Harry Evans Chapter 78: Drawing the lots (Patreon)

In the end, Harry ended up being too tired to go out and explore the city. Flitwick was a harsh taskmaster and it didn't seem like the man was willing to give him any respite even on the day before the actual tournament, for which he'd presumably need all of his energy.

So, he went to sleep, had an undisturbed night in the sinfully comfortable bed and woke up feeling more rejuvenated than he had in a very long time. Today was the day. Matches would start in four hours, which meant that he had a long period in which to maximise his potential to perform.

It was only seven and so the first thing he did upon waking up was go through an extended stretch routine, parts of which were taken from the stretches he'd done for the various sports he'd played, and others which were lifted directly out of yoga. Afterwards, he meditated until 8:00, which was when Flitwick knocked on his door and asked him if he was hungry.

Now usually Harry didn't eat this early and oftentimes skipped breakfast in its entirety simply because he was most productive at the start of the day and wanted to use the time. But, duelling was a sport in the end and he would need the carbs, the energy.

It turned out, however, that they weren't actually going to be eating at the hotel.

"I got poisoned once, right before a match. The finals as well," Flitwick said as they left the hotel and entered a bakery. "I won the year after, but well, I've never quite recovered in terms of food paranoia. There will always be people willing to do anything to win."

"Would you say that being a former duelling champion was a large part of what got your professorship at Hogwarts?" Harry asked as they purchased some raisin buns and sat down in a public park. Dogs were being walked as the first priority of the day and a great white spotted hound came over to curiously sniff at Harry's hands before the owner pulled it away and went off with a quiet apology.

Flitwick huffed. "I hope the charms Mastery helped, I didn't do an apprenticeship for nothing after all," he said. "The title was what set me apart from the other applicants," he admitted.

Harry looked up at the large tree covering the two of them as they ate breakfast. It was a beautiful sunny Saturday and the light pierced through the foliage to tickle lightly at their skin. It was a clear blue sky. Perfect for violence.

"Is a professorship so desirable?" he asked. He couldn't personally imagine being a teacher. After all, you ended up teaching the same thing every year. And, well, he'd already been reborn and forced to live life as a child for 13 years now, he hardly needed to pick a profession where he had to deal with more of the crotch-goblins.

"It's a stable position, with good pay and a castle with a team of house-elves. There's a library, there's a room, there are other  professors, all experts in their field." Flitwick defended. "I've never asked, after all, we have career talks after the 4th year, but what do you want to become, Harry?"

Harry mulled over the question while enjoying his bun. "Is there even a point in being anything, really? With magic, I could grow my own food, make my own clothes, build my own house, repair my own house, and travel anywhere I wanted. Maybe I'm being naive but being a wizard for me, means being free of the obligation to sell my labour. Maybe I like duelling enough to continue for the rest of my life. Maybe I'll get involved in magical research just for the fun of it. Maybe I'll even be an enchanter, a professional quidditch player, a musician. The lifespan of the wizard is so long. Why constrain myself?"

Flitwick hummed thoughtfully. "Oddly enough," he noted. "Most witches and wizards get married immediately after Hogwarts and start having children not late after. You'll never be able to create everything you need by yourself, you need money to exchange for those goods and services. A free life like that is for bachelors like us," Flitwick said. "The tumultuous life of travelling the world, never settling down and being a world-renowned duellist. It wears on you after a while. You start looking for stability and comfort. If you can reliably win tournaments, you're not really strapped for cash. Ignoring the prizes, the sponsorships are what make up most of the winnings. Not that I ever got one, being a…” He trailed off.

"Who cares?" Harry wondered. "The wealth of a life is measured by the depth of the relationships that you share with the people in it. That isn't something money can buy. So as long as you get by, there's no point in trying harder. Especially, if you're a wizard. Healthcare, housing, food." 

"Depths of the relationships that you have," Filius said with a laugh. "We'll make a professor out of you yet. After all, who has more relationships than a teacher?"

Harry snorted, refusing to say anything more on the topic. 

Flitwick eventually finished his meal and pulled out a newspaper, on the front page of which was written that the duelling championship tournament would commence in three days and that there was a list of participants on a page further in. The deadline for registration for the U17 tournament was one day before the event itself, while the adults had to be three days early. The officials delayed publishing the lists for as long as possible to prevent sabotage and specific preparation against an opponent.

The professor opened the newspaper and leafed past the first few pages detailing the story of how a drunken bear escaped from the muggle zoo and somehow managed to get into the Wizarding District of Vienna. After that, there were three pages of adult participants and one page of the not yet-of-age participants, small print, several columns and minimalistic listings. Just the name, country of origin, and the date of birth.

