You really want to read the Author's Note at the end, trust me.
And Happy New Year! :D
Chapter 13 – Debts
With one thing and another, the following month seems to zoom by. Viktor and I are back to spending most of our spare time together, which is a vast relief for me, as avoiding him had become a sort of spiritual leech, draining my energy and strength. June 10th, my 18th birthday, falls on a Hogsmeade weekend, so Viktor takes me out to the Three Broomsticks and we get nicely sozzled. Bigby and Madam Malkin send presents, a handsome wristwatch and a big anthropological book of merpeople the world over and lots of colourful socks. Budgin got to carry the wristwatch from the Alley and spends all of breakfast twittering proudly at me.
NEWTs pass in a frenzy. I don't believe in revisions the way so many others do, but I give my notes a cursory glance the night before each subject's exam, and I don't think any of them go too horrendously. I'm exempt from the Potions practical, just as McGonagall promised, and spend that afternoon doing what I can for my Transfiguration skills, which is the only test I definitley do badly in. But I expected nothing better, and life goes on.
Aside from that, our time is mostly spent studying up for the third task. We look up spells we might have to face in the endless indices in the library, and their counters. Knowing Hagrid's reputation, I suggest we research obscure, hyper-dangerous magical creatures and how to combat them. My frustration about the careless attitude the Tournament organizers have taken about instructions and warnings rises again, since Bagman's vague "that sort of thing" is worse than useless for our preparations. But by the time the 24th rolls around, I'm feeling half decent about my chances. As long as I don't have to Transfigure anything, I should be alright.
The Great Hall is abuzz on the morning of the 24th when I stump downstairs to breakfast. I stayed up later than I meant to studying, and now I'm paying for it. Good thing the task isn't till the evening, I might be able to sneak a nap in…
Viktor is waiting for me at the top of Gryffindor table, looking stoic and more thoughtful than usual. "Morning," I say, thumping down and immediately pouring myself tea.
"Good morning," he grumbles back. "Your professor came and told me ve haff the morning vith our families today. In there." He pointed to the antechamber to the side of the teachers' table where we were told (or rather, not told) about the dragons when we were first selected as champions.
"Our families?" I repeat dumbly. "I haven't—I mean—that is… who would have come for me?" Not Mum, surely not her. I haven't told anyone except Viktor about her, and I trust him not to have told anyone else. But then I think again, and of course Professor McGonagall would know about her: she met her. But how in the world would she have convinced Mum to come all the way up here to visit me? I'm finding it terrifically difficult to visualize.
Viktor answers my question: "Vell, at the fery least, you can meet my parents. I think they are will be here."
For once I'm too distracted to correct his grammar. "You want me to meet your parents?"
He frowns at me. "Of course I vant this. You are special for me. Ve are close."
I blush right to the roots of my hair and try to hide it by taking a large gulp of tea. The rest of breakfast passes in comfortable silence, even though I'm prickling with nerves. Meeting parents is a capital-r Relationship thing to do. Are Viktor and I in a capital-r Relationship? I'm not sure. I suppose we do Relationship things, like go to Hogsmeade together and tell each other personal things. Like about our parents. And we said 'love'. So I suppose we are. But I also mustn't assume. The old mnemonic about asses rises more terrifying than ever in this circumstance. Assuming a Relationship when he sees us only as… as companions or particularly good friends or kissing friends or something, that would be humiliating.
But suddenly there's no more time to worry as Viktor stands and invites me to do the same, and together we walk across the Hall towards the door to the antechamber, Fleur somewhat ahead of us and Harry bringing up the rear, looking as confused as I feel. Of course, I think, with no parents, who are the relatives he expects? Who does he live with over summers? I feel an unexpected rush of empathy. While I'm not technically an orphan as he so famously is, I think we're in similar situations.
But any thought of Harry and his family situation flies out of my head when Viktor opens the door to the antechamber, ushering me in before him, and I see who's in the room. In a knot by the fireplace stand Bigby, Madam Malkin, her assistant Rachael, Tom the barkeep, and Mary who once forged Mum's signature to get me into Hogsmeade and whom I'll be living with next year. I feel my mouth fall open as they all turn and smile at me.
"See, I told you she didn't think we'd come," Mary said smugly.
I move towards them, dazed and trying to process how they could be there. I'm dimly aware of Viktor moving around me to other people in the room, and that there are a couple of other groups as well, but I'm just so completely baffled that I can't spare the mental energy to process them.
"No need to look so shocked," Bigby grumbles at me, arms crossed in the usual fashion. "We do live in the same dimension as you, even though Hogwarts seems like its own little world."
"Well sure—" I start. "But I mean— How did you— I'm just really confused." I stumble to the most honest halt I can manage.
"Professor McGonagall asked us to be here for you," Madam Malkin explains succinctly. "In the place of your biological family."
My throat catches quite abruptly and I battle back tears, because honestly, I can't keep crying like this or they might as well start calling me Nita "The Tap" Linese. "That's… that's awful nice," is all I can manage at the moment, but then Rachael and Mary intervene by suddenly turning all giggly at something behind me and sort of stage-whispering to me, "Nita, Viktor Krum wants your attention."
I turn and see him standing a short way behind me, flanked by two people who can only be his parents. He has his dark hair from both of them, and his father's nose, and his mother's tendency to slouch. It's a little eerie. Never having known my own father and not having seen my mother in nearly seven years, I had no parallel experience. "This is my father and mother, Kaloyan and Darina Krum." Having made this introduction in English, he switched to his own native tongue. "Maika, Tatko, this is Nita Linese, the girl I wrote to you about." Behind me, I hear Mary and Rachael practically choking with excitement. I do my best to block them out: this is important. I reach and shake hands first with his father, then his mother, saying, "It's very good to meet you," in Bulgarian to both of them.
"She has a good handshake," Mr Krum says to Viktor.
"And she speaks Bulgarian so clearly," Mrs Krum notes, though she looks at me.
I shrug, not quite sure if I'm expected to answer or not. "Only thanks to your son, ma'am." She smiles warmly at me and I congratulate myself.
"Nheeta," Viktor switches back to English, "are these your…?" He sweeps his arm to indicate my eclectic group.
"These are my guests, yes," I say hastily, avoiding that touchy word family. "I've told you some about Bi – Mr Bigby and Madam Malkin…" Viktor shakes hands with them both and I could swear Madam Malkin is actually fanning herself afterwards. "And then we have Mary Ford and Rachael Percival," They are definitely fanning themselves after shaking hands with him. "…and Tom the…" I come to a full stop, staring into Tom's wrinkled old face. "Tom, I don't know your surname!" I exclaim, halfway between dismay and accusation.
