Chapter 5

The arena is self-repairing, so most of the damage disappears by the time I've returned to my dugout. Pulverised marble reforms, chunks of broken stone fly back into their places. What the arena cannot reknit, it regenerates. The charms work in these places always takes my breath away.

Much to my surprise, the judges give me the round. Personally speaking, I thought Shacklebolt was a rock to the ribs away from taking that. My construct failed to stop him, and if he'd been fit, then with the gubraithian fire not dying out, it'd have been a very tricky fight. It is 2-0 now, though, and Shacklebolt's been rushed off on a gurney, with his healer trailing him, so this is effectively over. There's only his Second left— I realise she's a metamorphmagus when her hair turns white. She's fucking terrified of facing me, and not without reason. Anyone who can fight at the level we just did is a menace to society.

Fortunately for her, it is not me she'll be facing.

"Are you sure?" Daph asks me, when I take the seat next to her. The seat Trace has just vacated. I've already signalled to the referee that I wish to sub my Second in for the third round. I'll step back in if she loses the round, since walking away from this fight with anything less than a 4-1 would be a massive disappointment, and might prove tricky later on. But I have a good feeling about this.

"I thought the idea was to give Tracey the third round," I yawn. "Your plan, wasn't it?"

Daph's once again running cursory diagnostics. I consider asking for a pepper up, since now that the adrenaline has faded I'm starting to realise just how much the last two rounds have taken out of me. But I desist. It would disqualify me, and Trace would have to see out three rounds, not one. For someone who has never fought more than a round a match, it is a tall ask.

"Only if you need the break," Daph points out. "You don't need one, you look fine to me. You've taken no spell damage."

I point to a couple of bruises from flying debris that I missed in the heat of battle. A shard of stone has grazed my cheek; another's opened up a tear in my sleeve. There's no pain, except for the slight sting of scraped skin, but both bruises are starting to purple.

She huffs and shakes her head.

"I've seen you fight on a broken ankle," she says, nonetheless pressing her wand tip against my cheek and fixing it in a trice.

"It's not about me, Daph, it's about Trace."

"Meaning?"

"Shacklebolt's second is raw. What's more, she's rattled. There'll never be a better chance to build up Tracey's confidence."

We both look at Tracey, who has taken her spot.

"Trace," I call out.

She looks at me. The ref's not started the bout yet. The metamorphmagus is reluctantly creeping to her spot.

"Fight the way you usually do, not how we discussed."

Her eyes widen.

"You mean—?"

"Don't bunker down. Go for it."

I wink at her and give her a thumbs up.

"Nymphadora Tonks versus Tracey Davis," the ref announces. "Begin!"

Daph and I stare at each other, thunderstruck.

" . . . did he say Tonks? " I demand.

"Isn't that . . .?"

"Yeah," I groan. "Yeah, I think so. Can't believe that ponce somehow bagged a metamorphmagus for a night. Bloody hell, now I'm jealous. The possibilities . . ."

"You're a sick freak," Daph informs me primly. She puts her wand away and takes the seat next to me.

"A healthy adolescent, you mean." My eyes are on the spells Trace is firing off at Tonks. She's skipping around, her wand's a blur. She's gone for the jugular immediately. But despite how discomfited the latter looks, her defensive technique is decent. She seems to be in the same mould as Kingsley— she does not move much.

"I said what I said." Daph's tongue darts across her lips; her palms are clenched, her knuckles white; she's leaning forward, her pointed ears twitch unconsciously. She'd never admit it, but this is her default state whenever either of us duels— she's worried sick about Tracey, the same way she's worried sick about me. I suspect her face was more bloodless than mine when I broke my ankle. She spent every round begging me to give up, so as to avoid being crippled. It's just as she says, though— my skull's thick enough to be a battering ram, so the word quit does not exist in my vocabulary. Not even when my internal organs are liquefying.

Literally.

