THE CAST!"

Harry couldn't help but chuckle, despite the faces turning to peer at them.

"USE YOUR FEET, YOU OLD CODGER!" Caused a blast of blue light which Flume barely ducked to come flying their way.

"Watch it, Amon!" Warned Mr McLeod, "You know his wife has always had the temperament of a hippogriff."

Another spell came hurtling their way.

"And good hearing?" Harry questioned.

Mr McLeod righted himself, straightening his flat cap. A small segment of the brim smoked.

Harry knew the weather was not something that could halt a wizarding sporting event. Around lunch time it began to drizzle. By dusk it poured. Not long after the winds picked up and then, while no less than eight duels were ongoing on their pistes, a thunder storm began. Those sitting in the stands or boxes had the good fortune to be provided with cover. Cheaper tickets saw those standing drenched but for the use of their own wands or umbrellas, while the duellist's themselves were afforded no respite from the elements.

Mr Flume informed Harry that apart from a particularly unfortunate event in which a tree had fallen across a piste in 1508 at the now defunct Cornish Warlock's Duelling Annuals crushing the near victorious party, and a witch being blown by a rather forceful gust several fields from her duel in the early eighteen hundreds, there had been little call to consider the conundrum of the elements affecting duels. Thus, while obviously feeling battered, the duellists carried on, their casting often drowned out by the thundering overhead and the flash of spells mirrored by the lightening in the skies.

It was in these circumstances that Harry saw the first of Bellatrix Black. It felt a little like time slowed when the booming voice, louder now, competing with the thunder for aural perception, announced the entrance of Bellatrix Black who had, it seemed, spent the day on other pistes and the return of Octavia Duval. Bellatrix, who looked to have shed any excess fabric already weighed down by the stormy waters and hindering her when caught in the wind, was as Harry remembered.

Her hair was a mess, tangled around whatever pins had been holding it earlier in the day, her cheekbones as high as Sirius' and her eyelids so heavy as to give her an almost lazy appearance contradicted by the swift strides that brought her to her position on the piste. She paused and looked around the theatre while Duval assumed her position at the opposite end of the piste. There was a nod to someone in one of the boxes, Harry couldn't see who in the darkness. Then, as the umpire said an inaudible word, the long walnut wand appeared as an extension of her darkly covered arm, almost talon-like in its shape, and acknowledged its opponent.

The whistle blew.

Beside Harry Flume lent forward in his seat, extinguished pipe held unnoticed between his teeth.

Duval fired the first shot. They were slow at first, each gauging the other's style and weaknesses. Bellatrix seemed happy to let Duval try and get a hit in, consistently erecting shields to ward off oncoming attacks. It wasn't a new tactic by any means. She would allow her opponent to establish a neat routine before forcing her to break it and hopefully catch her off guard. Harry had used it many times himself in training, although he felt it had little application in real life. She waited quite a few minutes before casting a minor hex to break Duval's form. Duval side stepped it nimbly, continuing her own attacks.

It was strange, Harry thought, seeing a woman who usually dived recklessly into deathly attacks or milked a situation of all its pain fight so reservedly. Perhaps this was a mark of her current sanity. Although, a world in which Bellatrix Black was sane seemed unlikely.

Bellatrix erected a few more shields, another little hex unknown to Harry, and then with her wand arm fleetingly pointed towards the ground a large rumble sounded, the piste rippling towards Duval. Duval's footing becoming unsteady as she tried to cast her next attack and maintain her balance.

Flume chuckled. "Been watching that Hun."

And then, in the pause that lengthened the previously even times between Octavia Duval's attempts to hit her opponent, Bellatrix lips curled, her teeth glinting in the flashes of light provided by the casters and the sky.

That was the duellist he recognised. Her stance became infinitesimally, impossibly straighter, her wand arm arched upwards and, in a silence punctuated only by the thunderous roars of the sky, a barrage of curses headed towards Duval. Harry thought he saw four different coloured streaks shading each other through the air at one point.

Duval halted her attack in time, casting what looked like a powerful, mercifully tweaked protego and, crouching, held it as it weakened against the onslaught. Bellatrix's arm darted down again, causing a great shudder of the piece. Duval had braced for it and, with Bellatrix's arm down, dropped her shield and hurtled a clear petrificus totalus in a speedy line down the battleground.

Flume tutted. "Too obvious."

Bellatrix's wand seemed to almost bat the curse away before she side stepped its following companion and pointed her own wand back at Duval.

Duval was a good dueller. Harry could see that. But it would be luck and sheer luck alone if she beat Bellatrix Black. Bellatrix, after years in azkaban, serious mental problems, and at the mercy of her Dark Lord had had stamina. Bellatrix at eighteen or nineteen would be indefatigable. Clearly it had only just started.

He was right.

Duval's fight became largely defensive, warding off plain attacks, reading a few of Bellatrix's more creative moves. But then she changed tack. The storm was dying down and it became clear to Harry and his fellow onlookers that Duval had decided to try and break her opponents composure to gain a much needed advantage.

"You fight like your mother gave birth to a house elf, always doing what others tell you!" She yelled from behind a shield.

Bellatrix responded by aiming a bludgeoning hex at Duval's knees.

The shield deflected the hex and disappeared.

"Inlignum!" Returned Duval, the streak of green disappearing into the night.

"Putain!" She continued. "VERMOSTIUM!"

Why waste precious time using spells you needed to verbalise in order to cast? Harry pondered.

"Terpis halitus!" Continued Duval.

"What?" Huffed Flume.

"Come on, little witch!" Yelled Duval as Bellatrix swiftly removed herself from the path of the jinx that preyed only on her vanity. "Call yourself a Black?"

It was clear it had worked. Bellatrix's faced morphed into a snarl, her shield dropped, and her wand arm began a savage movement upwards as she lashed out. Harry felt a shiver pass quickly down his spine. Duval ducked as the words left her mouth, a hex already making its way from her wand.

Then, as the streaks of light wove across the piste, Harry saw his vision blur, clearing as a sudden shriek of the crowd echoed around the arena. He blinked. As he stared at the darkened piste a loud thunder clap followed high over their heads.

Flume was on his feet, peering down over the rows of heads in front of them. "Merlin's hairy gonads…" he breathed.

Two brightly cloaked figures were running onto the boards. Mediwizards, if the lead potion cases in their left hands were any indication. They stopped at the Frenchwoman's end, crouching. Her figure, Harry could see, was crumpled, her wand arm extended limply, loosely holding the stubby piece of wood. He glanced away down the piste. Bellatrix looked at shocked as he felt. Pale, a hand to her head as she blinked slowly, looking a lot like she might need to throw up or at the very least sit down. She looked up, perhaps seeking reassurance, in the direction of one of the boxes again.

"Lightning," hissed Flume, turning to stare at Harry, pipe clutched a little to firmly in his hand. "Black gets through because her opponent gets struck by lightning?!"

Harry swallowed, watching as one the mediwizards pointed his wand at Duval's chest. What damned luck.