Harry looked for his own name as Flitwick read through the list muttering information. "The Antrakosis? Very good duellists. Oh, a Habsburg? I didn't expect that. Delacour, veelas?"

Harry eventually found himself, 'Harry Ebans, England, birth date 31st of July 1978.'

"I really am the only person participating for Britain,” he muttered.

"There's a few Irish lads," Flitwick said insensitively to the current political situation. Well, the muggle politics were still seeing the IRA involved in a brutal war against the British political occupation. While the magical community was just another prosperous magical country happily putting centaurs into cultural enclosures, for their own good.

"We should probably get going," Harry said. "They'll be drawing lots soon."

Every duelling tournament started with an announcement of the list, before a few hours later the bracket would be drawn. Harry would likely find himself all the way on the right with the other losers occasionally facing a seeded opponent, who was being given an easy ride to the finals to not exhaust themselves before their epic performance.

He wondered who he was going to be put up against.

-/-

If Harry had been expecting anything dramatic for the drawing of the lots then he would have been sorely disappointed. While the Colosseum in which the duelling Championship would find place was indeed beautiful, the organisation for the U17 tournament was less than monumental. 

They had been gathered in the middle of the four platforms on which several matches would be held at a time and were looking up onto what must have been the judge's desk. On its elevated podium were a few bored-looking officials pulling names out of a hat and magicking contestant names onto a large wooden block structure.

There were 72 participants eventually converging into one final after five matches. There would be one bye after there were only nine participants left.

The only highlight, really, was the fact that the boy Harry had already briefly met at the Portkey terminal was also present with what looked to be his instructor. The asshole ended up being a Habsburg. Fitting.

“How disdainful,” Flitwick commented. “I know the teacher, obviously. His name is Pierre. He took second place against me a few times and was not all too happy about it. An emotion he also expressed to the newspapers at the time. For him to be teaching a Habsburg, with the history their families have had. He's just thirsty for victory it seems, of any kind, now that he has retired.”

“Well, the reporters seem interested in him,” Harry said. There weren't many reporters present, but the young Habsburg was one of the centres of attention. The other was a Greek boy with the last name Antrakosis and an older-looking platinum-haired beauty who seemed to have some Veela blood running through her veins.

Name, after name, was drawn from the hat and it quickly became apparent who the favourites were. 72 participants could be divided into four main brackets because it would be after three matches that the semi-finals would be reached. All but one of the brackets contained one of the seeds of the three participants considered to most likely win the tournament. Those had been the only names not drawn out of a hat.

Antrakosis, Delafleur, and Kardokov. The last one seemed more of an honorary seed, as no one seemed too excited for the older Russian lad with a heavy brow who seemed to be considered the third most likely to win the tournament.

When Harry's name was finally drawn from the hat, the boy cracked a grin at the fact that he was in the bracket of the Habsburg. he didn't come here to win, so bloodying the nose of someone that he was beginning to dislike would be a perfectly functional reason to stay.

“Never heard of your first opponent,” Flitwick remarked. A certain Alfred Nyssen. “But, if you get to the second match you get to knock out Pierre's pupil.”

Harry grinned savagely. “I'll enjoy the duel,” he said as everyone around them discussed the matchups. Only Flitwick and Harry seemed to exist on some sort of unapproachable island. On the outside of which, everyone either dispersed or was approached by journalists.

Harry and Flitwick also turned to leave. The duelling wouldn't start for another hour, so there was no point in staying. Surprisingly, however, on their way out they were approached by one reporter. A man dressed in a muggle suit seemingly taken from before World War II, wearing also an appropriate hat.

“Are you Harry Evans, the youngest participant?” the man asked, holding up a little notepad with a pencil.

“Sure,” Harry replied. “Who's asking?”

“Gereon Rath, I've been sent here from Berlin to document the event. I simply wanted to ask you, as the youngest participant, what you thought of your chances.”

Harry gave him a queer look. “Well, I’ll obviously lose,” he said, seemingly surprising the man who quickly noted that down.

“Why participate then?”

“I'm 13 years old. I still have another four tries in me. Losing for the first time will give me valuable experience going forward in the future. I think it is a foolish strategy to only go in when you think you have a chance of winning. That way you simply experience less.”

“Interesting, so do you think you will manage to perhaps win at least the first match? I see that you're facing off against Nyssen, he is a Berlin-based half-blood who is here for the second time, having managed to get to the top 16 on his last attempt. He is going to be 17 next year, so you might see him again.”

Not feeling like he had to lie about anything Harry simply admitted the truth. “I don't know anything about Nyssen, never heard of him, never talked to him. I imagine that the better duelist will win and that is that,” he said.

The reporter nodded happily, uttered a thanks and turned around to go to someone else. 

The next time they were to be present in the arena would be for the first match.