The Riddle War

Chapter 3:

Lasse Viren

". . .and in lane four, wearing number 278, United Kingdom record holder at five thousand meters, world-record holder in the two-mile, Jaaaames Black!"

A wild cheer went up through the stands as the announcer finished introducing the athletes who would be running the Mens 3000 Meter Run at the Oxford Open, one of Britain's largest indoor track meets. An estimated crowd of five thousand people had been crammed into the indoor track facility at Oxford University, many of whom were here to see England's favorite son go up against some of the best runners in the world in his favorite distance.

While Black was certainly the crowd's favorite, the other runners who made the field were some of the most distinguished middle and long-distance runners in the world. There was Jan Vasala, the 2002 European Champion over 1500 meters and nephew of Pekka Vasala, the 1972 Olympic Champion in the same distance, Hammou Skah, a Morroccan specialist in the 5000, and even little Kip Ngeno, of Kenya, three-time European Champion in the 3000 meter steeplechase.

Black was, as the announcer said, positioned in the fourth lane of the two hundred meter track, in perfect position to cut to the inside lane after a few strides. He got into his set position and hung motionless as the starter raised the gun.

CRACK!

"And they'rrrre off!" the announcer screamed into the mic, the crowd cheering wildly.

As they blazed around the first turn, James fought hard to get around Ngeno, who, like James, also liked to front run during races. James hated letting anyone but himself set the pace, since anyone who set the pace controlled the race. On the backstretch of their first of fifteen laps James surged briefly, striding past the shorter Ngeno with his great leaping step.

"And here they are at the finish of the first lap, Black striding magnificently down the homestretch, followed closely by Ngeno and Skah. Vasala five meters back. Black's first lap: thirty-one seconds. Ngeno and Skah, half a second back. Vasala, thirty-three seconds. And here's the rest of the pack, in at thirty-six seconds."

Black ignored the crowd, concentrating instead on settling into his pace. This was his last indoor race of the 2003 season and he wanted to conclude an otherwise uninspired series of races by breaking the British 3000 meter record held by David Moorcroft. Fourteen laps to go. . . he had to average between thirty and thirty-one seconds a lap if this was to work.

Minutes later, they passed the first kilometer in 2:30.24, (right on pace, Black thought grimly, trying to ignore the heaviness in his legs) the short, powerful Ngeno came up on Black's shoulder. Black spared a brief glance at the dark phantom that was sticking to him like glue before throwing in a seemingly-effortless burst of acceleration. The panting Ngeno held tight. Black gritted his teeth, his face paralyzed in a trademark grimace. He poured even more speed into his effort, opening up a three meter gap on the stubborn Ngeno. There. Now he had some breathing room.

Unfortunately, the 250 meter surge it had taken to drop Ngeno had cost Black some much-needed energy. Black was fast approaching the second kilometer, but he was tiring even faster.

"Black has reached the second kilometer-mark. His is time is. . . four minutes, fifty-eight and three-quarter seconds. Ladies and gentlemen, Black is on national record pace!"

Black nearly cracked a smile at hearing the slightly biased announcer inform the crowd of his pace, but suppressed it and instead tossed in a brief two second surge, a symbolic wave to the crowd. The noise inside the cramped stadium was deafening. The crowd took up a cheer.

"BLACK! BLACK! BLACK! BLACK!" the crowd chanted as one. James gave a quick glance backwards, seeing Ngeno eight yards back with Skah and Vasala right on the Kenyan's shoulder. He hadn't won the race yet. Vasala especially was one to keep an eye on. His finishing kick was infamous throughout the middle-distance world.

It was time to shake these followers. If he let them get too close, they would blow by him on the last two laps. Black had to get rid of them.

Inhaling deeply, Black dropped two seconds off his lap pace, opening another few yards on Ngeno. The rest of the runners, less distinguished then the four in front, ran in a pack a half lap behind. Black was deep in the pit of oxygen debt now. His chest was on fire, his legs had to each weigh a ton to be that hard to lift. . .and yet he had to press on. No, more than press on. Black had to speed up. This was that moment where ninety-nine percent of the world would quit. Black merely ignored the screamed protests from his legs and cut another second off his pace.