He looks bashful. "Well, I don't put it around much… Tom Deadman at your service." And he also shakes hands with Viktor. After that Viktor and I hopscotch between English and Bulgarian to introduce our families to each other and sooner than later there are about ten conversations going on and I'm trying to translate about seven of them. But it eventually gets decided—somehow—that we should all have a stroll over the grounds for a bit since it's such a nice day, and to my utter amazement, the morning flies by. Hardly anyone can talk to each other, and at certain points I feel my head might just roll away from the effort of switching between languages so fast. Mary and Rachael do shanghai me for a bit and ply me for information about Viktor, and I only give them a fraction of what they ask for, so they eventually give up, calling me a spoilsport. I find time to thank Bigby and Madam Malkin for the birthday presents, and show that I'm wearing the wristwatch and a pair of the socks. Mr and Mrs Krum want to know how fast I learned Bulgarian, so I spend a while explaining that. All in all it's a very pleasant day, but my jaw hurts from talking so much when we all sit down to supper. I'm released from conversational duties, which is a relief. Mary, a former Hufflepuff, and Rachael, a former Slytherin are agreeing on exactly how strange it is to sit with Gryffindor, and Bigby is showing Mr and Mrs Krum all his tattoos, and Tom and Madam Malkin are discussing something or other to do with the enchanted ceiling. Viktor and I are left alone with our nerves.
The feast is particularly sumptuous tonight, but with no more conversations needing translating to distract me, my head's done its disconnecting act and I don't taste a single thing I put in my mouth. Viktor eats mechanically across the table, but it's impossible to tell if he's as nervous as I am. Since I can't focus on the food, I let my eyes and attention wander, and happen to notice that Bagman has joined the teacher's table. This is expected since he'll be judging this evening, but on the other side of Dumbledore from him is the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, of all people. Mary says he comes by the pub sometimes, but I've only ever seen his photo in the Prophet. I simply can't imagine what he's doing here.
But then Dumbledore stands up and my heart starts going a mile a minute as the rest of the Hall comes quiet. "Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes' time, I will be asking you to make your way down to the Quidditch pitch for the third and last task of the Triwizard Tournament. Will the champions please follow Mr Bagman down to the stadium now."
My body moves without any prompting from my brain and I stand and start going towards the doors to the Entry Hall. Viktor stands also and walks parallel to me on the other side of the table. Ahead of us, Harry stands as well, and Fleur gets up from the Ravenclaw table. I feel almost as though I'm dreaming when I hear the Hall cheering, and see Bigby and Madam Malkin and Mary and Rachael and Tom clapping and waving to me. My arm waves back, and then I'm past them, going out of the castle, and then following Bagman and the other champions down the darkening grounds.
The Quidditch pitch has undergone a complete transformation since when we'd last seen it. The hedges, only knee-height before, now soar twenty feet into the air. There is only one slim opening that I can see, and it's evidently the entrance to the maze itself. My scalp prickles.
Then Viktor is beside me, his body warm even from inches away. "I vant you to know that eefen though I love you, I vill vin this challenge."
I look up at him and find him looking sideways down at me, nearly smirking. I grin back. "In your dreams, Krum."
A minute later, the rest of the school descends from the castle and starts finding seats in the stands, making a great deal of racket and noise. I screw up my courage one last time and touch Viktor's hand. He looks down at me, eyes questioning. "After this year, after graduation that is, I'm going to go talk to my mum one last time," I say, only just loud enough so he could hear. "I don't think I'll forgive her… but I want to stop being angry all the time." I peek up at him again and his eyes are shining now. Before I can say anything else, he leans in and kisses me, just quickly, a soft thing on my lips, but warm and welcome. There are some shocked gasps from the stands, which I ignore.
"This is good," he says, and I smile at the ground.
Just then Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Moody, and Hagrid enter the stadium and come over to us. They all have shining red stars attached to their hats, except Hagrid, who has it on the back of his moleskin waistcoat to make it the same height as the others. "We are going to be patrolling the outside of the maze," Professor McGonagall explains without preamble. "If you get into difficulties, and wish to be rescued, send red sparks into the air, and one of us will come and get you, do you understand?" We all nod, but inside I'm swearing I'll never send any red sparks up. I'm seeing this through to the very end.
"Off you go then," Bagman says cheerily to the four professors, and they head off in various directions to take their places. As she sweeps past me I think for a second that she gives me an encouraging nod. But she's Professor McGonagall, so I must be imagining things.
Suddenly Bagman's voice, magically amplified, rings out over the stands and startles me badly. If I never hear that man's voice again it will be too soon. "Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you of how the points currently stand! Tied in first place, on eighty-five points each—Mr Harry Potter and Miss Nita Linese, both of Hogwarts School!" He glares at me as he says this, though I can't for the life of me understand why. As the cheers and applause subside, he goes on, "In second place, on seventy-nine points—Mr Viktor Krum of Durmstrang Institute!" More cheers and clapping. "And in third place on sixty-three points—Miss Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons Academy!"
A great deal of excitement from the stands now. Looking out at them, I notice Kay cheering with what looks like quite honest enthusiasm, wearing a big hat that says 'LINESE' in great shining letters, and that gives me something of a jolt. In fact now that I'm looking, I'm seeing my name a lot, even more than Harry's. It's extremely weird and I turn my attention elsewhere, and see Bigby and Madam Malkin and Tom and Rachael and Mary sitting in the first few rows, whistling and waving, and I give a somewhat confused wave back. Honestly, the sooner I get in the maze the happier I'll be. At least I'll know everything's intentions in there.
As though hearing my thoughts, Bagman cries, "So then, on my whistle, Harry and Linese! Three – two – one –" His whistle is shrill and short, and Harry and I enter the maze together. As soon as we cross past the first hedge, the noise from the crowd and Bagman's voice are completely silenced and my ears ring for a moment. We walk for about fifty feet together, and then there's a fork in the path.
"Well," says Harry, "good luck."
"Thanks," I reply, seeing my own nervousness mirrored in his face. "You too." He goes right and I go left and soon I am alone, hurrying between the towering bushes. Since I'd gone right at the left turning, I would want to turn right as soon as possible to start working my way towards the centre of the maze. The combination of growing up at Hogwarts and the Alley means I have a brilliant sense of direction, so I know which way to go almost without thinking about it.
Around the next corner I encounter the first obstacle: it looks innocuous enough, only a gently glowing golden mist that fills the space between the hedges and continues for a step or two, though its width is strangely difficult to judge. "Intentium Revelomal," I murmur, waving my wand in a subtle elliptical pattern. Nothing smells of grapefruit, so it's not going to harm me, but I'm still nervous as I sidle forward and slide first a foot, then a hand, into the mist. When there is no sensation whatsoever, I push the rest of my body in as well. Instantly, the world spins upside down, the ground is the sky, and my flight-or-fight instinct is in high dudgeon.
