Crossroads

by NXSE

In a world where he's not the Boy Who Lived, Harry struggles through a myriad of obstacles in an attempt to protect the people he treasures. First person POV. 5th year and beyond. No bashing.

1. Chapter 1

Author's notes (please skim this before reading the work):

1) The work is written in first person present tense. It starts in the summer preceding year five. The only POV will be Harry's. I've deviated quite heavily from his canon personality, which is to say I've dialed his canonical snark up to eleven and allowed him to be more level headed in the interactions he has. I suppose if you squint hard enough, he'd remind you more of James than of Harry or Lily. This at least is intentional, since there's a thematic motif buried there; and I handwave most of it away by pointing to the altered circumstances.

2) This is an eventual three-way relationship between Tracey, Daphne and Harry. There will be no additions to that. The focus will be more on fostering close friendships than on romance though. This is not to say there won't be moments of a more romantic nature from time to time — but the emphasis is on a pseudo familial dynamic, first and foremost, to the point I gave serious thought to leaving this as a gen fic. I settled for the three-way because it just felt a lot more challenging to write convincingly. In fact, I remain unconvinced that this can be done passably well. But it's FF, it's for fun, so why not try?

3) No magical cores. No lordships. No student politicians. There's brief mention of a betrothal contract (Astoria's), but that's only as a plot point to facilitate something else altogether.

4) To the best of my knowledge, there's no bashing. The Weasleys are decent people. Hermione is a studious and loyal helpmate. Neville is a paragon of virtue. Dumbledore is a well-intentioned albeit ineffective schoolteacher forced to take on the mantle of leadership. Snape, as in canon, is a cunt, but he doesn't get more than a couple of scenes dedicated to him. Malfoy was a cunt in canon, especially up to the end of book five; I've tried remaining true to the spirit of that (I'm fond of him, and I quite like what Rowling did with him as a character in books six and seven, but he was rancid for the first five books). He also won't feature much— it is not my style to beat down a character over and over again out of pettiness and spite.

I shall also bring up three specific deviations that are unlikely to be covered elsewhere in the work:

i) Severus Snape is not a death eater. He never took the mark in this reality. Almost everything else in his history remains the same, except that he took the potions' post at Hogwarts for job security and potions ingredients, not to play double agent or protect Harry Potter.

ii) Neville Longbottom's scar does not hold a horcrux. Riddle hit him with the killing curse at the end of second year before having his diary destroyed. This is part of the reason why Dumbledore takes a more proactive role in his life.

iii) Voldemort made three horcruxes, not seven: the diary, the ring, and the locket. As a consequence, he's closer to Tom Riddle as we saw him in HBP than second war Lord Voldemort. I've done this to avoid the absolute chore that is the horcrux hunt: it was fun to read in the books but seeing it in every single FF ever has fried my brain.

5) There are several other deviations, some bigger than the others. But these should be covered in the work.

6) There is decent-ish focus on dueling. If this is not your cup of tea, then I recommend that you nope out now.

Also, if you're here from my Naruto works, then please note that this piece was written in a six-day spree of frustration after I wrote six thousand words for Manumission, then backspaced it into oblivion because the scene I'd written was tepid and did not mesh well with that work's overall structure. I still intend to continue Manumission, but I am struggling with that work: I just have to return to the drawing board and try again, and I needed something to distract me from my inadequacies. It is my hope that writing a few chapters for this will help me rediscover my muse for that, so that I can continue both works at the same time.

Now, with that out of the way, happy reading!

---

Chapter 1

Sometimes the entirety of your effort is for nothing. Sometimes you are well beaten. Then you wipe the blood from your mouth and acknowledge the other guy to be better. Sportsmanship, they call it.

I call it being a gutless loser.

Obstinacy. It's a stupid thing. Your shield's broken for the thirty first fucking time in the space of five minutes; you're on your arse and there's a metal spike protruding from your forearm; you're nursing at the very least a concussion and can barely move on your broken foot; and there's the referee getting in your face, telling you you're a fucking idiot and that he's about to call it because boy oh boy you're washed, you've completely gone and fucked it; but you put up an arm— the other arm, the good one, the one good ol' Shack hasn't shish kebab'd yet— and you tell the ref not to call it.

There's your moment of inspiration, eh? The one where the hero somehow works his way back up, all bloodied and broken, and stands ruggedly handsome before spitting in the face of fate and challenging destiny and the gods and all that hoopla.

But here's the thing; even as I miraculously right myself— even as Shacklebolt rather charitably gives me a second to put myself back together— I know I'm done. I was done in the first minute of the first round, truth be told. Hopelessly outgunned. He's forty, I'm fifteen; he's been doing this for a lifetime while I started at eleven. He's an auror and the dueling national champ; I'm— well, I'm some bloke who had a proper wank for the first time a week ago, I guess. So what keeps me going, then? What lets me stand back up in the final minute of the final round while knowing I've lost on the scorecard and have no hope of pulling off a knockout either?

Daph would say dignity. Trace would suggest lunacy. Me? I think it's a mixture of masochism and spite.

---

"Should've given me the fifth round," Trace grumbles.

I'm happy to inform you that, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I've retained all my teeth. I'm being carted off to a makeshift med-tent. They've buckled me down to a gurney, the harpies. Arm's in a cast, though Daph's fixed the worst of it; the foot will need a dose of skele-gro. Or so Daph says. I'm a simple guy— I just chug down whatever she gives me. She's my healer for a reason, and I am ninety nine percent sure she'll only poison me in the event of extreme boredom.

"Is it really a Harry Potter duel if you can't fit what's left of him into a shoebox come the end?" Daph wonders.

"One more round, and you could downgrade that to a matchbox," Trace quips.

"What's a matchbox?" Daph asks.

"Muggle thing," Trace says. "It's, er—" She flounders about for an explanation then throws up her hands dramatically. The girl's always had a flair for theatrics. "Oh, never mind. Tell him he should've given me the fifth round, Daph."

"You should've given her the fifth round, Harry," Daph says dutifully, the traitor.

"We'd be packing her into a matchbox, then," I say. "You're my second for a reason, Trace."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She puts her hands on her hips. Her glare could melt that iceberg and save the Titanic.

"That I'm broke, desperate, and insane enough to enlist the worst second on the entire circuit. I'm not putting that up against Kingsley fucking Shacklebolt. He can have a go at you over my dead body."

"This is why you have no friends," Daph informs me.

Trace huffs and crosses her arms but she lets it go. We both know it's the truth. She's fifteen; she shares my passion for dueling but lacks my freakish talent.

"A round would've been nice, though," Trace mumbles. "You were four nil down at that point, and the match was over."

Bloody Hell, she's actually upset. My words might have seemed mean to the uninitiated, but Trace and I have spent four years ragging on each other in jest. She's my best friend. It's our thing.

"Hey," I say, tone softening, "I'll give you a couple of rounds next time, a'right? Say, in September, when we go to Milan for the world championship. But this guy— Merlin, you had to be in there with him to believe it. He kicked my arse all the way back to Hogwarts. Didn't have a second to breathe, start to finish." I lift my arm and make a jerky motion towards my foot. "And you've seen what he's left me like. I like you too much, Trace, to let him do that to you. I'd have killed him if he hurt you, even if I had to sandbag him from behind."

"And this is why we are your friends," Daph informs me, the corner of her lip curling up into a smirk.

---

Trace, Daph and I go way back, man.

But where are my manners? Let me introduce the girls properly, full names and all (as is a lady's due, Daph would snootily tell you). Just to be clear, I shall do this once, then wallow in misery over the sheer pretension of it all, because Daph is Daph to me, and Trace is Trace, and good grief, what sort of barbarian would refer to them as anything else? But anyway, Daphne Greengrass, she of grace, hauteur and snobbery, heiress to a noble name and a ruined fortune; and Tracey Davis, whose appellations are unimportant and lineage irrelevant (she resides with her muggle mum; her dad was some pureblood ponce who did the business and bounced before her birth). If that sounds unflattering, then allow me to confess that I have vastly exaggerated their virtues, and that the four years I've spent in their company have ranged from chastening to deranged. But if you knock back four firewhiskeys they might qualify as eye candy. And what bloke can ask for more?

Anyway, Trace, Daph and I go way back. It all started on the Hogwarts express, when I was pint sized and Daph was pint sized too. I blundered into her compartment. She tried swindling me out of a seat through frostiness and snootiness and sheer intimidation. I was too dumb for any of this to register, and throughout the train ride I monologued at her whilst she tried murdering me with her eyes. Before we got off she snarled at me that it was a faux pas to address someone from a higher station so casually. Rightly chalking this response up to inbreeding and social retardation, I went on talking to her throughout the boat ride. Her monosyllabic responses did not break my will but my steadfast refusal to take a hint broke hers. When I got sorted into Slytherin I took the seat next to her. It was at this point she realized she would not be getting rid of me for the next seven years. Thus she abandoned herself to fate, and thus a pact to endure each other was formed.

Trace was more straightforward. Half-blood. Lower middle class. Socially awkward. Shabbily dressed. Muggle heritage. Sorted into Slytherin. She was a social pariah by default, and life is hard in Slytherin the moment you become a social pariah (I would know — I am one). So one evening in the first term, when I came across Draco and his chums taking a prank too far, and Trace wet and shivering and in her underclothes, I did the humane thing— I broke Draco's nose and sent him to the hospital wing. Trace and I have been fast friends ever since, and despite Daph's initial protests (you would have me consort with a mudblood?) I once again ignored her and whittled her will down. Before the year was out Trace was Daph's closest confidante. I think they're closer to each other than they are to me. Perhaps they might even be bonding over the shared trauma I've caused them. Traitors, the both of them.

"There's your skele-gro," Daph says, unceremoniously shoving a flask into my hand.

She's been a ball of activity since entering the tent. And for good reason. She's my designated healer: she's a trainee; she apprentices under Madam Pomfrey and is still years away from mastery despite dedicating the vast majority of her time to medicine; I picked her because I am poor, and healers cost a pretty penny; she compensates for the lack of a medical license by attempting to appear busy.

It fools no one.

"Bottoms up." I down the contents of the flask in one go. It tastes like mermish lung sauteed in sewer water and dressed up in rotting cabbage. I'd say I feel like throwing up, but I'd be lying— skele-gro is my morning coffee at this point.

"Two hours to midnight," Trace says, wringing her hands and peering out of the tent. It is pitch dark outside. "I need to get home, Harry."