"Ladies and gentlement, Black rockets through 2400 meters in five minutes, fifty-six seconds! He has three laps to go and still holds his national-record pace! On your feet, ladies and gentlemen, you must bring him home!"

This was Black's favorite thing about indoor meets. The announcers loved to get a room full of five thousand people hyped up and hysterical. The crowd was screaming itself hoarse now, standing up and clapping their hands raw. Although he tried to run coolly and calculated, Black couldn't help but pick up the pace as he heard thousands of people chanting his name.

"Oh! Jan Vasala has just surged around Ngeno and Skah!" the announcer yelled into his mic, getting excited as the Finnish runner began to close the distance between himself and Black.

James felt despair rise up against him. Six hundred meters to go. He didn't know if he had the speed to hold off the feared Vasala. If only he hadn't surged so authoratively against Ngeno a kilometer ago. . .

Too late now, Black told himself firmly. Vasala had already closed the ten yard lead Black had enjoyed and was trying to pass. It was time to get serious.

Reaching within himself, Black changed his stride so he was running on his toes and began sprinting. At 550 meters out from the finish, it was a risky move- but then again, such moves were why crowds loved James Black. Vasala was level with him, but running on the outside, in lane two. This meant that he had to travel more distance going around the curves. Since Black wouldn't let him pass, Vasala was forced to tuck in behind Black or waste energy keeping level. The next move would come in the homestretch with 400 meters to go, Black knew, so at 450 to go, he poured on an even more difficult pace and moved so he was running half in lane one and half in lane two, effectively blocking Vasala from passing.

"And with four hundred meters to go, it's Black in 6:35, with Vasala half a stride behind!"

Black summoned his last vestige of energy for the remaining quarter mile. oh God oh God oh God it hurts I can't do it it hurts too bad oh God, he thought, gasping for breath.

Then, with 300 meters to go, Vasala drew level with him and then passed him going into the turn, preventing Black from trying to go around. Cameras following the race would later show a fierce look go into Black's eyes as he was passed and his face, once the very picture of pain, slammed into a cold, angry mask.

"One lap to go, with Jan Vasala of Finland in the lead, James Black right on his shoulder!" the announcer squealed.

Black snarled and told the voice protesting any further movement to shut the hell up. All he wanted to do was slow to a stop and rest, but instead he leapt forward, swinging wide into lane two. He would not lose a race he had led for thirteen laps to some Finnish kicker. Especially not in his own country. Even though it was sapping his precious little remaining energy, Black ran even harder in lane two and drew level with Vasala in the middle of the penultimate turn. He sprinted for all he was worth, earning himself a lead of a foot. . .then a yard. . .then five yards. . .eight. . .

Only fifty meters to go hold the lead hold the lead hold it you piece of shit hold it hold it hold it oh God. . .

James saw the tape stretched across the line before him. It was only ten meters away. . .only five meters away. . . one meter!

Lean!

Black leaned into the tape, breasting it twelve meters and two seconds before Vasala could. Four seconds behind him came Ngeno, followed closely by Skah. The crowd screamed in appreciation.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer began when the rest of the runners had finished. "The results of event number four, the 3000 meter run. In third place, Kip Ngeno of Kenya, running a personal best of seven minutes, thirty-nine seconds." The crowd roared. "In second place, Jan Vasala of Finland, with a mark of seven minutes, thirty-one and six-tenths seconds." The crowd cheered even louder, but even as the announcer began to report the winning time, the chant of BLACK, BLACK, BLACK, was taken up once more. "And in first place," the announcer shouted over the crowd, struggling to be heard. "James Black, setting a NEW BRITISH RECORD with a mark of SEVEN MINUTES, TWENTY NINE AND FOUR TENTHS SECONDS!"