Once my heart has quieted enough that I can hear myself think, I summon reason and logic and work through it carefully. This spell has only changed my perception of the world around me, not the actual environment. For one thing, there is no sensation of my head filling with blood, even though I've been hanging upside down for at least a minute. Therefore, if I ignore the evidence of my senses and move forward regardless, I should escape the mist quite as easily as I entered it. Taking a deep breath, I lift one foot and place it in front of me, and at once the world spins around again and starts behaving as it should. Even though I'd been next to sure that's what would happen, I still sigh with relief before hurrying on. Two turns later, I hit an intersection with four other paths branching off and am trying to decide between the two most likely candidates when I suddenly hear a voice whisper "Nearly there." I spin about on the spot, trying to see who had spoken, and see a little dancing light halfway down another of the paths. It seemed to be waving for me, and I take a few curious steps after it. Something in the back of my mind stirs uneasily, but I quell it. Obviously the dancing light knows exactly where it's going, and wants to help me.
But, "No, this way," another voice says, even sweeter and more convincing than the last, and I turn and see a second light dancing down another path. I peer back at the first, but it has vanished. I frown and follow the new one a few paces, intending to ask if it was the same light as before that had just changed its mind or another one altogether, but then there's another voice asking "Why not this way?" I turn, frowning. Yet another light dances down another path—was it the one I just came from? More whispers, "Come this way!" "You're so close!" "Just a little further!" "It's right around the corner!" Many lights dance now, spinning and dancing, and I turn also, trying to find a way out from them, scared now, and they draw closer in, whispering still and darting in at my face. Panic is sudden and sharp and I grab for my wand and bellow, "Finite incantatem!"
Silence. I open one eye at a time, and the dancing lights have gone, and the night is still and cool once again. I'm breathing a bit hard, and take a moment to calm down, but once I do I'm petrified to discover that I have absolutely no idea which way to go. All the turning and spinning after the dancing lights has got me completely turned around. The strong sense of direction I had planned on relying on so heavily is now worth exactly nothing. The paths are identical in the darkening twilight, and the stars might as well be randomly spread across the sky for all the help they give me. I can barely see any of them to begin with since the hedges are so close together. Peering about surreptitiously, I sidle over towards one of the hedges and poke it with my wand, just checking. It's a version of a charm Professor Sprout showed us last year to get vines to grow on trellises better. In this case, I'm having it shape one of the thick stems into a rough ladder. Slowly, it obliges, and I tuck my wand behind my ear and clamber up into the hedge. It's dark and smells like dirt, and the ladder gets less and less sturdy as I get near the top. I lift my head cautiously into the air over the top of the hedge and look around, trying to reorient myself. I've just spied what looks like the centre of the maze way far off to the left when the hedge I'm in gives a violent shake. My makeshift ladder shudders and starts to reform in my hands. My feet slip and I go tumbling down the better part of fifteen feet and land with a jarring THUD on my back on the grass. I sit up, groaning and rubbing my bum. I should have figured the hedges would be spelled to avoid people tampering with them like that. At least I got the information I needed. My mental compass is back in action, drawing me into the middle of the Quidditch pitch-maze. Following this instinct, I head off into the path I think most likely, still rubbing my bum and glad this task isn't as much of a public spectacle as the dragon had been.
A few turns later, I'm making good progress when I abruptly make a right turn and nearly trip over some enormous terrifying scorpion-looking monster. No one but Hagrid could have come up with something like this, and no one but the Tournament organizers would have thought letting one into the maze was a good idea. What was it called again? A Skrowt? Some fifth years in Care of Magical Creatures had been talking about them at dinner last term. Regardless, I have no interest in tangling with this thing at the moment, and I hastily backtrack around the corner and hasten off in the other direction.
The sky is really truly black by now, and I suddenly wonder how the rest of the champions are doing. I still can't hear anything from the stands. What could Bagman be saying to them? The audience must be dreadfully bored. Back in the beginning I'd heard the whistles allowing the others into the maze, but there had been no indication of anything since then. No one had sent up the red sparks for rescue, at least not that I had seen. But as though conjured by my thoughts, a shrill scream rings out from somewhere, and red sparks shoot up into the sky a moment later. The scream could only have been Fleur, and the sparks mean she's left the maze, and thus the whole Tournament… I shiver and continue on.
My thoughts have gone to Viktor as though magnetized, wondering how he's doing and hoping he's alright, when I turn the next corner and am suddenly the sole focus of the attention of a humungous swarm of Cornish Pixies. I can't see through to the pathway beyond, there are so many of them. They all giggle and shriek at the sight of me, and, as one, dive towards me. I feel their tiny hands grabbing at my hair, my robes, my ears, and slowly lifting me into the air. For an instant I panic, but then their high-pitched squeaking penetrates my brain and I realize there's sense to it. `Grab her!` they squeak. `Get her!` `Take her!` `Bring her!` `Fly and fly and fly!` I grin even as my feet leave the earth. They slowly rise above the level of the hedges and the maze spreads out before me like another layer of lawn with dark canals snaking around on it. `That way! That way!` I squeak at them, pointing towards the middle of the maze. There is a moment of utter silence from the Pixies, and then they quietly squeak to each other, `It talks?` `Talking talk?` `Of us?` `Leads us?` `Fly and fly and fly for it?` The squeaking becomes enthusiastic and affirmative. `Fly and fly and fly for it!` `Leads us!` `It talks!` I grin. In the background I can dimly hear Bagman shouting, "The pixies seem to be lifting Miss—is she DIRECTING THEM!?" He sounds absolutely outraged. The audience is screaming, though with what emotion, I can't tell, and I can't turn my head to investigate since the Pixies have my ears.
Unfortunately the Pixies tire well short of the middle of the maze and they set me down between some hedges again and fly away, shrieking and squeaking goodbyes. I wave after them, rubbing each ear in turn. At least that helped me gain some distance, and from the looks of things I've come quite close to the centre and the Cup. I hadn't seen any of the other champions in my jaunt over the top of things, and I'm not sure what's in front of me to face, but I think I've had a moderately good run so far. Feeling reasonably cheery about my chances, I get a bad dose of déjà vu as I round the next corner and nearly collide with another one of Hagrid's Skrowt—Skroop—Screwt—bloody monsters. I swear wildly, backing away as fast as I can. But it's in the only direction that goes towards the Cup, so I have to get past it somehow. I crouch back against the far hedge, sizing up my opponent. It has a hard exoskeleton like a lobster, or like a scorpion as I noticed before. It's got a tail like a scorpion too, but not a stinger. I quit Care of Magical Creatures two years ago, so I've never encountered one of these things before, and if there's a tried and true way of dealing with it, I never learned it.
So the only thing to do is Stun it as much as humanly possible. "Diffindo!" The crackle of spell-fire ricochets off the thing's hard shell, and I duck only just in time to avoid being hit by my own curse. 'O.K… I clearly need a better plan of attack…' I think as I slowly get back to my feet. The Screwt and I size each other up silently for a moment. It's obvious that that thick shell is going to protect it from all but the most powerful spells, and I feel like I shouldn't wear myself out since I might need that power to deal with whatever's coming next. So what I need to do is scare it.