"Ten minutes, Trace," I say. "Still missing a bone or two, I think. That last bone breaker did a number on me— turned half my foot to powder."

"You should stay overnight," Daph mutters. "She can take the floo."

Trace nods in agreement.

"And you'll stay here with me?" I leer at Daph and offer her a lopsided smirk.

She raises an eyebrow, as if to say duh. I'm touched. She'd get into serious trouble with her mum for that. I won't let it happen, though. She's already suffered enough for my sake. Her parents refer to me as James Potter's spawn, but are too timorous to say it to my face, just in case there's some truth to the rumours. It's the sort of folk they are— social climbers without a backbone.

I get off the gurney and ignore Daph's hiss of displeasure. My foot feels wonky. I'll be limping tonight, but I'd rather that than confine myself to a sick bed.

"And where in Liverpool will she find a floo, Daph?" I ask. She opens her mouth, no doubt to demonstrate her impressive understanding of pureblood geography, but I cut her off before she can reply. "I apparated the two of you here, and I can get the two of you back to your houses. It's the least I can do after the bottlejob tonight."

"That's illegal, and you'll get into trouble for it someday." Daph turns up her nose at me. However she does not decline my offer.

"You made the semis," Trace says softly. "You knocked out the champion of Italy. You're too hard on yourself."

"The winnings are modest," I insist. "Forty galleons for me, twenty each for the two of you. If I'd been better we could've each walked away with a king's ransom."

Tracey sits down next to me. Snuggles up and buries her face in the crook of my neck. Rubs against me as a cat would. It's a habit of hers that dates back to second year. It was sweet and innocent then; puberty makes it awkward. But Daph and I both let her do it. Trace has had a hard life. She has a history of being ostracized, shamed and bullied. It predates her arrival at Hogwarts. Both magical and muggle societes are equally unkind to unwed single mothers and their offspring.

Of course, her touch starved tendencies are in stark contrast to Daphne, who treats everyone except Trace like a leprosy victim.

"And if you'd been worse we'd have had nothing," Trace whispers in my ear. "You've come so far, Harry. I remember what it used to be like last year."

We do not talk about last year. I spent most of it getting curb stomped by people you've never even heard of. The old, the infirm, the career journeymen that the circuit chews up and spits back out. Professional duelists and adult wizards all, admittedly, but still. It was a hell of a comedown after winning the under eighteens last June. Skill issue, truth be told. I suppose I just did not know how steep a skill gap there would be between the kiddie leagues and the professional circuit.

Or rather, I did know. I started out as a second in the pro leagues at eleven. I did my time under Gilderoy fucking Lockhart for three years whilst simultaneously cleaning out the under fourteen, under sixteen and under eighteen sections. I was paid in hype, exposure and the odd dead rubber of a round, none of which prepared me for the switch from second to pro. It's a bloodbath, man. It's a massacre. There are few rules. Some of the spells used are obscure and outlandish. You don't recognize the wrist work or the wand movements, and a millisecond's delay is the difference between a successful dodge and being bisected in half. You shield at the wrong time or for the wrong spell and you're a spatter on the wall. These people set up to hurt, to kill— to win. You need to be fucked in the head to enjoy it.

I am, in fact, fucked in the head.

I extricate myself from Tracey's ministrations (it takes superhuman self-control to not cop a feel) and attempt to stand. The world wobbles. Daph extends an elegant digit and taps me on the chest. I lose my footing and sink back down on the gurney. I am met with a wry look from one girl and a muffled giggle from the other. To cover for my embarrassment, and to distract them from the inevitable lecture that I would otherwise receive, I cast my gaze around and pounce on the first object I find: a neatly folded copy of the Daily Prophet on the glass table next to my gurney. I pluck it up and flip it open. The headline that greets me makes me do a double take.

"The Lies of Longbottom," I read. I skim the article in ten seconds, and the words attention seeker, demented, narcissist and compulsive liar jump out at me. There are similar allegations made about Dumbledore.

"Is this about that triwizard thing?" I ask. And really, I do not have a clue. I avoid the newspaper if I can help it, and while Hogwarts did indeed host the Triwizard tournament, I missed the third task and its fallout due to spending the week in Geneva. We all did. There are about twenty dueling tournaments a year; we participate in half of those, and as long as our grades don't dip the school lets us do our thing.

"It's been all over the news for months now," Daph says incredulously.

"Enlighten me," I say.

"Longbottom's claimed that the dark lord is back. He says it was the dark lord that killed Diggory."

"And no one believes him?"

"Dumbledore does," Tracey points out.

"Dumbledore is a senile old fool," Daph hisses.

"He's rarely wrong," Trace insists.

"I don't know how he's still headmaster," Daph fires back. "He lost the plot when that Weasley girl died in the chamber, and he gets worse year on year."

I tune them out and continue to scan the article.

"So, what?" I ask eventually, my eyes still on the paper. "You're buying into the Ministry's view? That it's a sham, a shameless power grab?"

"I've read that piece," Daph says. "It does not mention the ministry."

"No, but we both know who's behind it, don't we, Daphne?"

Daph tucks an errant lock behind her ear. Her honey-hued hair gleams in the flickering candlelight.

"Longbottom's an attention hog," she says slowly. "The dead do not return to life."

But even as she says it she sounds like she's having difficulty believing it.

"Longbottom's not the sort to lie," Trace counters. "I sit next to him in runes, he's sound."

"I've known him in passing, " I add. "He's the type to rescue puppies from burning buildings. Nauseatingly selfless. Straight as they come."

"Not like us." Daph's tone is imperious. She crosses her arms. Daphne Greengrass operates under the eternal delusion that she is ruthless and opportunistic.

"Speak for yourself, selfish hag," Trace mumbles under her breath. I scuff her across the back of her head. The last thing we need is for the claws to come out. The last time these two got into it there were tufts of hair flying about. The common room was turned upside down and wands ended up in places where they did not belong.

Tracey sticks her tongue out and punches me on the shoulder in retaliation.

"Heard anything about it from your da?" I ask Daph, rubbing my shoulder and ignoring Trace. The Greengrasses have an ancestral seat on the Wizengamot. So do I, technically speaking, but I'd rather go cock-first through a combine harvester than claim it. None of those busybodies will let me sell the damn thing either. I'd pawn that unwieldy chair off for thirty pieces of silver.

"He deals in potion ingredients, Harry. We have a small-scale business that runs at a loss." Daph looks like she's swallowed a lemon. It kills a part of her every time she has to admit just how far from grace her family has fallen. "He's not invited to certain gatherings. Even if the dark lord were back, we'd be the last people to hear about it."

"Not the last," Trace chimes in. "I'd get to know when there's a dark mark over my house."

She lets the statement hang. She tries playing it off as a joke, but it's a bleak declaration and we all know it is the truth. Voldemort returning is not good news for anyone.

"Have you heard anything?" Daph asks me tactfully. Or at least she thinks she's being tactful. "After all, you know—"

"Let's not go there, Daph." I sound laid back, but she can probably tell that I'm gritting my teeth. I do not like being reminded of certain things. Or certain people, for that matter.

"Oh, look at the time!" Tracey's voice rises in a deliberate falsetto. "Half past ten already! I really have to run, Harry."

I get on my feet. I am able to stand unaided this time.

"I'll drop you off," I say. "Stay put for five minutes, Daph. I'll return for you."

---

Tracey's current residence is in Wickham. We steer clear of St. Nicholas Church and some of the posher localities. Tracey's mum is a modern-day nomad. She's flighty and paranoid and goes stir crazy if they have to settle for too long in one place. They've toured the country. As Trace once said to me, she's lived out her life in run down rented apartments, and she's spent her life being at peace with the secretarial work her mother does. Their current shack speaks of poverty and disrepair. It stinks of cheap wine and cat food and despair. Daph would be embarrassed to breathe the air in this place, let alone reside in it.

Trace cannot give less of a fuck. She walks down the street with her head held high, then pulls me into a hug when we reach her doorstep.

"Save me a seat on the train," she says when we break apart.

"School's a fortnight away and I'd rather not think about it," I grouse.

"Not started your homework yet?"

"I won't touch that shit till the final week if I can help it. McGonagall's asked for a seventy-two-inch essay on the theory behind interspecies transfiguration, and that's one of the better assignments we've got this time."

"I know." Tracey grins. "I've done them all."

"Traitor," I say languidly. "Teacher's pet. That kind of punctuality isn't a virtue, it's a cry for help."

"You'll be singing a different tune when Snape tans your arse black and blue for non-completion."

"Kinky, aren't we?" I adjust my glasses. A pause, a beat. "Thanks for the save earlier, by the way."

"Hm?"

"With Daph," I clarify. "At the end. Don't think I don't appreciate what you did there."

Trace waves it away.

"I know you dislike talking about your dad," she says.

"Yeah." I avoid eye contact and stare into the distance.

A silence settles over us.

"Take care, Trace," I mumble. "Don't be a stranger. You know where I live, send me a couple of letters."

"You know I will," she laughs. "It's Daph you ought to convince, not me."

She swoops in for another hug. I lift her off the ground and whirl her around.

"See you at school, Harry," she says when I set her down.

Chocolate hair, chocolate eyes. A tomboy, an angel. The sweetest girl I've ever known.

The porchlight goes out, the door whispers shut. I stand still for a moment then apparate away.

---

"That was fifteen minutes, not five," Daph informs me as we walk down Shaftesbury Avenue. There's a byway somewhere up ahead that bridges off to Greengrass manor.

"You're too high maintenance," I complain. "You demand to be treated like a firebolt while offering less than a cleansweep."

"Did you snog her?" She ignores my retort. "Is that why it took you so long?"

"Why stop there, Daph?" I sigh. "Fifteen minutes is ample time to do the deed. Bump uglies, rock someone's world. I could show you, if you want."

She does not deign to reply. Daph's overarching prudishness does not allow her to participate in ribald jests.

"We were talking about homework, if you must know," I say after a minute's silence.

"I'm not letting you copy mine," she says immediately.

"Oh, please. I'd never copy you. I have little faith in your ability to spell your own name correctly."

"You're being needlessly antagonistic," she notes. "Are you sure you did not try snogging Davis and get rejected?"

"I'd never get rejected," I offer her my best smile. "Veteran here, Daph. Charm personified. Three relationships under my belt."

"Three failed flings," she corrects, "none of which lasted for more than two months. But then again, even a flobberworm could've told you that the Veela you took to the ball last year was out of your league."

"You see failures, I see a dozen rounds of tonsil hockey. Absolute win in my book."

"What's hockey?"