Black winced slightly as the crowd seemed to deteriorate into a mob of shrieking, obsessive pagans. Glad I didn't take up football, he thought wryly, jogging over to where he had stowed his sweats. Donning them, Black shook Vasala's hand and waved to the crowd before leaving the stadium. The crowd roared again at seeing their hero humbly leave the stadium without taking a victory lap or pausing to speak with journalists. It was another one of the things that made James Black so damned intriging to the British public. He was like Paavo Nurmi, the famed "Phantom Finn" of the 20's. Neither never took a victory lap, never smiled when they finished, and never spoke to anyone except their fellow competitors. Both just finished, put on their sweats, and left the track.

* * *

Harry emerged from the locker room shower ten minutes after finishing his record-breaking run dripping wet and exhausted. His legs were still heavy and flushed with lactic acid, but Harry paid them no heed. While he didn't show it to the crowd, he was elated by his performance. With all the work he had been doing on the Horcruxes, Harry had worried his racing shape wasn't as sharp as it could have been. Now he knew that not only was his endurance better than it had been for some time, his speed was in top form as well. After all, he had just fended off one of the fastest finishers in middle-distance running in the last two hundred meters of a race!

For the first time since breasting the tape, Harry's face broke out into a grin. He dressed quickly, still grinning, and was lacing up his shoes when a voice broke the silence of the locker room.

"Excellent race, Mr. Potter," the voice said, colored with an accent Harry recognized before he had even looked up. Someone Finnish had recognized him.

"Who are you?" Harry demanded, his head snapping up and his hand flying for his wand.

The man waved his hand at Harry. "There is no need to be afraid, Mr. Potter. I mean you no harm. I am merely a. . .what is the phrase? Kindred spirit, I beleive. I am merely a kindred spirit who wishes to help you. Please, put away your wand."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Wand?" he asked coolly.

The man laughed, coming from out of the shadow of the doorway. The flourescent lighting now revealed an older, vaguely handsome man with short hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Harry noticed the man's tuxedo was decorated in what looked to be several military honors.

"Yes, Mr. Potter. The wand in your pocket you were reaching for." Pausing for a moment, the man withdrew one of his own. "See? I have one too. Pine and dragon heartstring, if you were interested."

"How did you know what my name is?" Harry asked, still not lowering his wand.

"I apologize," the man said, bowing slightly. "You're right. The combination of the Glamour Charm and various disguising potions you use are more than apt to fool Muggles and most wizards, Mr. Potter, but I'm afraid I could see you as you truly are from your very first lap."

Harry lowered his wand unconsciously. He didn't know why, but something about the man's polite but confident manner reminded him of Dumbledore. "And how did you manage that?"

The man smiled. "If you hadn't lived the last six years in relative exile, I would almost be offended that you didn't recognize me, Mr. Potter. I am, after all, one of the most highly regarded Mental Healers and Legilimenses in Europe. Even without eye contact, I could read your brain patterns- your glamour was as effective to me as a paper mask.

"Who are you?" Harry asked incredulously, scarcely believing the man before his eyes.

"Full of questions, aren't we?" the man laughed. "My name is Lasse Viren, at your service. Pleased to meet you."

Harry burst into laughter. "You can't be serious," he said. "You didn't think I'd recognize that name? Lasse Viren was a four-time Olympic gold medalist, twice in the 5K, twice in the 10K, back in the 70's. He's a member of the Finnish Parliament or something now, and he's a Muggle. Now, who are you really?"

"Viren" laughed. "I'm flattered you know so much about me. I also ran the marathon in the the '76 Olympics, but we won't split hairs. However, you were wrong in one aspect- I am most definitely not a Muggle, or, as we prefer to say in Finland, non-magical person. Like yourself, I'm a halfblood. Also like yourself, I ran long-distance events as a distraction while living in exile. I'm here to offer you my help," he explained, extending a hand.

Harry looked coldy at the proffered hand until Viren withdrew it. "Why should I accept?"