But scare a ten-foot long, armor-plated, spell-immune, bed-wettingly huge arachnid? How?
Well, most things are afraid of fire, aren't they? I back up a step or two until I'm nearly around the corner again and aim my wand just in front of the Screwt's face. "Incendio!" A blazing twist of fire shoots out of my wand and sets the ground in front of the Screwt ablaze. Instead of scurrying away as any self-respecting animal with instincts would do, it instead screeches and practically dives into the fire, making a deeply disquieting, sort of chitinous rattling, chuckling noise.
Right, so, on to Plan B. If it likes fire so much, let's see how it feels about water.
"Aguamenti!" A spout of water fountains forth, dousing the Screwt and its fiery bed. Its chuckling changes to an enraged scream that shakes me right down to the bones, and it rears up on its hind legs, flailing under the aquatic onslaught. Seeing that its underside is much less thickly armored, I cancel the water spell and shout again, "Diffindo!" aiming straight at its belly. Just as I'd hoped, the Screwt spasms once and rolls over on its side, curling up like a dead pillbug. I take a second to breathe, and then inch past it, wand up the whole time. I don't calm down properly till I'm around the next corner and out of sight, but once I am I allow myself a little smugness. Quick thinking and quicker action, what's what'll win this Tournament. And I must be getting very close to the middle of the maze by now.
Made thus confident, I make it around two more corners, when I am confronted by what look like four weird, hairy poles stuck into the ground in front of me at odd angles. My eyes follow them up and my stomach drops a mile. Of all things, why should a spider be allowed to grow a thousand times its natural size? Why, why, why?
I must gasp or make some other accidental noise, because the spider twists till all of its eight glittering eyes are staring straight down at me. Shit. This is really not what I was hoping for.
Its mandibles click and a couple of the legs move so that the horrible, huge body can lower towards me. I react almost without thinking. "Diffindo! Impedimenta!"
The creature recoils like a human that's been stung by a bee, but only bears down with more fury for it afterwards. Perhaps not the best opening shot on my part. I back up slowly, repeatedly firing Stunners, but they barely slow its progress towards me. But one of my spells flies wide and collides with one of the spider's knees instead and that leg wavers and staggers for a second, and that gives me an idea. Joints are always weak spots: target those rather than its well-insulated thorax. Taking careful aim, I fire a Severing Hex at its nearest leg, just at the top joint. The spell connects with a crack I feel up through my feet, and the spider makes a ghastly high-pitched wail as the main part of one of its front legs falls away. The spider lists wildly, but corrects itself, the loss of one leg apparently no big deal with seven others remaining. I grimace and aim again. A second leg falls from the same side as the first, and now the spider wobbles precariously and staggers once – twice – and goes careening off to the left, looking almost drunk in the dim light. It's so huge that it can get up and over the hedges even without a quarter of its legs, and I salute its departure with no ill will at all.
I take a second to catch my breath, and then continue down the path the spider had been blocking, stepping over its lost legs like they're radioactive. I do not need one twitching in its death-throes and impaling me. I'm extremely leery of the next couple of turnings, and round them only with my wand out and a spell ready to cast. But the next obstacle is actually non-violent: she's a Sphinx.
"You do riddles then?" I say, as there's nothing else she could be here to do.
She looks a bit miffed by the abrupt tone, but the winning or losing of the Tournament may rely on speed here. "Indeed. Answer correctly my question and pass me by. Answer wrongly, however, and die."
"Okay."
She blinks. Then she mutters something that has something to do with not being appreciated for her skillset anymore, and recites to me a poem, the last line being, "Which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?"
My face warms at the mention of kisses, Viktor's brief brush against my lips at the front of the maze coming alive again. But I force myself to focus. Kisses are great, but I said I would win. "Well," I say, scratching my head and likely making my hair stick up, "I just crossed paths with the most enormous spider you've ever seen, I definitely wouldn't want to kiss that thing..." Is it my imagination, or does she sit up a bit straighter at that? "But someone who deals in lies, that's got to be a politician or something, and a sound I make when I can't think of a word… 'Uh', that would be, I suppose. String them together and get 'politician-uh'..." I stare at the Sphinx for a minute, nonplussed. "That's not it. I guess I'll just say spider."
Looking severely put out, the Sphinx says, "You're supposed to deduce it."
"Am I wrong though?" I say, emboldened by her response.
"No," she complains. "Good luck. You're not far now." She steps aside and I rush past, gasping out a thank you.
Brimming with renewed confidence, and eager to get through the rest of the maze—and there's not much left, she said—I hurry on, and make it three turns when a horrible cloying cold smites my chest, doubles me over with its unexpected force. Through the pain and shock and fear, my mind manages only one incredulous thought: 'Dementor?' My eyes are watering and my heart is pounding fit to burst, but I manage to look up, and there it is, its dark cloak trailing over the earth, its rattling breath filling my ears. The pain in my chest expands and changes, becomes burning, searing, worse than any fire, worse than any pain imaginable.
But through the memory of pain, I realize that I am the only person here. No one can help me, no one can dispel the apparition even now bearing down on me. I have to do it. I never mastered the Patronus Charm when I tried last year, but I have to try now. And I have to succeed. There is no alternative. Screwing up every last bit of my nerve, I grip my wand and aim it towards the Dementor. My voice is a horse whisper: "Expecto patronum." A thick white mist ejects from my wand and swirls menacingly, if that's something mist can do, towards the Dementor. The creature doesn't seem unduly concerned, though it does hesitate. But the bigger effect of the mist is that it clears my head almost completely. The pain is gone, the cold is gone, I can breathe, I can see, and most of all, I can think. 'Come on, Nita, a happy memory, that's what you need! What makes you happiest?' The question doesn't need asking. I stand tall as the mist dissipates and the Dementor's cold strikes me once more, but it doesn't defeat me this time. The memory of joy seems to glow inside me, and I'm confident as I raise my wand again.
"Expecto patronum!" I cry, and a shape erupts from the tip of my wand and races towards the Dementor. It's four-legged, with a bushy tail and a pointed face, but it's moving too quickly for me to be sure what it is. The Dementor falls away before it, flees from the manifestation of my happiness, and pride explodes inside me. The Dementor flees from the shining white creature, the clinging cold abates and then vanishes entirely as the monster disappears over top of a hedge. My Patronus returns to me, trotting through the air and I see it's a fox with a great fluffy tail and wise sharp eyes and a lame front leg. But even limping and unbalanced, it was still more than strong enough to drive away a Dementor. It circles me a couple of times, washing me with the pride and joy that produced it before slowly dissolving into the air.
It's very dark after it disappears and I murmur a quick lumos, though really I wish my Patronus would just stick around to light the way and protect me. I hurry forward, more confident than ever that I must be getting near the Cup. All the most difficult obstacles have to be clustered near the centre or the maze, it just makes sense. I reach a meeting of three paths and take the left, but a shout pulls me up short: "Nheeta!" I look and see Viktor coming up the third path. He looks a little worse for wear: one sleeve of his robes is singed and he has a ripening black eye. But I'm still thrilled to see him.