"Muggle sport. Never mind."

The conversation peters out. I do not wish to tell her that she might be onto something. My attempts at romantic relationships have been frivolous, and as a consequence they've ended frivolously. Fleur Delacour was a six-week train wreck. I asked her to the yule ball in a moment of madness— she accepted. I was passionately in love for a fortnight before the reality of my situation started to sink in. The truth is, I might mess around with Daph and Trace but I clam up when confronted by strangers. I am, dare I say it, reserved, constipated, neurotic, and British. Fleur, on the other hand, was compassionate and open. She gave away her attention freely. She was hit on from dawn to dusk, and the interest flattered her. Stroked her ego. Judge me all you want, but you try being the bloke whose bird's flirted with thirty-three billion times during the walk from the forbidden forest to the dining hall. We were doomed from the start— it was a mismatch of personalities and expectations. We split amicably before the second task. You're not man enough for me, 'Arry, she told me. You've committed the cardinal sin of being too French, Fleur, was my sad riposte.

The other two were even worse. One substandard date to Hogsmeade in my third year with Lisa Turpin (unremarkable, asocial, insecure, afraid of her own shadow; I do not know what I saw in her, and I only added that one for clout), and an acrimonious affair with good ol' Bonesie this spring (this was after Fleur). She was pretty but had the personality of a cardboard cutout, and she hated that I spent time with Trace and Daph. Those yetis will never let anyone get close to you, she screamed towards the end while gnashing her teeth and foaming at the mouth.

But whatever. Yesterday's heartbreaks are today's jokes; today's jokes are tomorrow's life lessons. Or something like that. I dunno. I'm just spouting random shit to try and bury the embarrassment of my romantic fumbles.

Is it working?

"I'm scared, Harry," Daph mumbles.

The statement arrests my flight of fancy.

Daph and I share this weird dynamic. She can be a vengeful bitch one second then all demure and vulnerable the next. She's closer to Trace yet tells me things she'd never even dream of confiding to anyone else. Tracey thinks Daphne to be this pinnacle of aristocratic perfection—refined, dignified, frigid, not a hair out of place, bearing both victory and hardship with equal indifference— but I know just how brittle Daph really is. We've shared some of our scars. Our conversations go from nonsensical to poignant to nonsensical again. There are random leaps in theme and topic. We'd be taking the mickey out of each other, I'd be seconds away from calling her a repressed lesbian, then she'd suddenly bring up her suicide ideations with no discernable change in mannerisms. How she once had this bad habit of cutting her wrists. How she was fascinated watching the rim of her sink turn red. How she loves her familial heritage but hates her family, sick sister aside. How she's dedicated her life to escaping with Tori. How every galleon she earns goes into an emergency fund to finance that freedom. How she's a couple of years away from being sold off like chattel, probably to Gregory Goyle. How her mother is a gold digger and her father an overwrought shell of a man who frittered away centuries worth of fortune and prestige in the space of a decade. It's the sort of harrowing stuff that makes me glad about being an orphan.

But then again, I'm hardly one to talk. I have my own ghosts to contend with.

Personally, I think Daph's bipolar. And that's all right. I practically adopted her on that first day, so I tolerate her outbursts. Even when she goes red in the face, even when she rages and screams and throws stuff around, I forgive her and chalk it up to a shitty childhood. She has no one else. None of us do. And over the years, despite being broken, she has shown a willingness to become a better person. When I first encountered her she met every single uppity pureblood stereotype; now she only meets about half of them.

"Scared?" I prod. "Is this about—"

"The dark lord," she whispers. Her lips are bloodless. "What if he's really returned?"

"I shall shave my head and become a Buddhist monk," I say solemnly. "Migrate to Tibet, most likely."

This is not even met with the passing grade of a smile. She chews the inside of her cheek and has a thousand-yard stare.

"It is a rumour, Daph," I say eventually. I resist the urge to reach out and rest my hand on her shoulder. If she's in a bad mood she's not above shoving my arm off.

"You've said it yourself," I continue. "Longbottom might've hit his head somewhere and hallucinated the whole thing."

She turns to me. Her eyes are agonized and it breaks my heart. We both know that I don't believe what I've just said.

"There's talk of marrying off Tori to the Malfoys," she mutters, wringing her hands. "There's a betrothal contract on the table. My plan was to take her and run after I graduate. Transfer her to Beauxbatons, perhaps. Finance her treatment somehow. It's what I've been saving up for. It's the only thing . . . it's all that's left for me, Harry. But if He is back . . . there's no one to turn to, nothing I can do . . ."

It goes without saying that the Malfoys are Lord Voldemort's loyal lap dogs. In the brave new world he intends to carve over the corpses of everyone that opposes him, they'd have first right of refusal for pretty much everything and everyone.

Astoria does not stand a prayer.

Despite all the shit I've given her— through every secret she's shared with me— I've never seen Daph cry. She seems close to doing so now. She takes a shuddering breath and turns away. Draws her cowl over her face. Her knuckles are white.

"Let's not deal in hypotheticals," I say. "If Vold—" I remember the taboo from the first war "—if He who must not be named is back, we'll find out at school. Malfoy can't keep a secret to save his life."

"And if He is?"

"Then we'll do what we've always done, Daph— survive. But you're not alone. You'll never be alone, as long as Trace and I are alive."

---

Let me tell you a story.

Bear with me: what I am about to tell you is vital, even though there are people who might disagree— the ministry, more specifically, and Albus Dumbledore; after all, the entire ordeal was treated as an open and shut case. But everything I am about to cover is close to my heart, it is inextricably tied to my life, and every time I am reminded of it I have no words, no thoughts, nothing but a crushing sadness and a bone deep pang of horror.

Let's set the scene. Hogwarts Express in the early seventies. A young James Potter, who has a tempestuous relationship with his father and has quarreled with him that very morning, boards the Express for the first time and runs into one Sirius Orion Black. They hit it off immediately. James, my father, finds him uproariously funny, and is convinced by Black that getting sorted into Slytherin would both spite his father and be the best prank ever.

For seven years James Potter is an exemplary student despite being in Slytherin. For seven years he and Black are attached at the hip, and though he is ignored by his housemates he treats them with dignity. He shows no psychotic tendencies, no incidental little cruelties, nothing, nothing in the very least that would suggest . . .

But anyway, his popularity cuts across house lines. He is outspoken and charismatic, is the first to take up the mantle against blood purity, the first to denounce the dark lord. This wins him no favours within his house, but to everyone else he becomes a hero and a role model. He becomes head boy, apprentices under Minerva Mcgonagall, who is his most ardent defender, and wins the affections of Lily Evans, whom he marries despite her muggle heritage. On the day of his graduation he has several acquaintances and allies but few friends. Sirius Black is his brother in all but blood. In 1978 his parents die of dragon pox. He sets aside his grief and joins the auror office, where he is partnered with Alastor Moody.

In the space of two years he's had a meteoric rise. As the seventies turn into the eighties, James Potter is on the precipice of greatness. There are murmurs about him heading the DMLE in the near future. Even becoming Minister of Magic by thirty does not seem out of question.

It all comes crashing down. On the thirty-first of October, 1981— the day of the Dark Lord's fall at the hands of Neville Longbottom— James Potter marches into Potter Manor and holds his wife under Cruciatus for half an hour. When Sirius Black arrives on the scene and intervenes, a duel breaks out. It ends in the deaths of both men. When the ministry sweeps the ruins of the house, they find me buried under the wreckage. I have no memory of any of this.

They examine the bodies and find a Dark Mark on James Potter's forearm. Records are reassessed, rounded up death eaters re-examined. Lucius Malfoy confesses under Veritaserum that Potter was the Dark Lord's right-hand man. Bellatrix Lestrange cackles and howls long into the night about how he pulled the wool over everyone's eyes. Memories are taken from victims, and in a messy investigation spanning several months, followed by an even messier posthumous trial conducted in a full Wizengamot session, Potter's guilt is indubitably established. Albus Dumbledore professes to James having been a part of his vigilante group; he even goes as far as admitting he was aware of the Dark Lord's interest in the young man, and that it was on his suggestion that James took the mark; but he also professes that the defense systems in Longbottom manor were compromised internally, by someone who was intimately familiar with the ward scheme, and he admits that James, his purported spy, could have turned coat.

A storied lineage crumbles to dust. The Potters are public enemy number one. Potter estate is foreclosed and sold. Vaults are seized and the wealth redistributed to the families of victims. My vegetative mother and I are left with some sickles, a few knuts, and the ownership to Godric Hollow, which was in her name. My mum is sent to St. Mungos, where she perishes after thirteen years of being in a vegetative state; I am dropped off with my now deceased maternal muggle grandad, who keeps me in the dark till I turn ten.

Then he tells me the truth.

I spend the next four years of my life obsessing over this story and tracking down every plausible lead. I go all the way back to the Potter wetnurse, one Ms. Arabella Figg, and go from there. Mary MacDonald. Minerva Mcgonagall. Ted and Andromeda Tonks. Emmeline Vance, Barty Crouch, Alastor Moody, Albus Dumbledore. More doors are slammed in my face than I care to count, but I persist, because how could I not, how could I be fine with this, how could I just accept that my father was a death eater and a monster, and that he turned my mother into a vegetable?

The evidence is ironclad. It breaks something in me.

I take it out on the dueling circuit.

This nearly proves to be my undoing. I've walked away from Lockhart, who, though competent, is a narcissist and a braggart that only ever took me on because he saw a charity case he could milk for publicity; I'm fighting recklessly— I'm seeing red every time I set foot in that arena. That's when it happens. In the fourth round of the bloodiest duel I've ever participated in, my Sumerian cutting curse sneaks through my opponent's defenses and nicks his neck. The resulting arterial spray is horribly grotesque. It breaks me out of my funk. They apparate his convulsing body to St. Mungo's but it is too late.

It is an accident. I myself suffer from a shattered shoulder. I could've done better— I should've done better—but the death rate on the dueling circuit is high. We do it for the money, we go into every battle knowing and accepting it might be our last. None of my co-competitors blame me.

None of this matters. The Prophet does a rerun of my family history. My name is besmirched and dragged through the dirt again. Howlers are sent to me at school. The student body avoids me. The teachers are in mutiny. Malfoy calls me a murderer. I am tempted to turn into one, if only to shut him up.

But every cloud has its silver lining. Malfoy is found body bound and wedgied upside down from a parapet (every time someone brings this up Daph offers them an angelic smile— suffice it to say I have my suspicions). The press moves on, it forgets. The goblet of fire spouts Longbottom's name, and I fade back into obscurity.

