The Riddle War

Chapter Four:

Fides Facit Fidem

Trust Makes Trust

Harry Potter pulled the zipper all the way up on his track jacket, cursing the Finnish weather and his inability to use magic in public. He was an idiot to come here. Here, of course, being Helsinki, the capital of Finland, site of the Helsinki Open, the first international meet in Finland. It was February and quite freezing, several months having now passed since Harry had destroyed the lantern Horcrux in late fall. Harry was beginning to regret accepting Lasse Viren's invitation. He had raced too much this season, he fretted to himself. Too many indoor races, too much stress on the body. He hadn't been practicing his dueling enough, he shouldn't be trying to single-handedly take on Death Eaters, he should have just. . .

Enough, Harry told himself firmly. No nerves. He was running the 3000 again in a few minutes, he needed to concentrate on his striders.

Taking off down the drafty, poorly heated hallway, Black burst into a full-on sprint, paying special attention to his form. Striders were an integral part of any warmup. They got the body accustomed to moving fast, they provided surges of blood to the legs, and built up some resistance against dreaded lactic acid. Harry did four by one hundred meters of strides, working up a fairly decent sweat at the end. It was damn cold in the hallway despite being indoors.

No wonder the Finns are great runners, Black thought to himself. They all want to be invited to run someplace warmer. And where they don't serve herring.

"LAST CALL FOR THE MENS' 3000 METER RUN."

Harry flinched as the announcement came over the intercom. Time to get going; they would be starting soon. Harry took off at a quick jog to the track, where he retrieved his stowed bag and discarded his sweat top, donning his racers when this task was done. James Black jogged to the starting line, ready to go.

". . .four laps to go in the 3000-meter run, Black with a commanding lead, the battle for second led by Kolehmainen, with Passikivi and O'Rorke poised to strike. . ."

Black did his best to ignore the Finnish announcer and coast through the last four laps to victory. He had already set his season goal the 3K, today he was just trying to win without exhuasting himself. After all, if Viren was right, Harry would have his hands full in two hours, when the Mens 10000-Meter Run was underway (why anyone would want to run more than six miles on an indoor track was beyond him. Harry was tempted to leave them to their fate).

Looking behind him, Harry saw that there was no way anyone was going to catch him and then took off, sprinting the last three laps of the 160 meter track. True to form, Black breasted the tape (in a still-excellent time of 7:44.2) and headed immediately for the locker room. He had some preparations to make.

First, Harry showered throughly, being sure to rid himself of any smell, including that of fragant soaps. Next, he dressed in his specially-made dueling armor. Harry had made the light but tough shell of body armor himself from very thin Graphorn hide. It added protection with a minimum of bulk. Harry wore it when wearing Muggle clothes, which didn't hide bulky armor as well as Wizarding robes.

Finally, after arming himself with his wand, Harry donned his Invisibility Cloak. Using it in the crowded meet would be tricky, but if Harry could avoid detection, he might be able to hunt down the Death Eaters before they even struck.

Prepared for the task ahead of him, Harry left the locker room, leaving his track bag and Portkey home safely in his locker.

* * *

Hannes Saari pulled his voluminous black robes around him a little tighter, shivering against the cold in the hallway. Hadn't the Muggles figured out how to heat a building properly, with their mastery of "science"? He could see his breath, he though, cursing the Muggles in his head again. For all their apparent sophistication, they were savages in his mind. What event were they on now, anyway? Surely it was time to attack.

From the corner of his eye, Hannes could have sworn he saw a flash of movement. It was a Muggle, about his age, unless his eyes had played a cruel trick upon him. Hannes looked, but could find no sign of the man. He turned back to his silent vigil, making sure his wand was loose in its holster.

There it was again! There had to be someone there, or Hannes was crazy. He whirled around, staring at the deserted hallway. Nothing. It was empty, save for him. His brothers-in-the-Mark were coming from a different way.

"Maybe I am going crazy," he muttered to himself in Swedish, the dominant language in the part of Finland where he had grown up.

"Or maybe you're just more perceptive than you thought," the Muggle man said, appearing out of thin air and holding a wand that pointed straight at Hannes' heart. "Silencio!" the Muggle said, casting a perfect Silencing Charm on Hannes, who had no time to warn his fellows with a shout.