"Viktor!" I turn and hurry over towards him, eager to tell him all about the Dementor and my Patronus and the memory I used to create it: the time by the Lake when he said he loved me, the first time I was ever truly happy. "I did a Patronus! Do you know about those? I did one! For the first time! Because of you!"
He does his smile, happy for me, but still looks clueless. "Vot is a—" Then his face goes sort of empty, and his posture goes slack, and he slowly raises his wand at me. I see his arm is trembling violently and that he is expressionless and suddenly I am unsure.
"Viktor?" I ask uncertainly, stepping away. His hand is shaking so badly his wand is nearly a blur, but it is still pointed right at me.
His voice, when he speaks, is dull and empty. "Crucio."
Pain such as I have never known floods my body. It is pain worse than fire or freezing water, worse than hot oil and a lifetime of pinching, pulling skin. My every nerve shrieks, my bones want to crack because anything is better than this, anything. I can't see through the stars bursting behind my eyes, I think I am blind, I hope I am blind, I hope I am dying. Because Viktor. Who loves me. Does this. I think I am screaming. My body contorts unnaturally, trying to twist away and escape, like the ants we used to fry with magnifying glasses at my old Muggle school. I wish my mind would detach and let my body suffer alone, I wish the crushing pain would leave me to die, I wish—
The pain is gone. After several short eternities, the pain is gone.
It is the most I can do to lie there and breathe for a while, but soon—very soon, too soon—the pain is like a dream, a horrible horrible nightmare and I gingerly lift my head to see what happened. Harry stands nearby, panting lightly with his wand clutched tight. In the other direction, Viktor lies sprawled, unconscious.
"I Stunned him," Harry says breathlessly. "Can you stand?"
I try, and slowly manage it. None of my limbs seem to quite fit anymore, like someone took me apart and put me back together just slightly wrong. I feel hollow.
"What happened?" Harry asked, keen concern in his green eyes. "Was that really the Cruciatus he was using? Are you alright?"
"I'm… alright," I agree slowly, starting down at Viktor, confusion and grief and betrayal churning in my gut. "It was the, the Cruciatus, yes. It was…" I grapple with the experience, and it dwarfs all words I can think of to describe it. "…bad."
Harry bobs his head awkwardly, peering at me. "So… d'you reckon we should put up the red sparks for him or something?"
I wrench my gaze away from Viktor and slam my expression shut. "Yeah," I say. "Yeah, we should." I realize at that time that my wand isn't in my hand anymore, so after Harry shoots the red sparks into the sky he obligingly aims his lit wand over the ground so I can find mine. It had rolled most of the way under a hedge, and I don't feel much more secure than I had before when it is back in my hand. Attacks could come from anywhere, I know now, and it is impossible to guard against most of them.
"So, erm…" Harry say, shuffling sort of awkwardly. I suddenly remember where we are: the task isn't over, the Cup isn't won. And Harry and I, if Fleur's scream earlier indicated what I think it did, are the last two competitors. I should be thinking of him as my rival, my enemy. Yet I just can't summon the energy to care. Thinking of my playful promise to Viktor that I would win causes something like vertigo. I don't even want the Cup anymore, I just want to get out of here.
"The centre of the maze is this way," I tell Harry, pointing down the right-hand fork. "There's only one path, so we might as well go together."
"…Okay…" he says, looking at me strangely. I can understand why. Early on I'd told him I'd do anything to win. Offering a partnership now seemed to contradict that. But I didn't care. I really just don't care.
We set off along the path together, going quietly and as quickly as I can. As my nerves settle back down I get quick aftershocks of pain and I sometimes have to stop moving until they pass. I try to stay quiet, but at one point I think I must grunt or whine without knowing it because moments later there's a horrible crashing from nearby on our right and all of a sudden the enormous spider I'd maimed earlier comes careening over the hedge a score of feet ahead of us, legs flailing, its whole body wobbling crazily.
"Duck!" I holler, grabbing Harry by the scruff and nearly throwing him towards the foot of the hedge on our left. "Under, go under, go under!"
"There's no room!" he shouts with his head and most of his shoulders underneath already, evidently stuck.
"For the love of—" I whirl around, ignoring all the various protests of my body, and scream "Impedimenta!" at the drunkenly advancing oversized arachnid. The bolt of magic sends it toppling backwards, legs waving madly, obviously trying to get up but incapacitated for the moment, so I turn back to the hedge and growl, "Bombarda." There's a snarling, ripping noise and a hole appears in the hedge from about knee height to waist height, and I grab Harry again and scramble through, dragging him behind. He grunts as he lands beside me, limbs akimbo and I shush him before hurriedly repairing the hole in the greenery, though it almost looked like tendrils were starting to weave themselves back together anyway. I wonder yet again what kind of magic Hagrid and Sprout put on these plants.
"Where's the spi—?" Harry starts to ask, but I hush him again, listening for the subject of his question on the other side. From what I hear, I'm pretty sure it's getting back to its feet and sort of stumbling about knocking into the hedges on either side. I think I hear its mandibles clicking and hold my breath for the long moments till it finally passes out of earshot. Then I finally breathe again and turn around.
And there's the Cup. Somehow in all the mad scrambling and running away, we'd ended up exactly where we wanted to go. Harry stands halfway between me and the pedestal supporting the Cup, looking like he's caught between a rock and a hard place. But seeing me looking at him, he seems to make a decision.
"Go on then, take it," he says, standing aside to give me a clear view of our prize. I feel nothing but apathy. Nothing about the Tournament matters anymore, not the fame, not the fortune, certainly not showing my classmates I'm better than they think I am.
No. "You saved me back there," I say, firmly not thinking of Viktor's strange blank face, his trembling wand, a curse beyond forgiveness… I shake my head. "I wouldn't have made it here if not for you. You should take it."
"I wasn't even supposed to be in the Tournament," Harry retorts. "You're the legitimate champion. You should win. And you saved me too, so we're even there."
I shake my head again, but doubtfully. "Can we both claim it? Touch it at the same time, maybe?"
He frowns. "I don't know. We could try, I suppose."
"On three then."
We pace to the Cup together and I count. On 'three' we both take hold of a handle.
I feel an awful tug behind my navel as my finger touches the metal, and I am jerked left and right and up and down and backwards all at once. Space is twisting, there is colour and noise and I can't breathe…
We land with a bump that rattles all my bones, and I lay for a long moment with my face pressed into a tuft of scratchy turf. I hear Harry nearby, moaning something about his leg. I sit up and start catching my breath. "What the hell is that thing?" I demand, pointing to the Cup, which has rolled a few steps away.
"Portkey," he replies, looking around with all the confusion I feel. "Do you have any idea where we are?"