Anonymity has never felt sweeter.

---

I remain sequestered in Godric Hollow. I have enlarged the basement into a training room. I lose track of time, and a fortnight flies by quicker than I expect. The day of reckoning is swift to arrive. I am a heavy sleeper, so it is already nine by the time I'm awake. I am a whirlwind of activity after that: I scramble to assemble my assignments, one of which I discover in the laundry basket alongside yesterday's socks. Another has a ketchup stain courtesy of a half-eaten sandwich. I curse under my breath and throw them all into my trunk. Then I wave my wand, and quills, inkwells, robes and knickknacks come flying from all directions. Another wave, and the trunk slams shut. I partake in my daily ablutions, then shrink the trunk and slip it into my pocket. With a gunshot crack I am in London.

I make it just in time. The engine upfront is emitting its parting puff of smoke. All around the platform there are students saying their final goodbyes. I ignore them. Three rangy strides and I have leapt aboard the Express.

I watch it pull out of the station, then breathe a sigh of relief and enter the corridor ahead. It takes me a minute to find the right compartment. I push back the screen and slip in, giving Trace a hug and Daph a nod.

There's someone more excited to see me, though.

"Haarrrrrrry!" Tori cries, eyes shining. She does not even wait for Trace and I to separate before pulling us into a group hug. Daph rolls her eyes and looks out of the window, but there's a fond smile creasing her lips.

Tori- Astoria Greengrass, that is- is an anomaly, in that she's more Hufflepuff than Slytherin. I have no idea how she ended up in our house, no idea how she's even related to Daph. The sisters are like chalk and cheese.

It's even there in how they look. You have to consciously seek beauty in Daph. You have to look past the sharp nose, the elven ears, the singular drooping eyelid. She is tall and slender, yes, but you could pass her by on the street without giving her a second glance.

Tori is the opposite. She is in her fourth year; she is fourteen, but you can tell she's going to be a heartbreaker someday. Calling her gorgeous would be an understatement: if it weren't for her dark hair she could pass off as part Veela. Yet there is an innocence around her, an ethereal, otherworldly quality. She is dainty and delicate; she is, truth be told, fragile, and every movement of hers solidifies that impression of fragility. You want to protect her when you see her, you want to scoop her up and never let go. It is no wonder that despite the Greengrass family's looming bankruptcy she has caught the eye of the Malfoys. You would be hard pressed to find a prettier pureblood bride, to the point that even illness serves as no deterrent.

It is a match way above her station. Her parents cannot believe their good fortune. It is the answer to all their troubles. But the thought of her ending up with Malfoy of all people is enough to make me want to twist his neck and throw him out of the moving train.

"How was your summer?" Tori gushes. "Heard you went to Liverpool. Seen the carnival there by any chance? The dockyard, the museum?"

There's the second difference. You could put Daph in Azkaban and give her an unending supply of books and potion ingredients; when you return after twenty years she'd have kept herself entertained. But lock Tori in a room for twenty hours and she will be catatonic. The girl goes spare when asked to sit still for five minutes— she has a burning desire to see the world and is an encyclopedia for obscure tourist spots. Ask her about the Aztecs, ask about the Mermish culture in South Sudan, ask about El Dorado, mention the sub cellars in Persia where there still exists a sultanate run in secret, and she will talk your ear off. She has never visited these places— her parents will not let her— never even set foot outside the British Isles, but her passion for them remains undiminished.

"He went to get his arse kicked, not to sightsee," Daph mutters.

"You're boring, Daph," Tori whines. "You've got no personality. She has no soul either, Harry," she says to me.

"Trust me, I'm aware," I say.

"Sometimes when I get up at midnight to use the loo there's Daph lying on the bed next to me." Tori's voice hitches, drops an octave. "She does not move. Her breathing is even but her eyes are open. She just stares at the ceiling, menacingly."

"Terrifying."

"Her hair's like Medusa's, all uncurled, and each follicle has a thousand eyes. 'Daph?' I whisper. She looks at me, and it is a dementor staring at me through the eyes of my sister."

"What then?" I ask.

"What else? I don't make it to the loo, Harry," she wails. "I don't make it."

It is no coincidence that Trace and I both love this girl.

"Are you quite finished making a fool out of yourself?" Daph asks.

"You're no fun, Daph," Tori reiterates.

"And you're adopted, hell spawn," Daph asserts. "You're no sister of mine. Take her, keep her, Harry. Six sickles is all I ask for."

Without a word I reach into my pocket and withdraw my winnings from the last tournament. I toss them to Daph.

Tori beams.

"My hero," she croons, batting her eyelashes at me.

Daph jiggles the coin purse.

"Her fortnightly makeup costs more than that," she announces.

I extend the flat of my palm. Daph chucks the pouch back at me. I tuck it into my shirt.

"Sorry, Tori," I say sadly. "You're a luxury I cannot afford."

She pouts and crosses her arms, then sits next to Daph and turns her nose up. For a moment she resembles her sister.

"You were supposed to save me a seat," Tracey says, sinking down next to me. I have a sense of foreboding: a touchy feely ritual is about to be repeated.

I'm proven right when Trace presses against my arm and buries her face in the crook of my neck. Astoria makes wet kissing sounds in the background. If you ever need an assist, this is not the girl to ask. She has a propensity for ruining the mood.

"I'm the most punctual person I know," I say.

All three girls laugh at that. I lose Slytherin a bucketload of points every year by being late to class. It's not really my fault- classes are basic, the teachers hate me, and I forget the world outside while practicing, all of which leads to a desperate dash when I realize my free time is up. When this happens, I am fifteen minutes late on average.

I'm sure good ol' Minnie McG would prefer that to be forty-five, though, since she cannot stand the sight of me. Once I realized this, I of course found it hilarious. I've taken to sometimes staying back after transfiguration, to harass her with doubts I do not have. She knows it, I know it. But it is fun watching her face flush and her blood boil while she tries interacting with me. She can barely speak for the sheer indignity of it all.

I'll give McG this, though: she is more tolerant of my antics than someone like Snape. I take the piss out of McGonagall because she hates my father, hates me by proxy, but has too high an opinion of herself to admit this, even to herself; I take the piss out of Snape because I am human. There is something extremely punchable about his face.

Of course, Snape would tell you there's something extremely punchable about mine.

We're both right.

"Woke up late again?" Trace asks. "After all this time?"

"Always," I say.

"You need to sleep better," Daph decides.

"That's the kind of advice I pay you for, Daph."

"Try dreamless sleep," she tells me placidly, "and if that fails, try running headfirst into an electric fence."

"Electric?" I grin. "My, my, what new words we are learning today, Daffy."

She flushes and looks away.

"I went with Tracey to the muggle screen thing," she admits.

"Cinema," Trace adds.

"And the two of you left me out? My sentiments are hurt."

"Wasn't your sort of movie, Hawwy," Trace yawns.

"What's cinema?" Tori asks.

"It's where people go to hold hands and profess their undying love," I say seriously. "First step to a happy union."

The brief flicker of panic in Daph's eyes makes the lie worth it. She can't decide whether or not I'm being serious. She won't admit it to herself, let alone to other people, but she's always had a thing for Trace. There was no one more crestfallen when Tracey took Nott to the Yule Ball last year, and no one happier when that relationship crashed and burned shortly afterwards.

"You never said anything about love," Daph hisses at Trace.

"Hm?" Trace lifts her head. "Oh, I thought it was implied."

Daph glowers and looks away.

"So, what sort of movie was it?" I goad. "Star crossed lovers who could never be together due to social pressures?"

"Slasher flick," Trace says.

She reaches into her jeans and brings out a squished chocolate frog. Unwraps it and offers me a bite, which I duly take. She takes a bite herself then offers the rest to Daph, who looks revolted and shakes her head.

With a shrug Trace pops what's left into her mouth.

"Know anything about the prefects this year?" she asks, chewing.

The door bangs open.

"Malfoy," I swear. "It's always ruddy Malfoy." And it is. It really is. Guy must've mastered some sort of cosmic sense of timing. Or he was standing outside our compartment, waiting to be summoned. There's a prefect badge pinned to his chest. His cronies flank him. For the sake of convenience we shall call them left and right.

"Hiya, Drakey," Trace says with a wave and a wink, still chewing on her chocolate frog.

"Mudblood," he sneers. Left and right offer appreciative guffaws at this dazzling display of wit.

"Wouldn't happen to know who the girls' prefect is, would you?" Trace asks. She's been called mudblood a million times. It does not faze her.

Fazes the rest of us, though, even if we try not to show it.

"I don't have time for you, mudblood. I am here to speak with my intended."

"Chimp's still in her enclosure," I say. I offer him my arm. "Hang tight, we can make a quick detour to the zoo."

Left and right make sounds of dissatisfaction (no, seriously, I have been at this school for four years and I still cannot distinguish between Crabbe and Goyle). Malfoy puffs up and purples. I doubt he knows what a chimp is, but he can no doubt tell that he's being mocked. In a display of unbridled courage, eternal optimism and cataclysmic stupidity, he reaches for his wand.

It is the last thing he does.

In the blink of an eye I've silenced him, disarmed him, frozen him in place, muted the sound in the compartment, and pinned left and right to the wall outside. His wand is in my palm. I tuck mine back into my holster. His right leg is halfway through the door. With a quick wave of his wand I tweak the composition of the door from wood to steel.

A second flick, and I slam it shut right across his leg. There is a crunch. His eyes bug out of his skull. He tries to scream— his tongue is still stuck to the roof of his mouth though, and his body is frozen, so there's nothing he can do.

Daph waves her wand. There's a golden glow. Skin reknits, bone mends. The door slides back into place.

"Fascinating," I say, examining his wand. I twist it a second time, and the door slams back shut. There is another crunch. I am sure he has voided his bowels.

I slide it open again. Daph fixes him with another wave.

"One more for good luck?" I ask softly.

And the door careens shut a third time. This time when it reopens there is a runnel of snot dripping down Malfoy's nose and a wet spot at the front of his robes. Daph fixes him up. I unfreeze left and right, who take to their feet immediately. Then I remove the sound filter. Finally I unfreeze Malfoy and toss him his wand.

He sinks into a dead faint, right at our doorstep.

"The fuck, get lost, man, you're cluttering up our compartment," I complain. I pull my wand out and drag left and right back into our coach. I'm sure they'd be screaming their souls out if I hadn't silenced them first.

"Take him and go," I say.

They do.