If Viren was offended by Harry's refusal, he didn't show it. He just smiled wider. "Because, as I said earlier, I am one of the most advanced Legilimenses and Mental Healers in the world. Consequently, I have built up quite a large store of sensitive information. Information regarding a man we both find to be most distasteful."

Harry hardly dared believe it. "You have information on Voldemort? How?"

Viren winced at the name. "I specialize in treating patients whose brains have been affected by magic. Therefore, I've dealt with many victims of magical torture- including the Imperius Curse. I also hold a position at a hospital for the criminally insane. . . I've examined many Death Eaters, Mr. Potter."

Perhaps Harry had come to rely on his Legilimency too much over the years to tell if people were lying to him. This Viren was a mask to Harry.

"I don't believe you," he told the Finn. "I'm leaving." Harry tried to move past the Finn to the door.

"Please, Mr. Potter, don't be hasty," Viren said quickly, blocking Harry's exit. "I hate the Dark One as much as anyone you know. . . he has sown misery and discord throughout Europe for too long. Please, Mr. Potter, I have tried to track you down since the moment I learned Albus Dumbledore had been murdered."

"Get out of my way," Harry said bluntly.

"Mr. Potter!" Viren was pleading now. "At least give me the chance to convince you. In two weeks, there is an open meet in Turku, in my home country. On the second day of the meet, during the men's 10,000-meter run, there is to be a Death Eater attack. Please, go the the meet. If I am wrong, you will still get to go up against some excellent competition. If I am right, you will be able to save the lives of thousands of innocent Muggles."

Harry looked at Viren for a long moment. "Why are you telling me this instead of your Aurors?"

Viren laughed cynically. "Because the Finnish Ministry is no less overtaxed than your own, Mr. Potter, and our Aurors value the lives of several thousand Muggles rather less than wizards, I am sad to admit. Please, Mr. Potter. Run in Turku in two weeks."

Harry looked at Viren again, trying to size him up. Why not? He could afford one more race. "If this is a trap, all the Legilimency in the world won't save your life," Harry said coldy, leaving the locker room. Then, just before he Apparated back to his cottage, he added, "I'm a huge fan of yours, by the way. I have a poster of you winning the 10K in Montreal in my laundry room."

Viren's chuckle seemed to follow him all the way home.

* * *

Rufus Scrimgeour slumped in his chair as he heard the latest bit of news on the war. It was a horrible end to a horrible week. Giant attacks, mass murders, terrorists acts on Muggles. Nothing Scrimgeour did seemed to do anyone any good. He was a man at the end of his ropes.

"How many casualties," he asked, hanging his head.

"Twenty-six," his young aide replied, looking pale with the news. "Eight of whom were Aurors. We captured one Death Eater, though," he added, as if that somehow made the twenty-six deaths more acceptable.

Scrimgeour sighed. How had things gone this wrong? Six years had passed since the murder of Albus Dumbledore and the disappearence of Harry Potter. Despite his best efforts, the so-called Chosen One had seemingly abandoned the Wizarding world to its fate.

If only I hadn't pushed him so hard, Scrimgeour thought. Another thing he had to answer for. As if this latest attack on Diagon Alley wasn't enough. . . how You-Know-Who had broken the state-of-the-art shields erected around Diagon Alley was a mystery to him.

"Alastor?" Scrimgeour asked, turning to Alastor Moody, the newly-appointed Head of the Auror Office.

"Aye?" the grizzled veteran answered.

"Take care of this captured Death Eater for me. Find out everything he knows. Use any methods necessary."

"Yes, sir," Mad-Eye said, leaving the room. Scrimgeour ordered his aide to get him a cup of tea. He needed a moment alone to think. How could he boost the morale of his frightened, demoralized people? If only Potter would come back. . . the so-called Chosen One would certainly do a lot to help the downtrodden Britons.

Potter, Scrimgeour asked to the pouring rain outside his window. Where are you?

It was almost ironic that Scrimgeour that as Scrimgeour was thinking this, Harry was less than ten miles from him, buying his monthly supply of food in London, pondering the latest developement in his quest for Voldemort's death.

Fin.