I look around too and state the obvious. "A graveyard somewhere." To tell the truth though, my flippancy masks deep unease. The cemetery is eerie and overgrown, the little church and yew tree a small distance off creepy rather than picturesque in the gloom. I get to my feet and help Harry regain his. "Do you reckon this is part of the task?" I wonder, hating how shaky my voice sounds.
"Dunno," he replies.
"Would it take us back if we touched it again?"
"Dunno," he says again. "I don't really know how they work." That makes two of us. A beat of silence, but then he whispers, "Someone's coming!"
"Wands," I hiss back, and they are in our hands faster than an eye blink. We both watch the figure draw closer. It is a fairly short person wearing a dark cloak with a hood that covers its face, but I can tell from the way he moves both that it is male and that he is holding something tenderly, like a baby. Always assuming people really do take care of their children. Neither Harry nor I would be aficionados in that area. I glance sideways at my companion to see him likewise looking at me, each of us confused, and we simultaneously turn back to face the man. He stops next to a particularly imposing gravestone merely two meters from us, and the three of us stare at each other for a second, before Harry suddenly gasps in pain and slaps a hand over his forehead. "Harry!" I shout. The figure by the gravestone is saying something in a horrible, high-pitched voice, and I look up just barely in time to wildly dodge a bolt of green spellfire. "Harry, the Portkey!" I grab him by the shoulder and he comes unresisting, moaning wordlessly. Another burst of green shatters an urn scarce inches from my head and I duck frantically and grab for the Portkey, making sure Harry's arm is secure in my other hand and hoping that will be enough to bring him with me, praying the thing will work twice. "No!" shrieks the high pitched voice. "NO!" But we're gone, twisting and tearing through space, that inside out feeling no better than before, but then there's light and noise, people cheering and I hear Harry gasp in relief—
"Harry Potter has—no, not Linese! Damn!—that is, they have returned together somehow." Bagman. "Ties aren't allowed, are they? Ties can't be allowed." He sounds weirdly frantic, but my heart is still racing from what can only have been attempts on my and Harry's lives. Them—whoever they were—going after Harry certainly makes more sense, he's the famous one and everything, but those Killer Curses certainly looked like they were aimed at me.
People are descending on us from all sides, McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey and Moody, only he looks furious for some reason, he looks out for blood, but why would he…? "How did you get away!?" he wails. "How did you get away!?" Bagman is still shouting something about ties and technicalities, surely Potter won, he says, he must have won, if he didn't win that means….; Madam Pomfrey is on about checking us up as we're the last out of the maze, it's a miracle any of us survived, she had half a mind to resign in protest of how this damned Tournament has been run, but then who would heal anyone?; McGonagall is congratulating both of us, me and Harry both, we'd done just brilliantly, she is so proud we're in her House—is she crying? Does Professor McGonagall cry? "How did you get away!?" Moody is still screaming, and his wand is in his hand and pointed at Harry and everything goes slow because this isn't right, we just barely got away from the strangeness and danger, I can't take any more, I can't!
The curse Moody uses, whatever it is, makes Harry double over in pain, gripping his arm, and people are screaming, McGonagall grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me away, I don't see what happens, but everyone in the crowd are on their feet and screaming and shouting and pointing, Dumbledore shows up from somewhere brandishing his wand, there's spellfire and chaos, Bagman seems to have caught on that something significant is happening, and then a bang that makes my ears ring.
When sound comes back, things are calmer. Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey kneel by Harry, whose arm is bleeding from a large gash, though he seems otherwise alright. Moody has vanished, along with the Cup. McGonagall has me by the shoulders and is saying something to me. "Miss Linese? Linese? Nita, can you hear me?"
I struggle to focus on her. "Yes, ma'am."
Her expression relaxes. There are definitely tears on her face, I notice. "You're alright? You're not hurt?"
"I'm fine," I say. Then I lean forward till my cheek rests on her shoulder and begin to sob. Her hands come up to rest on my back, stiff and light with shock. "Something happened," I gasp. "Something happened." And for a long time I stand there crying, until a querulous voice interrupts.
"Surely they can't intend to let them split the victory, Minerva!" Bagman again. Why this fixation on the tie between me and Harry? I lift my damp face from the Deputy Headmistress' shoulder and glare at the man, who had evidently missed my presence, as he stops dead when he sees me, eyes going wide.
"Do you mind explaining why you hate me so much?" I spit. All my disorganized, frayed off emotions slam together into anger, as though glad to have some outlet, some focus. "What the hell did I ever do to you?"
He goggles, adam's apple bobbing as his mouth opens and closes. His hair is in disarray, his robes stained with sweat.
McGonagall still has her arm around my shoulders, and it tightens now. "You have done nothing wrong, Nita," she declares. "It is Ludo's small-minded, self-centred, worthless view on life that has turned him against you. And why, Ludo? Do you wish to tell her, or shall I?"
He looks truly panicked now, eyes flitting back and forth, tongue slipping over dry lips. "Minerva, surely there's no need—"
"You say I should? Very well. Nita, I hate to be the bearer of bad news after what has clearly already been a stressful evening, but you have the misfortune of being this cretin's daughter."
All the air leaves my lungs in a rush. Daughter? Bagman's? Me? No, those things don't fit together like that. I'm Mum's daughter, I never had a father, he was just some bloke, Mum said he was named Luke, or Duke… or Ludo. And once that one small connection is made, others crowd my mind. We have the same exact colour hair, like sunshine or dandelions, only he keeps his gelled or magicked into its coif. His nervously asked questions about my parentage every chance he got, like after I was chosen as champion, when he asked if I was Muggle-born, and if my parents were proud of me, at the Yule Ball. His sotto voce comment about apples not falling far from their trees when he'd seen me and Viktor going up the marble stairs together the day he'd shown us all the maze. And who had I heard say that he used to get drunk at Muggle pubs after winning Quidditch games? No, too many things make sense. Too many things fit together. I suck a deep breath in. My scar twinges. "And you were worried I would find out and demand something of you." I realize it as I say the words aloud. "You were worried about—about child support payments, or publicly admitting an illegitimate child, or facing Mum again or something. Right?" And if he had broken the Statute of Secrecy all those years ago, it would explain why Mum hated the idea of me being a witch.
His jaw is tight, his eyes bright and hard. At least I didn't get his eyes. "I have nothing to give you anyway," he eventually snaps. "Debts, mostly. Harry winning the Tournament would have solved that for me, with the odds the goblins lay, but you had to go and ruin even that—"
"I don't want anything of yours," I snarl, disgusted. "Everything I've ever done, I've done on my own! How could you ever make my life better? I'll be happy to never see you again! Just leave me alone! Leave me alone!" I'm shouting, people can probably hear, and I'm crying again, but I don't care. This is the worst night of my life for a hundred thousand reasons, and Bagman is the least of them. Yelling at him doesn't even feel that good.