"That was excessive." Tori looks subdued. Sometimes I forget that she is a child trapped in a teen's body, and that she has not been around for some of my outbursts. That was benign compared to some of the shit I've pulled.

"I do not take kindly to people insulting my friends," I say curtly.

She bows her head but says nothing. The jovial atmosphere is gone.

"Right," I say, clearing my throat. "Erm, well then. I'll give the three of you some space to get changed. I'll be down the hallway if you-"

"Oh, no, no you don't," Trace growls, truncating my attempt at extricating myself by pulling on my arm. I tentatively try tugging at the appendage but she refuses to let go.

Tori looks between the two of us. Her brow scrunches.

"I don't get it," she admits eventually.

"He was about to go beat himself up," Daph says. She rummages around in her bag and settles on an arithmancy book after a protracted search.

"For breaking Malfoy's leg?"

"No." I can see that the words, "for doing what his father would have done", are at the tip of her tongue.

But Daphne hesitates.

It is my secret to keep.

"You wouldn't get it, Tori," she says. "Boys are stupid, and this one especially is more stupid than the rest. Just leave him be."

Our eyes meet. I tilt my head in thanks. It is hard to put into words just how much I appreciate what she's done. Thankfully she gets it. At that moment, there's no one in the world who understands me better than she does.

She nods in solidarity. No words are exchanged between us for the rest of the train ride.

---

Dolores Umbridge hates me.

This comes as no surprise. Daph tells me she is a ministry flunky, and the ministry and I do not see eye to eye on several things, their theft of my assets included. But even if she weren't from the ministry, the principled stance in this school has always been to dislike me. I heartily encourage this attitude of healthy disdain whenever I can— I tip my hat to it, in fact, because it saves me the trouble of having to interact with some insufferable boors.

But, you see, I might be a strapping lad, but I am sensitive. There resides a bleeding heart in this bosom of mine, and it breaks into a thousand pieces when I realize Umbridge hates Longbottom more than she hates me. I silently seethe and cope as I ponder the ramifications of this injustice: it is quite clearly an outrage; it is a deliberate insult aimed at my hard-earned reputation as public enemy number one. I pissed off a lot of people to earn that, and here comes Longbottom, displacing me effortlessly like the vulgarian he is, by the simple act of screaming in class like an asylum patient.

Someone ought to stop this. He's in enough trouble already, yet he keeps digging himself into a deeper hole with every word that leaves his mouth. Idly I consider silencing him. And I swear by Merlin, Morgana, magic and all that's holy that I would do so— it's just . . . this is hysterical to watch.

"I know what I saw!" Longbottom raves, the courageous madman, the self-sacrificial loon, the two-bit whackjob. "I know what's out there, we all do, you can't suppress it! Cedric died for the truth, and you just stand there and spit on his memory. You . . ."

It goes on and on like this. It spirals out of control. The class is shaken. Bloodless faces abound. They believe him. Hell, I do as well. These are not the convictions of a delusive maniac, even if he sounds like one at the moment. But no, I'm not watching him anymore, I'm not paying attention to the class either— they only register peripherally.

I am watching Umbridge.

Umbridge's face has gone taut. She's no longer breathing fire. She no longer looks like she's about to throw hands. I'm not looking at the visage of a comically chunky ministry flunky— experience tells me that this woman is dangerous.

"Detention, Longbottom." Her voice is devoid of the girlishness we had to suffer through for the first few minutes of this class. Hell would freeze over hearing her speak. There's this look in her eye . . . she wants to flay Longbottom and wear him as a skinsuit.

I palm my wand. This toad of a woman has discomfited me. There's something seriously wrong with her. I've spent enough time trading spells with murderous nutcases to recognize a psychopath when I see one.

'Where does Dumbledore keep finding these people?' I wonder.

"Class dismissed," she rasps. I grab my things. I no longer wish to be in her presence if I can help it.

"Potter, stay back."

And since the universe hates me, I cannot have nice things.

Trace and Daph shoot me questioning glances. I signal to them that I'll join them later. I wait for the last student to leave, then walk up to the teachers' desk.

"Ma'am?"

She flicks her wand. The door slams shut.

"How is it going to be?" she asks.

"I don't understand."

"Come, sit."

She goes to her cupboard. Gets a tray, teabags, a pair of teacups and a teapot.

"Tea?"

"Er, no, thanks."

"Shame. It's a fantastic blend." She pours herself a cup then takes a sip. Nurses the drink.

"I know your circumstances," she begins, and her voice is all honey, dripping with faux sympathy, "you have so much talent but no money, excellent grades but no job prospects. I could change that." She snaps her fingers. "That's all it'd take. I'm senior undersecretary, I am close to the minister. I could write you a letter of recommendation. I could open so many doors for you, and all you have to do is be on my side, not theirs."

"I didn't know there were sides in this, professor."

"Don't play coy, it does not suit you," she snaps. Then softer, kinder. "Take your time, dear. Think about it. I can give you everything you want. I know you've filed for a share of the proceeds obtained from the sale of Potter manor. As it stands you won't see a knut . . . but the minister and I could pull some strings. Re-open your case file. Speed it along, put some galleons into your pocket." She steeples her fingers and leans in. "You're the last survivor of an esteemed pureblood lineage, Harry, and though James Potter tarnished his image we children of old blood ought to stick together, don't you agree, hmm?"

"What do you want in return?" I ask. I can see the greed in her eyes. She's not as slick as she thinks herself to be.

"Implicate Longbottom. Find evidence regarding his conspiracies with Dumbledore. If you can't find something, fabricate it. This He who must not be named rubbish has to stop, one way or another. The boy is quite clearly an attention seeking liar."

It is not a bad offer. If I hadn't dealt with her ilk before— if I weren't dead certain she'd throw me under the bus the second I did her dirty work for her— I would honestly consider it. While I don't dislike Longbottom, I don't like him either, and I could do a lot for Trace, Daph and Tori with a few thousand galleons. Their dignity would not let them accept charity, but it would be a nice little nest egg for emergencies.

But since I've decided to reject her offer, it is all moot anyway. Morbid curiosity overtakes me.

"What if I think Longbottom's telling the truth?"

"The flipside," she says carefully, "is that while I could make your life much better, I could make it so much worse. I could pull you apart, destroy you inch by inch, I could make you suffer, and no one here would raise a finger to stop me. People see what they wish to see, and to them you're just the lowly son of a death eater. You don't want me for an enemy, Mister Potter."

Wow. Wow. The way this bitch sits back smugly after saying her little piece . . . she's so confident she has me twisted around her finger. It is unwise to antagonize this woman, but I cannot help it— she thinks too highly of herself and too little of me.

Let it never be said that I don't have a massive chip on my shoulder.

"Professor," I say with a pleasant smile, "you can take your job offer, you can take your galleons, and you can stick them where the sun don't shine."

Her expression suggests I've shortened my lifespan by about a century, but truth be told I don't care. I've solved my earlier dilemma. I've pipped Longbottom. I am back on top of this woman's shitlist.

Normality is restored. All is well in the universe.

---

"You should've memory wiped Draco," Daph says to me during lunch.

"Do you really want me to get rid of his last remaining brain cell?" I ask. "You sit next to him in potions, Daph— he'd drool all over you."

"Prat," Trace says, punching my arm. Then her voice drops to a whisper. "Parkison confronted us last night. Threw a strop. Raved about her precious little Drakey and how he's now terrified of his own shadow. She'll tell Snape, Harry, and you know how Snape is."

"They did nothing when we were the victims," I shrug. "There's no reason for that to change now."

After I sent Draco to Madam Pomfrey in his first year, he paid off a few sixth and seventh years to target us. Suffice it to say that years one and two in this school were hell on earth. No teacher intervened, no one said or did anything and there were never any witnesses: when I went to Snape he took points off me; when I approached Dumbledore he suspended the students involved for a week, gave them a month's detention, then washed his hands off the matter.

You could imagine how our bullies took it. Our torments quadrupled once they returned, and to top it off Slytherin house treated us as outcasts. Tracey suffered the worst of it. Just thinking about it makes my blood boil, so I'd rather not revisit those memories.

Now the shoe's on the other foot. Malfoy can complain if he wants— I know what the response will be. Dumbledore is too forgiving; Snape's bitter but has no real power. Daph and I have no issues losing a hundred points each or scrubbing cauldrons with our elbows for a couple of months. We'll lick the dungeons clean in punishment if we have to. But we won't roll over and take it anymore, and if Trace is subjected to further indignities then we will avenge them. That's the beautiful thing about Daph— she and I are on the same wavelength when it comes to violent retribution. Trace, on the other hand, is soft. Nothing that's been done to her has broken her spirit or made her forego her compassion. She lets bygones be bygones: she'd forgive Malfoy and shake his hand if he came up to us and apologized.

"It's Snape, Harry," Trace mumbles. "He's not known for being reasonable about you."

"Phooey," I say. "Nonsense. I'll talk to him if I have to."

"Rat me out if he summons you," Daph instructs me. "We'll split the blame. But we'll tell him to leave Tracey and Tori alone— it's the truth, they had nothing to do with it."

"There'll be no blame," I say. "After all, we're innocent. Malfoy's fine, I saw him strut around this morning. That leg looks okay to me. There are no marks, no scars. It's not our fault he makes stuff up to appeal to Parkinson's wishy-washy sentiments."

"Malfoy could submit a memory," Daph points out.

"We'll submit four, then."

Daph looks unconvinced.

"Trust me, I know a spell," I insist. "There's a reason Wizengamot resorts to Veritaserum and does not accept pensieve memories— it's an open secret they can be tampered with."

"Snape has access to Veritaserum."

"Illegal to use on minors. He'd be in more trouble than us if he tried that."

"Snape's also an accomplished legilimens," Trace says.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll know that I'm lying," I say with an airy wave. "But when's that ever mattered? There's no proof. There's nothing to implicate us with. Don't worry though, it won't come to that. I'll speak to him if he calls me; we'll sort out this misunderstanding. After all, as you both well know, Severus Snape loves me."

My proclamation is greeted with eyerolls, but it lightens the mood.

"What do we have next?" I ask.

Daph looks at her schedule.

"Transfiguration," she groans.

"Excellent," I grin.

---

When I produce my summer homework, Minnie McG looks like she's sucked on a lemon. She receives it with a long-suffering sigh and runs her eyes through it in thirty seconds. She studiously ignores the ugly scrawl, the ketchup stains, the sandwich crusts, the accidental ink smear, the slashes, the crags, the creases and the gouges. My assignment looks like a real time seismograph.