Hannes felt a horrible, sinking fear in the pit of his stomach as the not-so-Muggle Muggle Disarmed and bound him with conjured chains with the practiced ease of an expert. The stranger grabbed him to prevent him from falling and grabbed Hannes' face.

If Hannes could talk, he would have whimpered as the stranger's eyes bored into his own. Like two chips of green ice, they spoke of a man who had seen already too much death, loss, and pain. Hannes felt as if his entire soul was bared to these eyes. He could feel them judging him, measuring him, and Hannes, had he been a religious man, would have attempted to pray for deliverance from this devil who quantified him.

"So," the stranger said. "There are six other Death Eaters waiting to attack the crowd. Your goal is to spread as much death and discord as you can. You have been an excellent informat, Hannes. Goodbye." And at this the strange leaned back, pointing his wand at Hannes' forehead. As he did so, his hair shifted and Hannes caught a glimpse- his last glimpse- of something on the stranger's forehead. It was a tattoo of something. . . a lightning bolt? Realization dawned on him.

"Potter!" he thought. The Dark Lord's greatest foe! Hannes thought if only he could free himself and capture the wizard, he would favored beyond his wildest dreams! Beyond even Severus Snape, the Dark Lord's Right Hand! Beyond-

Then, with a flash of light the exact color of Potter's eyes and the sound of something vast and invisible shooting through the air, Hannes Saari thought no more.

* * *

Once he had discerned the location of the other six Death Eaters from the unfortunate Hannes Saari, killing five of his companions proved almost too easy. Harry shivered at how easy it was becoming to kill. He knew that in any war, sacrifices had to be made- including one's morals. He was all for fighting nonlethally for Light and Justice, but the years of grueling mile after mile had made him a realist. It was a war. People would die. Dying for his country wouldn't help anyone, Harry knew. He had to, in the words of the Muggle General George Patton, "make the other poor bastard die for his." Still, the idea of killing without a second thought troubled Harry. Another thing to think about during those long, lonely twenty mile days.

Upon spotting the final one, Harry killed these extraneous thoughts and instead focused on the task at hand. He would have to walk very quietly to avoid detection. He had purposely chose the leader of the attack for last, gleaning as much information as he could about the commander before taking him on. What he had discovered had worried him a little.

Hugo Simberg was a Swedish native who had moved to Finland to find work teaching classical wand fencing, a highly stylized and formalized version of dueling, to young purebloods there. A master of said art, Hugo had failed in his attempt to open a dueling school and instead turned to professional dueling circles to make his living. After being banned from the dueling circle and serving two years in a Finnish prison for excessive brutality, (he had killed a disarmed foe with a Heart Attack Hex) Hugo had turned to the Dark Arts, killing for hire. His reputation as a duelist had brought him to the attention of Voldemort, who recruited him just before his battle with Harry in the Ministry of Magic in Harry's fifth year. His brutality, cunning, and competence had allowed him to rise quickly through Voldemort's ranks.

Armed with this knowledge ahead of time, Harry was almost disappointed when the Death Eater failed to hear his approach. A professional duelist, even a former one, should have heard him coming. Harry knew this because he had twice killed professional duelists working for Voldemort, suffering gruesome woudns in the process. This was almost too easy.

"Avada-" Harry began, deciding to give up the potential information Hugo's brain held for the chance to kill him quickly. Immediately, he regretted being disappointed by the apparent ease of his task, for Simberg spun around with the liquid grace of a snow leopard and nearly blasted Harry in two with a Reductor Curse. It was only the Cloak that saved Harry. Simberg was unable to aim properly, and so it passed by his left side narrowly, pulling off his Cloak in its wake.

"You should have used a nonverbal spell, young fool," Hugo chided, holding his wand in a very formal ready position. "You might have gotten me. Now, I'm afraid, you will die."

Why do they always waste time talking about what they're going to do? Harry wondered for one brief, insane moment before the duel was joined in earnest.

"Un, deux, tres!" Hugo counted in French as he parried, riptosed, and countered Harry's curses. His feet moved in prearranged dueling patterns and his breathing was relaxed and even. Simberg held the upper hand quite clearly, even to a Muggle observer.

Harry, on the other hand, was not quite prepared for a full-on duel. Lacking the concentration and will to perform a proper Killing Curse, Harry was forced to attempt to duel a master head-on. Fortunately, his considerable skill in Legilimency gave him a split-second warning as to Hugo's next move.