He is pale. His lips twitch, and something in him crumbles. "I'll have to go into hiding from here," he says. "I put everything on Harry, the goblins will never forgive a debt that size, a tie won't be the same…" A glint comes into his eye. "Though if they're letting you tie, you'd get half the gold, wouldn't you? Five hundred?"
Professor McGonagall steps between us. "Get away from her before I break your wand," she says savagely.
Wide-eyed and defeated, Bagman slopes off into the darkness, out of my life, hopefully, forever. I'd never liked him at all, but now the antipathy he had always shown me is perfectly mutual. His daughter… the thought is as slimy and repugnant as he is.
But before I have any time to process anything, Madam Pomfrey bustles over and declares it's high time Harry and I get settled in the Hospital Wing. Yes, that sounds good. Madam Pomfrey won't let anyone bother me in the Hospital Wing.
And for little while, that turns out to be true. Harry is hurt more severely than me and gets most of the Matron's attention, but she runs a number of tests on me as well until she's satisfied I'm healthy and whole. And physically, I am. I'm filthy and my clothes are torn and scorched and covered in dirt and grass stains, but I came through the last task of the Triwizard Tournament with no physical injury to speak of.
Of course that says nothing about emotional blows.
But then Bigby and Madam Malkin and Tom and Mary and Rachel are allowed in to see me, and they saw me crying on McGonagall and yelling at Bagman and they're concerned for me and want to know what happened. "Were you hurt?" Madam Malkin demands as soon as she claps eyes on me. "Poppy, was she hurt?" Madam Pomfrey tells her sister no, and fortunately they get so caught up that Madam Malkin forgets to talk to me at all. Tom, Mary and Rachel listen in, but Bigby comes over to me. His voice is the same low rumble it's been since I was a sopping wet, shivering twelve year old who needed a place to sleep and wouldn't for the world admit it. "You're alright?"
I want to tell Bigby everything, but that old familiar feeling of words gluing themselves to my throat chokes me again and I can't. "Something happened," I whisper. "Something happened."
"Can I help?"
The question brings stinging tears to my eyes. "I don't think so."
He accepts this stoically. "If I ever can," he says at last, looking at me sadly, "just tell me how."
I nod. "Okay. Thank you." I can't ever make the words mean as much as they should, so I just repeat them. "Thank you."
Then I endure the concern of the rest of them for as long as Madam Pomfrey lets them stay, which is about twenty minutes, and then they reluctantly leave and I'm alone again. This is a mixed blessing, because even though the pressure of other peoples' concern is cloying and difficult, being left at the mercy of my own memories is horrible as well. But the next bout of chaos arrives before too long, in the form of Dumbledore, Minister Fudge, McGonagall, Snape, and several others. "Well!" the Headmaster says in a confusingly upbeat tone. "It seems the pair of you have had quite the adventure this evening!"
Harry and I glance at each other. We're in opposite beds, and the Headmaster and his entourage stand sort of off from the foot of them. "I'm not sure that's what I would call it, sir," Harry eventually says, holding up his arm, which still has a thick orange paste like marmalade that Madam Pomfrey put on to heal the slice Moody made.
"No, perhaps not," Dumbledore admits, still amiable. "Frankly, that's why we're here. Harry, Nita, would you be so kind as to tell us what happened?"
Harry and I glance at each other again, and I nod for him to speak first. He does, mercifully starting from us seeing the Cup and going through the Portkey taking us to the graveyard, the strange man holding whatever he was holding, the pain he had experienced, which he says felt like his scar specifically, and then he gets a bit vague about how we got back, and then everyone saw what Moody did at the front of the maze. Fudge mutters in Dumbledore's ear the whole time, seeming agitated. But then it's my turn, and I repeat the majority of what Harry said, adding in the green spellfire that nearly hit me twice in the graveyard, and that it was the Portkey that brought us back to the front of the maze. And I saw even less of Moody's strange outburst than Harry did, so I'm not much help there. But they're keenly interested in the man in the graveyard, and the green spells, as well they should be, and they make each of us repeat ourselves several times. Then Fudge pulls Dumbledore aside and whispers furiously to him, and the others disperse around the room. McGonagall comes to me and sits at the chair next to my bed. "Nita," she says very quietly. "There's something else, isn't there?"
I swallow, lick my lips. Nod.
"I'm not saying you must tell me, of course. But if you wish to, you may."
I try to breathe deeply, but I'm suddenly shaking, very hard. I cross my arms and grip my biceps tightly and that helps a bit, but it's still a thin, struggling whisper that says, "Viktor."
Her brow crimps. "Mr Krum?"
"He… something happened." I force myself onward. "To him, I think. Something… we met in the maze, we talked. I did a Patronus for the first time. It's a fox." Despite everything, I am still proud of this. Even though… "I was so excited to tell him. I used a memory of him, of when he said—he said..." I stop to breathe, pressing a hand over my eyes. "He didn't know what it was, a Patronus." Close now, terrifyingly so, close enough that the spectre of remembered pain makes me shake all the more. "He… something happened, he… went blank. His face did, and his body, sort of. And he did… he used the Cruciatus. On me. And Harry Stunned him. And that's why we were together at the Cup." Breathing. Breathing. The hand over my eyes can't hold the tears in. "We said 'love', at the second task. That's the memory I used. And then he…." Breathing. Deep, rattling breathing that pulls my burn. McGonagall is silent.
Eventually, I take my hand from my eyes and look at her. She has taken her glasses off and is wiping her own eyes with a hankie. "My dear girl," she whispers, and I startle. "My dear girl, I can't imagine..." She gathers herself. "I'm going to tell you something the Minister doesn't want shared."
"Okay," I say, baffled.
"The man teaching Defense all year has not, in truth, been Alastair Moody." I stare at her, wondering where in the world this could be going. "We searched his office before coming here and found great quantities of Polyjuice Potion. You are familiar with that potion's uses?" I nod. "And furthermore, locked in a section of his trunk, we found Moody himself, who says he has been kept prisoner there all year. He has told us that the man impersonating him is Bartimaeus Crouch Junior, a man we all believed died in Azkaban years ago. He was a fervent supporter of You Know Who. If he had some scheme involving Potter—and this is only inference, though I believe it makes sense based on what you described of his actions—he may have used the Imperius Curse on Mr Krum to try and remove you as a competitor in the maze. Using Moody's magical eye would have made that possible for him." I blink, something hot and tight at the bottom of my chest unknotting. I don't know how much sense that makes—it feels pretty reachy—but I'm desperate for something that makes this make sense, and moreover, something that will exonerate Viktor.
"I see," I say softly.
"Again, that's not certain," she stresses. "But knowing what I do about Crouch, and what I've seen of you and Mr Krum, I don't believe… That is to say, I think my theory is the likelier option than him… betraying you in such a way."