"Mr. Potter," she breathes, "this is inadequate. I implore you to take your homework more seriously."

It bloody well is, she's got that right. You try writing a seventy-two-inch essay on the drabbest of theories in under two hours. I've earned the Dreadful she's about to grade me.

"I could demonstrate it, if you want," I offer.

"That's not the point." I can hear her teeth crack. "Theory is forty percent of your OWL, and while this assignment does not count towards it, your tardiness in the theoretical portion will cost you in the future."

"I have no future in academics, professor. You know this."

"Oh, that's just peachy," she snaps. "That's just the sort of thing I need to hear." For a second I think she's about to tear up my assignment and toss it into the bin. With great effort she composes herself and resists the urge.

"Why are you like this?" She asks.

It is a rhetorical question. We both know the answer to that.

Surprisingly enough, it is not what you think it is.

She could pluck out anything from the NEWT curriculum and ask me to demonstrate it, and she knows I would. She could go several levels beyond, pick out some obscure topic that only a transfiguration master would know, and I could demonstrate that as well. James Potter was a genius when it came to this subject, a savant, a veritable god amongst men if you will.

His talent does not even scratch the surface of what I can do.

My grasp over theory is weak, because frankly, my memory is a sieve, and I do not see the point to mugging Gamp's laws or Flamel's theorems or Burke's treatises or Podmore and Dupont's exhaustive compendium on the three hundred and seventy-seven unique types of transfiguration. I speed read the books. Most of it is overly complicated hodgepodge. Academia turns the subject into third rate tomfoolery. Whereas Transfiguration is instinct to me. It is beauty, it is art. I cannot write down what I do or how I do it, because I am a freak in this regard, and because I suspect visualisation goes brrrr is not a satisfactory answer.

And here's the thing: my method works for no one except myself (and Dumbledore, I suppose). There's Daph, who is only going to scrape through her OWL for this subject because she has beautiful handwriting and an excellent memory. She is the most diligent person I know, but she's absolute pants at transfiguring things— sets the room on fire while trying to transfigure a hamster into a teapot; and no matter how much I've tried to help her, no matter how much I've told her to visualise details better and go through the process step by step, it does nothing.

Because it is not supposed to. Because the elaborate wand twirls and the reams of theory are supposed to be the mnemonics, not belief and overly detailed imagery.

But hey, if it works it works. And Minnie knows it. And I know it. And since I know all theory to be bunkum, I'd rather spend my weekend reading up on charms or the dark arts— subjects that are nowhere near as intuitive for me— than waste my time laboriously copying this gibberish from textbook to parchment.

Minnie McG knows that too. And she hates me for it.

"Sorry, professor," I say. I stare at my feet. I try sounding contrite. It is a lost cause.

A cheshire grin stretches across my face.

"Say, professor, I had a few doubts—"

Her pupils contract. Her nostrils flare. I can feel her soul shrivel up. And by god, it is a beautiful feeling.

---

I may have exaggerated a little when I said that all teachers in this school have it out for me. Professor Flitwick keeps his distance, but he's never been anything other than polite in his dealings with me.

It's just a crying shame that charms is easily my worst wanded subject. Even without a wand, it runs potions and arithmancy close for joint worst.

As a consequence, I have to put some effort into this class. I'm not a no hoper— I score the odd O, several Es, and can easily keep up with the practical portion— but I have serious difficulties connecting charms with arithmancy. I will never be any good at spell creation. Unlike most people, I also know what era defining talent in a field looks like. So trust me when I say this: I feel like a sluggish mountain troll every time I step into this class.

Trace is seated at the back. Daph and I race to take the seat next to her. We are dignified in our attempt— we do not jostle, we try to be sneaky about it. Or at least she does. I have no shame. I break out into a sprint at the last second and beat her slow trot. I proceed to studiously ignore her while she shoots me the gimlet eye. Eventually she huffs haughtily, turns her nose up and takes the seat in front of us.

We have different reasons for wanting to sit next to Trace. Daph has a schoolgirl crush. She'll shamelessly use whatever excuse she can to spend more time with Trace. Me? I want to ensure that whatever I do, I don't end up sitting next to Daphne for this subject. She is extremely talented at potions and charms, both of which see heavy use in healing: as a result, every time she gets a spell right on her first try (which is most of the time), it is guaranteed that she's going to spend the rest of the class condescending me— politely mocking every failed attempt, questioning my mental faculties, golf clapping when I finally pull it off, and so on.

Hey, don't look at me like that— I never said anything about our dynamic being healthy. I dish out more than I receive: I do the same shit to her in DADA and transfiguration. 'Oooh, but that's so easy, Daph! A blast ended skrewt could do it. How are you unable to perform that? Look, even Crabbe and Goyle have got it before you.'

When Daph stabs me in the eye with her wand someday, I will understand. I will sympathise. I won't say I did not see it coming.

But anyway, Trace is more on my level. She's my preferred partner. Not just for this class but for most classes. She's eager, she's willing to learn, she's pliant, she's pleasant to be around. Of course, we'd both probably learn more if either of us could keep our mouths shut for more than ten seconds.

"What's the bracket like for Milan?" she asks me.

"We've avoided Shack. Other side of the draw. Won't meet him till the semis at least, I think," I whisper out of the corner of my mouth. I'm failing miserably at the switching spell. None of my pebbles move. In front of me, Daph is switching between four pebbles midair: she's juggling them whilst simultaneously carving runic sequences into each. Our eyes meet and she offers me a lazy smirk.

The pretentious bitch.

"And Lacroix?" Trace asks anxiously.

Antoine Lacroix, two-time world champion and ten-time champion of France. The current world number one. My record against him is seven rounds, seven humiliations. One of those was a knockout. The only time I've ever been knocked out. He banished me with such force that my ribs turned to paste and the wards around the arena shattered. It's a miracle my wand survived. I did not, however. I ended up in St. Mungo's intensive care for three days.

"Other side of the bracket too."

Trace heaves an audible sigh of relief. She lasted ten seconds against Lacroix after she had to step in for me.

Her own attempts at the switching spell are going no better than mine. This might make people question our combat credentials, but the truth is neither of us are charms users. It is transfiguration, shielding, curses and counter curses for me, with a sprinkling of the dark arts thrown in for variety; Trace uses jinxes, hexes, curses and rudimentary runes. She has a limited repertoire and is heavily reliant on foot speed— as a result I'm careful to never give her more than a round against anyone, because the truth is she's simply not good enough to compete with the monsters we fight. I've given her seventeen rounds so far: she's lost fifteen and drawn two. It is an open secret on the circuit that if Harry Potter is for some reason indisposed, and has to rely on his second, then it is akin to a forfeit.

Lacroix outright told me, when we ran into each other at a cafe in Carlsbad, that it is my choice of second that's keeping me out of the top ten. He told me to abandon sentiment and get someone better, because there'd be a lot of duelists eager to work with someone of my caliber. He pointed to his own second, Charles Vandervill, who had cleaned up the state championship in California a record thirteen times. He told me he saw a future world champion in me, as long as I did not let that Davis girl be my downfall.

I politely told him to get bent.

My saving grace was that Trace did not hear him say this. She's the sort of girl to take these kinds of things to heart. She's also the sort to nobly offer herself up as a sacrifice if she thinks it would improve her friends' prospects.

I say fuck that.

Trace and I have done everything together. She was my first sparring partner. She's the only one who has shown up for every single duel I've ever been to, under fourteens included. She kept pushing me to do better even when I was getting smashed left, right and center on the pro circuit. Daph told me to quit; Trace told me she'd break my legs if I did. She said she believed in me— said I was this close to greatness, and that I could not give up, no matter what. That she would not let me give up, because there's no greater regret than knowing you have the talent for something but walking away from it.

I've had dark days, and Tracey has been there to hold me through all of them. She's poked fun at her own ineptitude with a wand to make me feel better; begged, borrowed and scrounged money alongside Daph to get me dueling robes; told Malfoy, told Snape, told the world that someday I will rise above them all; stayed up till four in the morning to help me practice or help me deal with the gut punch of a tough defeat. This girl would die for me or Daph, no questions asked.

The least we can do is repay her in kind.

Therefore I cannot envision a dueling career without her. Hell, I cannot envision life without her. Besides, Trace is improving, and that's the point. I'm so proud of how far she's come, both as a duelist and a person. There was a time when she could not hold her wand properly. Put her up against a talented seventh year now and she'd eat them for breakfast.

"Did you know Lavender Brown's gotten with Weasley and Granger's all torn up about it?"

… of course, this does not change the fact that she's a proud contributor to the Hogwarts rumour mill.

"Where did you hear that?"

"I sit with Padma in divination and her sister is close to Brown."

"I thought Granger had a thing for Longbottom," I mutter.

"It's Neville Longbottom, Harry. Everyone has a thing for him." Daph's mouth barely moves. Her eyes are on Flitwick, who is hopping from student to student. Her pebbles are flickering in and out of existence while doing cartwheels.

"That a confession, Daph?" I tease.

"Oh, yes. I've carried the torch for him since I could walk," Daph says acerbically. " I have his posters in my bedroom. I've cut the eyes out and replaced them with twinkly little hearts. Just ask Tracey."

Trace is fiddling with her robes. She's somehow snuck a slice of treacle tart into class. She takes a furtive look around, then shoots down and takes a bite.

"Tori's the one with a crush on Longbottom," she says, munching.

My pebbles are forgotten. My mouth hangs open.

"You're joking."

Daph pinches the bridge of her nose. If I were Longbottom, I'd take one look at her expression and run for the hills.

"She's not," Daph groans.

"I'm not," Trace confirms, taking another bite. "I thought it was obvious."

"Bloody hell, it's not obvious at all. I've never noticed it!"

The girls exchange glances.

"Harry, I don't know how to break this to you," Trace begins delicately, "but your ability to . . . um, read . . . affection, let's say— it's . . . it's not great."

"She's too kind," Daph grunts. "Your skull's thick enough to use as a battering ram."

I laugh.

"Ok, you got me. Pot calling' the kettle black and all, but still. But no, seriously, Trace— Tori and Longbottom?"

"He doesn't know she exists," Trace supplies.

"It's just a phase, she'll get over it," Daph growls.

"That's not— Trace, Astoria is gorgeous. She's a ditz, but she's the most charming person I've ever met. She could have anyone. Why would she pine after Longbottom of all people?"