"I'm glad you tried to stop me, whoever you are," Hugo mocked, casting a perfect series of three types of slightly different Disarming Charms. "At least you provide better sport than the nonmagical animals out there."

"Percutio!" Harry responded, only to have his Piercing Curse deflected at the last moment, leaving a fist-sized hole in the wall. None of his spells were getting through. He would have to try magic of a different type to make this work.

Screwing up his remaining willpower, Harry forced eye contact with the Swedish Death Eater and unleashed a full-blown Legilimency attack on the elder man. At once, Harry felt his mental probe penetrate Hugo's pitiful protections (!) and was granted access to the parts of his brain associated with memory and physical pain. Harry manipulated both of these, bringing up Hugo's worst memories while setting his nerves afire with pain.

Screaming, Hugo Simberg managed to keep a grip on his wand and deliver one last curse to Harry, who failed to block it due to his concentration on Hugo's mind. A crunching noise echoed through the hall and a large gash opened on Harry's shoulder. Blood welled down his sleeve, soaking his jacket. Harry grunted, nearly blind from the white-hot agony in his shoulder and pushed his mental attack deeper. Hugo's knees buckled and his defense dropped, allowing Harry to take advantage of him at last.

"Ustilo!" Harry commanded, burning an exact replica of the scar on his forehead into Hugo's, after killing the Death Eater with a painless Killing Curse. When this was done, Harry pointed his wand at the body. "Portus!" he spoke to the empty hallway. The body, now a Portkey, would vanish in five hours and appear at the side of the Dark Lord. Harry Transfigured the body into a broom and hid in a janitor's closest, timing the Transfiguration to end with the activation of the Porkey.

That should keep ol' Riddle guessing. . .

* * *

"Harry! Your shoulder!" Viren gasped, horrified, when he saw Harry approach him. The distinguished Finnish gentlemen was waiting for him in a hidden corner of the coat room for the VIP guests.

"Harry? My name is James, sir," Harry replied, his teeth gritted around the pain. He was still in public, after all, even if no one was around.

"Of course," Viren said, regaining his composure. "Come here, James. Let me give you a hand with that. Shirt off, please."

Harry did as the Finnish Legilimens ordered and stripped off his shirt with one hand, the other one nearly useless from the pain.

"Oh, Merlin," Viren breathed as he saw the wound. "I've seen this one before. A combination of the Bludgeoning Curse and Slashing Hex. Most messy. Drop your Occlumency defenses, please, unless you want this to really hurt."

Harry clenched his jaw. "You should know better. One, I'm not going to grant you full access to my mind, and two, I'm a distance runner. A little pain doesn't mean anything."

Viren shook his head and smiled sadly. "Very well." He removed his wand from his tuxedo pocket and pointed it at Harry's shoulder with the regretful air of an executioner with a conscience.

"Just do it," Harry gasped, panting. "Before I black out."

Viren didn't reply, but Harry knew that he did something, because suddenly he felt a horrible, tearing pain that felt even worse than the original wound. Being accustomed to silent agony through a lifetime of practice, Harry stifled his scream, but was forced to his knees from the pain. Blood welled out from the wound anew as his shoulder bone forced inself into its proper place.

"Immendo!" the Finn Healer spoke to the air, willing the sinews and ligaments that the bone had torn in its reentry to sew themselves back together. "Cautero!" he said next, eliciting a soft hiss as Harrys' wound burned itself shut. Harry grimaced, though this pain wasn't as bad as the first. To finish, Viren conjured a bandage from the void and bound Harry's shoulder firmly in a sling.

"I apologize for my lack of finesse," Viren said politely as he helped Harry into his shirt. "I do not usually treat physical injuries."

"It doesn't matter," Harry said gruffly, looking a little green. "It's all for the best."

"I put it in a sling because the ligaments won't have healed quite yet," Viren explained as they left the coatroom. "They'll be fine in a few hours, but you must keep it immobile until then. This means no running," he added pointedly.

"Do you have a place I could lay low at while it heals, then? I don't want to risk Apparating."

"You trust me enough to arrange a place to stay?"

Harry looked at the Olympian levelly. "Yes. I can honestly say you've earned my trust, Master Viren," he answered, using the formal address to a Healer.

Viren smiled. "Excellent. Come, then. Let us go to my home. You will rest, we will dine, and we will speak of wars and tracks."

Harry returned the elder man's smile. "Sounds good."

Fin.