"Yes," I agree, something like hope clawing at all the emotional baffles and barriers that years and years of abuse and bullying have necessitated. Viktor had gotten through practically all of them, but then I'd slammed him back out after… after. Would I be able to let him back in?
A bout of silence. Madam Pomfrey is back to looking at Harry's arm, frowning. Fudge and Dumbledore still stand apart, Dumbledore looking calm and unruffled while the Minister looks still more frazzled than when he got here. McGonagall is looking at me soberly. A thought strikes me. "Can you… do me a favour?" I ask.
"Certainly."
"Edgar, my ferret… I think Madam Pomfrey will make us, me and Harry that is, stay here tonight, so could you please bring him food? He likes chicken, if there is any. And would you tell him I'm alright? He should understand. I think."
She smiles and shakes her head. "I'll do that now."
"Thanks," I sigh. She leaves, and noone else bothers me. Fudge storms out, Snape follows, Dumbledore talks to Harry for a minute but then Madam Pomfrey forces him out too, and the infirmary is left in blessed quiet. Madam Pomfrey brings over a curtain for around the bed along with a basin of water, soap and a washtowel, and a pair of hospital pyjamas. I undress and clean up slowly, and when I'm done, she brings a bowl of hot lentil soup. Harry is asleep in the opposite bed by then, and I sit up alone in the dark, hugging my knees, watching the stars glide slowly by out the narrow windows.
Some time around midnight, Viktor arrives. His wand is lit and his steps are soft, and when I look over at him in the doorway he stops dead. "Nheeta," he whispers.
The trembling is back, and I grip my arms again. "What happened?" I ask, voice tight.
"It vosn't me," he says desperately, miserably. "I mean, it vos, but—it vos like my mind vos, vos, kidnapped? Hostaged?"
"Bulgarian is fine," I say, all of my instincts at war with the hope that's rising again.
He rushes into his native language gratefully, words tripping over each other in his speed. "It was like there was something else in my mind, telling me what to do. I didn't want to, but I couldn't resist, I wasn't in charge of my own body anymore. I tried and tried to fight it—" Yes, his wand had been shaking, was that what that had meant? "—but it was in my head, I couldn't get it out, it just kept telling me 'hurt her, hurt her' and—" His voice breaks and the starlight from the windows makes silver of his tears. "And I'm so sorry, Nita, I'm so sorry, I can't imagine how you'll ever forgive me, I know I don't deserve it. But I'm sorry… I'm sorry…."
I realize I'm crying too, and swipe at my cheeks. "Has anyone explained to you about Moody?" I ask. He shakes his head. No, of course they wouldn't. It's par for the course, exactly the way the rest of the Tournament has been run. Why change tack now? "Come sit down," I say, pointing to the chair by my bed where McGonagall had sat earlier. He hurries over and sits, expression battling between hope and fear. Just exactly what I'm feeling too. I give him the short version of what McGonagall told me, and he listens rapt, eyes burning. I address myself to his hands, mostly, sparing only the odd glance at his face. It's difficult to look at him properly. Even though I'm becoming convinced that McGonagall's theory is right, because there's enough circumstantial evidence to support it, and I know that Viktor would never do anything like cheating, the memory of pain and betrayal is strong, and all the lessons of my life tell me that the people who say they love me—who are supposed to love me—will hurt me. Even if only by accident. I can't unlearn that in the course of one night, no matter how much I want to.
"I've never seen the Imperius done before," he says. "Only read, and heard stories of when Grindelwald was in power..." He wets his lips nervously. "You said it's not certain that's what happened. That since Moody—or Crouch, as you say—escaped, there's no way to be sure. If you can't accept that explanation, I… I understand. They're the Unforgivable Curses because… well." Tears are tracking down his face again, dripping onto his chest, but his voice is even. He's ready for rejection if that's what I have for him.
I take my time, speaking each word carefully. "The Cruciatus is an Unforgivable, and for good reason. I've never been in so much pain before. And the fact that it was you, at least physically…" I swallow with difficulty. "I can't tell you how that felt. But… even if there's no solid proof, with Crouch gone... the Imperius makes the most sense. And… the Imperius is an Unforgivable too." A deep, steadying breath. "So maybe we're both victims." I make myself look at him, and see the naked hope and love on his face, and feel my heart reach out with the desire to hold and be held again. But still, the dark shadow of pain… "I will need time to trust you again. Maybe a lot of it. But I want to. I want to be with you, and love you, and trust you, and have a life together..." And dammit, I'm crying again.
But he takes my hand in both of his, squeezing so hard I almost fear for my fingers, and presses my knuckles to his forehead. "Nita," he breathes, shoulders shaking. "My god, Nita, thank you. I can't believe… I love you… I love you, I'm so sorry…"
"I know," I whisper. "It'll be okay. I love you too. It'll be okay."
—The End—
A/N
YOU GUYS, I WAS LITERALLY GOING TO KILL HER! THIS IS HOW THE ORIGINAL DRAFT ENDED:
He stops next to a particularly imposing gravestone merely two meters from us, and the three of us stare at each other for a second.
Then, without warning, Harry crumples to the ground next to me, moaning and clutching his head, evidently in great pain. Distracted, I barely hear a high, cruel voice say, "Kill the girl."
Another voice screams, "Avada Kedavra!"
There is a flash of green light.
I am falling.
I was seriously going to do that to my beautiful girl! She wasn't going to find out about Bagman being her dad, or reconcile with Viktor, or ever go to the Euro-Glyph School…. I have half of a super sad epilogue written and everything! When I started this, I set out to emphasize the tragedy of the situation, and really dissect how, in canon, we didn't have a sense of what the end of Cedric's life was interrupting, aside from his relationship with Cho. I wanted to show what it would mean for a life to be cut off at the very middle, with nothing resolved. But seeing how much everyone loved Nita as they read more of her story had me feeling guiltier and guiltier, and this is the review that changed my mind once and for all: "Excellent chapter! ...I sincerely hope that you are not building up Nita just to kill her in the graveyard. I like the character you've created and hope to see that somehow she and Harry will pull through." It was the first one to mention the possibility of her dying outright, and when I read it I felt SO BAD that I decided right then and there to change the ending. So here we are. As happy an ever after as Nita Linese could have gotten, just as delicate and complicated as the rest of her life has been. (And if you don't think I know exactly how the rest of their lives together go, you've got another thing coming.)
Thank you to every single person who has read along with Nita on her journey, especially everyone who has left such kind and encouraging reviews (seriously, I have never posted a story to such completely positive response!). I'm happy that you unknowingly convinced me to change the outcome of the graveyard. Her happy ending is as much for you as her.
Happy New Year to everyone! I hope 2020 brings you health and happiness!
All characters (except for mine) are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Bros, etc. Oh, and I keep forgetting to say that I stole Bigby's name from the "Fables" series by Bill Willingham. He's not meant to be the same character, though I do love that Bigby, I just thought his name was cool.
E.I. signing out