"Why would she not?" Trace seems baffled that I am baffled. As if I'm the obtuse one here. "Harry, he's a celebrity. He's an international icon, a symbol of hope and peace for an entire generation. He's—"

"Just a normal bloke. Sandy hair, slightly overweight. Proper forgettable, like, except for that scar on his forehead. I mean, yeah, he's rich, and he's all right at magic, but—"

"Dumbledore's training him," Daph says.

My visage curdles. She had to go there.

I open my mouth to tell her to bugger off. Fortunately the clearing of a throat interrupts us. Flitwick's snuck up on us. Trace gives a guilty start and shoves what's left of her treacle tart back into her robes.

There are still crumbs sticking to her lips.

"Ms. Davis, I did not see you eat that," Flitwick says, his eyes shining. "But in the future please remember this is my classroom, not the dining hall."

Trace hangs her head. Her cheeks are flaming.

"Yes, professor."

"And Mr. Potter, while I'm sure your discussion was of the utmost importance, please perform the spell first before getting sidetracked."

I nod.

"Now— oh, miss Greengrass! Miss Greengrass! Marvelous, marvelous! Incredible control, perfect execution, and you've gone above and beyond and added runes to the configuration! Please take ten points for Slytherin."

Daph shoots me another smirk.

Fuck you, Daph, and I'll see you in transfiguration tomorrow.

---

It is dusk, and I am taking a stroll by the great lake when a mousy lad confronts me and tells me Snape has summoned me to the dungeons. I've seen him before, but for the life of me I cannot remember his name.

"Oy, Creevey, get away from the death eater!" Some unfortunate well-wisher shouts.

Creevey squeaks. Pallor flees his face. His knees knock together. His courage is about to trickle down his leg if he stands in my vicinity any longer.

"Thanks, Creevey," I say plastering on a smile. "Your job here is done."

He takes off before the last word has left my lips.

I search for the valiant soul who called me a death eater, and am greeted with George Wealsey's glare of utter loathing. He is swaying. He's quite clearly drunk: I can smell the reek of firewhisky from where I stand.

Not many can tell the twins apart, and you would expect me to be the last person to do so, since I only know them by reputation. However, it is simple to distinguish between them if you look closely— George has a birthmark on his left ear.

More recently, he's also the drunk one.

A hush descends around us. The smattering of students that are out and about at this hour start to edge away, no doubt expecting me to incinerate the offender. As I've mentioned in passing, I have a track record of violence, always in retaliation and mostly aimed at the august members of my own house.

The students here are mistaken, though. I am about to do something uncharacteristic.

I am about to let this go.

I raise a languid arm and give him a wave.

"Do I know you?" I ask.

"Don't play dumb with me, Potter," he growls. "You mock my sister's death, you and your housemates. I've seen the lot of you do it. You're trash, all of you. Heartless death eater scum."

His eyes are bloodshot. He's slurring his words. His arms and legs are trembling; he is itching for a fight. Even as he spews insults at me his hand is inching towards his wand.

The sad thing is, he was not always like this. Neither him nor his brothers. I've always sensed that my presence causes Ronald immense discomfort, but he's never accosted me, never mocked my lineage, never said anything. This has remained constant throughout our four years of schooling. He antagonises Draco but avoids me.

Fred and George . . . they went too far with their pranks sometimes, but even when Trace, Daph and I were their victims I never sensed any malice from them. It was silly stuff: colouring your hair, lengthening your tongue, vanishing your nails, removing your eyebrows.

Then Ginny Weasley died in the Chamber of Secrets at the end of our second year.

The pranks stopped. The twins turned into shells of themselves. From what I can gather, Fred grew reclusive and avoidant. But it hit George worse— George's turned into a perpetual drunk. He barely attends classes. Sometimes you can hear him tottering about in the castle corridors, roaring.

No one except Snape's ever called him out for it.

"I've never bad-mouthed your sister, Weasley," I say slowly. I take care to enunciate each word. "And while this may not mean much to you, please allow me to convey my deepest sympathies for your family's loss."

This does not pacify him. His wand is raised— he fires a cutting curse.

I don't even move. The ribbon of red misses my head by about three feet and splashes harmlessly into the lake behind.

"Weasley, I'm showing you the courtesy that a grieving brother is entitled to," I sigh. "Please don't provoke my ire. Now, if that's all, I have an appointment to keep with Snape."

He looks ready to fire another curse, but before he can, a solitary figure breaks away from our paralyzed audience and sprints towards George.

It is his twin.

They wrestle over the wand. George gnashes his teeth and fights like a lunatic but Fred has the advantage of clarity. He detains George and embraces him. George struggles and raves for a few seconds before going slack. He sinks into his brother's chest and wails.

Fred shoots me a despairing look and mouths an apology.

It is accepted. The corners of my mouth are downturned as I walk away.

---

Snape is a greasy black bat tonight. He is the epitome of doom and gloom. He looks more venomous than usual and his sneer is a hideous thing.

I walk into his office humming a jaunty tune.

"Professor Snape!" I greet. "And how are you tonight, sir? I hope you've missed me as much as I've missed you."

"It is my hope that I never have to see your face again after tonight, Potter," he snarls.

I sigh ruefully and take a seat. I cross my legs and place my hands on my lap.

"Dare I ask what I've done this time?"

"You know what you've done."

"I would not be asking if I knew, sir."

I am careful to insert just the right amount of deference and mockery into the appellation. I know it drives him spare.

He slams his hands on the desk and bares his teeth. I wince. They're yellow and crooked, all thirty two of them. The sight might blind me.

"Is this about those nasty rumours Parkison's been spreading?" I enquire.

"Oh, so you do know. How nice of you to suddenly rediscover your memory."

"I just have functional ears," I offer a modest shrug. "Parkinson's a motormouth. I beg you to take action against her. My pristine reputation cannot survive her slander."

"Slander?' Snape's beady eyes gleam. "I think not. Pack your things, Potter. We go to the headmaster, then I throw you out of this school. It is long overdue. I've said many times that you are a malignant layabout- a wastrel just like your father- and that my classroom would be a better place without you in it."

"Your class will never be a better place till Finnigan and Longbottom are in it, sir. Every cauldron in this room is an enemy of theirs."

"Enough backtalk. Tell me what you did, boy. Tell me what spells you used, tell me how the Greengrasses and Davis were involved. After that we can be done with this charade."

"Your diligence when it comes to protecting your students is something I greatly admire, professor." I lean forward, I tap the table with my forefinger. "But pray tell, where was this spirit when my friends and I came to you for help?"

Something terrible flickers in his eyes.

"We are here to talk about what you did to Draco Malfoy, you halfwit," he spits, "not your imagined grudges against me."

"I did nothing." I sit back. "He called Tracey a mudblood, then violently walked into a door thrice. Fortunately we were at hand to heal him. He's careless, that boy. You should talk to him about that. Next time he might fall off the train by accident."

"You dare—" his face turns interesting shade of puce, "you would threaten—"

"Threaten?" My eyebrows launch themselves into my hairline. "Oh, no. No, no, Professor Snape, you misunderstand me. I'm just a concerned Samaritan."

Snape spends the next twenty minutes trying to browbeat a confession out of me. I cheerfully continue to play dumb. Snape's going off hearsay and Parkinson's complaint. I would have taken a different approach if he could produce a memory of the incident, but it seems I have cowed Draco to such an extent that he is unwilling to press charges. Good for him, I suppose. While I can hold grudges, and while I lack the goodness of heart to forgive him, we've spilt enough blood on both sides that if he's willing to bury the hatchet then so am I. As long as he leaves us alone, we'll leave him alone.

But if he's plotting some new abomination, or if he intends to get his daddy's friends to come visit us one night, then he'll find more resistance than he expects. I shall also personally put him six feet under, even if it's the last thing I do.

---

There is one last thing to do before curfew. I head to the seventh floor. My walk through the corridors is spent in quiet contemplation. I saunter past streams of people heading to their respective common rooms.

I come to rest before a stone gargoyle.

"Is the headmaster in?" I ask.

The gargoyle does not move.

"If he is, could you please tell him that I would like to speak to him? It won't take more than five minutes."

There is a delay; then the gargoyle springs to life and steps aside.

I march up the steps. I reach his door. I wrap my fingers around the Griffin knocker and knock respectfully.

"Come in."

Conflicting emotions rush through me as I examine Albus Dumbledore: the half-moon spectacles, the glistening beard, the brilliant blue eyes, the garish gold robes with silver centaurs embedded in the hem. By all rights I ought to despise this old man for his testimony during my father's posthumous trial . . . yet I cannot. He has never treated me with anything but kindness.

I found out last year, when I buried my mother, that it was Dumbledore who covered her hospital fee. Some of it was from his own pocket; the rest he procured via his position as Chief Warlock, from a relief fund for war victims. The ministry took a dim view of James Potter's incapacitated wife and were fully willing to cast her back into the muggle world- then Dumbledore put his foot down, and suddenly she was treated by the best doctors and given the best amenities money could buy.

It did not make a difference, but I am grateful for his efforts.

He is reading an ancient tome- he smiles and sets it aside when he sees me.

"Professor Dumbledore," I greet.

"Harry Potter! Please, take a seat. How was your summer?"

"I'd grade it as Acceptable."

"That's not what I heard from Kingsley," he says warmly. "He was effusive in his praise of your dueling abilities."

"Not to be a bitter loser, sir, but his words don't mean anything. I'm just another person he crushed."

"I was your age once, and the thing about youth, Mr. Potter, is that every heartbreak feels personal, each and every one of them feels like the end of the world. But as you age, you realise disappointment is only a small part of life while beauty is everywhere."

He steeples his fingers.

"There's beauty in defeat sometimes," he says, "and an even greater beauty in perseverance. I trust you to take that lesson to heart."

A silence suffuses the office. His phoenix trills softly from its perch.

"I . . ." A sigh escapes me. "If you see him before I do, then thank Auror Shacklebolt on my behalf. And tell him the next time we meet, he'll need the entire auror office to staple him back together after I'm done with him."

Dumbledore's eyes gleam. He bows his head in acquiesce.

"I shall convey that message. What else do you need from me?" he asks.

I pull out a form.

"I would've led with this, but your ability to talk in circles sidetracked me, professor."

"I have been accused of that before," he agrees amicably, taking the form.

He reads it.

"The world dueling championship?"

"Uh, yeah. It's in Milan, at the end of September. Tracey Davis, Daphne Greengrass and I wish to be excused from attending classes for two weeks."

Dumbeldore puts down the form. A wry smile creases his lips.

"It would be easier to sign this if you were to stop antagonising Minerva and Severus," he says. "They are most concerned about your behaviour."

"Are you asking for a bribe, Professor?"

He chuckles politely.

"Think of it as advance payment. How about, I sign this now, and you promise to behave in potions and transfiguration for the next month?"

"I can try," I concede begrudgingly.

"Splendid." He dips a silver quill into his inkwell and signs with a flourish. "All the best with your tournament, Mr. Potter. Please use the floo in professor Snape's office for departure and arrival."

He hands me my form and tugs at his tome, suggesting that the conversation is over.

I do not move.

"Is there anything else?" he asks.

"It's about being your apprentice," I say. "I'd like to apply again."

His expression turns morose.

"Mr. Potter— Harry— we've spoken about this once before. I already have an apprentice. I do not need another."

"What does he have that I don't?"

"Free time," Dumbledore says.

I scoff.

"You know I'd drop dueling in a heartbeat if you took me on. So why him, why not me? Is it because he has that scar and I don't?"

"No." Dumbledore's expression is inscrutable. He does not elaborate further.

"Then what is it? It can't be talent at transfiguration. I'm the best student this school has produced. . . "

He's nodding, nodding wearily, but it is the sort of perfunctory nod that tells me he's already made up his mind. It's not worth it, I realize. I swallow my objections and stand.

Even with him being ragged on in the press as he currently is, Albus Dumbledore's reputation is worth its weight in gold. If he took me on, I'd no longer just be James Potter's progeny but Dumbledore's apprentice. People would be tripping over themselves to win my favour.

But truth be told, my motivations aren't just reputation oriented: I'd happily take a three-year hiatus from dueling to learn from Dumbledore because I covet the command he has over obscure branches of magic.

But I'm not about to grovel. I have my self respect. Nothing is worth its sacrifice.

"I'm sorry professor, I was out of line. It's your subject, your apprentice, and your right to pick whoever you want. I wish you goodnight."

He stops me before I reach the door.

"Mr. Potter, if the circumstances had been different I would have given . . . serious consideration to tutoring you." He sounds genuinely remorseful. "But right now I have no alternative except to refuse. I am besieged by enemies on all sides, and worse, Lord Voldemort has returned."

"I understand," I say.

But really, I don't.

---

I take a detour to an abandoned classroom and cycle through my repertoire of curses and counter curses. I lose track of time. Strictly speaking, I do not need to do this, but it helps avoid rust and it is always good to get some practice in. I am careful to disillusion myself and repair everything before I leave.

It is close to midnight by the time I return to our common room. I look to our usual spot, the settee by the fireplace, and the girls are still there, waiting up for me. Trace is curled in Daph's lap. Daph's face is twisted in reluctant pleasure: her fingers are threading through Tracey's hair. I remove the disillusionment and sink into the grandiose seat that I conjure next to them.

Daph meets my eyes. I offer her a complimentary leer. The faintest dusting of a blush tints her cheeks. She looks away. Her fingers abort their tentative motions and are withdrawn.

Trace lets out a mewl of displeasure. She yawns and stretches but keeps her head in Daph's lap. Her eyes are half shut.

"Why'd you stop Daph? That was so nice." Then to me: "You're back, Hawwy, how'd it go?"

"Signed and stamped. You shouldn't have waited up."

"Signed and . . .? The form? You went to Dumbledore? I meant Snape, you prat."

"Oh, him. I pinned it all on Daph. They're demoting her back to first year."

"Rude," Trace complains. "This time she didn't even provoke you."

"Her continued existence is its own provocation."

"Unlike yours, oh Merlin's gift to us lesser mortals?" Daph snaps.

"Yes. It is my perfection that compensates for all your imperfections, after all," I say.

"Berk."

"Bitch."

"Dunderhead."

"Slattern."

"Children, children!" Trace interrupts. "I asked you a simple question and you've turned it into a pissing contest."

"He started it."

"She indulged it."

"Only because I'd never give him the last word," Daph says to Trace. "He already has too big a head. Someone needs to cut him down to size."

"Someone does," I agree, "but it won't be you, Daph."

Trace giggles.

"Listen to the two of you, bickering like an old married couple," she says. "But seriously, what'd Snape say?"

"Nothing of value. He had no proof. Malfoy did not submit a memory."

Daph's shocked.

"Now that's surprising. Malfoy's never one to pass up the opportunity to hurt us if he can."

"You think he's planning something?" I ask.

"I know he is," she swears. "It's Malfoy, that slimy git; he's dangerous now, what with the dark lord having returned."

"Oh, so we all believe he's back?" Trace asks, surprised. She sits up and looks between the two of us.

"Yes," I say.

Daph's palms are clenched, but her face might as well be chiselled out of stone.

"Unfortunately," she concedes.

"What's the plan, then?" Trace asks.

"Do nothing, take no sides, save up and stay out of the ensuing war unless Malfoy paints a target on our backs," I suggest. "Flee the country if we have to."

"We could kill Malfoy now. No one needs to know," Daph offers.

She does not look like she's joking.

"Your mind's a frightening place, Daph," I say mildly.

"We're not killing anyone," Trace says. "I saw Malfoy today— he avoided me like the plague. We really got inside his head this time. And I don't think You Know Who's the sort to take commissions from his subordinates."

"Especially the crap ones," I agree. "Imagine having to rely on Draco Malfoy to do your dirty work for you. I'd go spare."

"It's not his competence that's the problem," Daph says. "It's his father's money and influence. I urge the two of you to rethink this. He stays in your dorm, Harry. We can—"

"I thought you were joking." Trace recoils. She looks well and truly spooked.

"Well, I'm not." Daph's nostrils flare. "It's Tori's life on the line. I'd do anything for her. Wouldn't you do the same for your mother, Tracey?"

"We can't, Daph," I say, before this spirals out of control. I raise my hands to placate her.

Daph talks a big game but I doubt she'd actually kill someone if push came to shove. This situation needs to be defused regardless.

"His daddy would bring Voldemort into it," I continue. "Everyone knows our history with Draco, so we'd be prime suspects. And the death eaters would not bother with a trial."

"You can't murder someone on a maybe," Trace adds. "You just cannot. That's how you end up like them."

Daph shuts her eyes and sags. Trace, despite her discomfiture, hugs Daph. The latter does not resist.

"We'd never let anything happen to Tori," Trace whispers, rubbing Daph's back. "You know it. She's our sister too— isn't that right, Harry?"

"Yeah," I say solemnly. "We'd lay down our lives to keep her out of the clutches of that vile and lascivious fraud, Longbottom."

Daph lets out a weak approximation of a laugh.

"What's it with you and Longbottom?" She asks.

"His fame won him an apprenticeship that I deserve more than he does."

"Are you still going on about that?" Daph seems glad for the change of topic. "Old goat turned you down at the start of year three, didn't he?"

"He did. And I'll never stop being bitter about it till the day I die. Nepotism's won scarhead all his honours."

"Honours he does not want," Trace fires back. "You should speak to him sometime, he really isn't all that bad. He's proper shy but he's a good bloke. Heart of gold. Very helpful and all if you ask him doubts."

"What doubts could he clarify that I can't?" I ask, insulted.

"You don't take runes, Harry."

"Only because someone—" I shoot Daph a glare, "—convinced me Arithmancy was the way to go."

"It's not my fault you wasted an elective on muggle studies," Daph fires back.

"It's a free grade," I grumble, depressed. She does not have to remind me of my questionable life choices. "I study ten minutes for the entire term and walk out of that class with an O. Gives me an extra two hundred hours to dump into dueling practice."

"Still your own fault though, isn't it?"

"You misled me with your false advertising. You told me arithmancy has far more applications—"

"It does. You're just rubbish at all of them."

I scratch my head.

"Harsh, Daph. I'm a fair hand at warding and I have little interest in spell crafting. But dragon heartstring is a horrid core for charmswork. You know this. Ash makes it even worse."

Daph rolls her eyes.

"Oh yes, it's your wand's fault. Surely there could be no other reason."

"They say a bad workman blames his tools," Trace chips in.

"Don't be a tool, Trace," I counter. "It's a perfectly valid excuse."

"Not from you, it isn't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She stretches and stands and sidles up to me. Curls an arm around my shoulder.

"Why, just that I'm talking to the future world champion, aren't I?"

For once I have nothing snarky to say in retaliation. She sounds dead serious. I'm always disarmed by the simplicity of her faith in me.

Sometimes I just wish I had the same confidence in myself.

"Champion?" I laugh. "Mourn me when Lacroix is done with me."

---

Endnotes:

'Lacroix' is a roundabout tribute to a character mentioned in Swimdraconian's Circular Reasoning: "La Croix". That work remains the best Harry Potter fanfic I've ever read, even though I must confess to not having touched it for over two years now. Chalk it up to depression and a paucity of time.

I'm currently re-reading OOTP in an attempt to be canonically consistent: I'd forgotten just how trigger happy the Slytherins were in canon, ngl. If anyone doubts the possibility of the bullying and the abuse Harry references here, then I urge you read the first half of chapter nineteen "The Lion and the Serpent". Take note of what Miles Bletchley does to Alicia Spinnet (he hexes her when she's reading in the library and she ends up in the hospital wing). And this is over something as meaningless as quidditch. Imagine what these people would do if they really had a bone to pick with you.

The Malfoy scene I've written made me grimace on a re-read: in my eyes that entire sequence, followed by the tacked-on sense of guilt, is too rough. Tonally, too, the transition is too abrupt. I despair over the lack of talent it demonstrates; however, it is the best I could do, since it establishes a precedent for violence and serves as a bridge for another scene I have in mind further down the line. I think it is the sort of scene that is indicative of my stagnation as a writer and the shameless ease with which I revert back to worn out tropes whenever I run out of ideas. It is emblematic of the lack of imagination I struggle with. But regardless, it is my hope to improve on this over the course of this work.

The monetary system I use has nothing to do with JKR's, currency names aside. I'll elaborate on this a little more next chapter when it becomes relevant, but suffice it to say that even the Malfoys, who are the richest family in Britain in this fic, have about a hundred thousand galleons worth of assets overall. So the thousand galleon winnings for the Tri Wizard tournament were a big thing. I think that'd be a better explanation than people risking their lives for 'eternal glory' and the British equivalent of five thousand quid.

I do not have an account on the accursed site that shall not be named, and I never ask for money- this is a labour of love for me. But if you enjoyed the chapter, then spending ten minutes of your time to leave a review would be much appreciated.

Cheers, and see you next time.