"Sometimes—" I begin, then pause as Trace dodges a volley of spellfire. It opens up sizzling pockmarks behind her.

"Sometimes, Daph, I worry about you," I say, resting my arm on hers, "Don't you have the slightest hint of sexual curiosity? I refuse to believe you haven't shlicked one out to Trace, for example. But setting that aside for a minute, think of everyone that this Tonks girl could turn into. Everything she could turn into, be it a vampire, a faerie, a siren or a veela. It is a gift. Truly, her parents were spot on in naming her Nymph."

"You dehumanise her," Daph stammers. Her cheeks are tinted red. She has been blindsided by the Tracey jab, and is steadfastly ignoring its truth.

"Do I really?" I wonder. In the arena Trace is now running circles around the newly christened Nymph, that noble girl, that disconsolate fetishized figure. "Let's say her partner commits the most debauched acts imaginable for an hour a day— consensually, of course. For the other twenty-three, he supports her, pampers her, gives her a shoulder to cry on and what not. He loves her, I dare say; he lets himself be a staircase for her to step on. Would the sex then still be dehumanising, if he's only with her in the first place due to the humanity he sees in her?"

"Strawman argument," she fires back. Her eyes are glued to the arena.

"Shamelessly so," I concede. "I wasn't aware the wizarding world knew that term."

"Watch more Wizengamot debates, then."

"Ah, back to political ambitions, are we?" I ask idly. I pat her arm. "Good, good. I believe in you, Daph. You too can be a wretched, withered, vulture-nosed harridan; you too can haunt the corridors of power and suck the joy out of all our lives."

"A populace that turns its back on government deserves enslavement," Daph murmurs. "I have a seat, you have a seat; it is your right to forfeit yours and go on with your life. But I—"

We both jump out of our chairs— we cheer, we hug each other. Trace has just sent Tonks spinning across the arena. Laboriously the latter gets up and tries defending again. But she is concussed, and this now is a formality.

"—I respect the traditions of my people, and I will defend them to the day I die," Daph tells me, her cheeks flushed, her eyes agleam, a radiant smile lighting up her features.

She looks mesmerising when she smiles.

I'm dazzled. I feel like I'm seeing her properly for the first time. I open my mouth to reply, though my mind is blank—

The buzzer sounds. I break eye-contact and look at the clock. There are ten seconds left in the round. The ref has gone over to Tonks and is having an animated discussion with her. She vigorously shakes her head, then covers her face.

The ghoul gives her a consolatory pat.

"Potter wins by forfeit," it announces. "Potter 5 Shacklebolt 0. Duellists, we thank you for your time; spectators, please file out in orderly fashion . . ."

But we're no longer listening. Trace has flung herself at the us. She's glowing — it's the first time she's won a round. Her enthusiasm is contagious. We huddle together, the three of us; we giggle and clap like little children. And for the first time ever, I think, we truly believe we can win the world championship.

Tracey and I are in no mood to be cooped up in a stuffy room, so we try and persuade Daph to go out with us. She is uncooperative. So Trace takes one arm, I take the other, and we frogmarch Daph out of the resort, all while she sneaks desolate glances at the shut door behind. Daphne Greengrass is an introvert. This is not the night for introversion.

We drift past a lamp-lit cathedral, its windows reflecting the moon, its steeples kissing the stars. Gondolas float down a golden lake. Statues line the narrow street we're walking down. The buildings are maple, their architraves silver, their cornices crimson. They gleam resplendent in the winking lights.

For some unfathomable reason there are fireworks popping off in the distance.

"Football," Trace ventures. She's dressed like a muggle: cream top, pleated skirt. She likes experimenting with her hair— tonight she's chosen a pixie cut. It frames her face, it highlights the symmetry of her features. The red streaks she's coloured in contrast well with the rest of her hair.

I shrug. I do not follow muggle sports. She does though. She supports Sunderland, I believe.

"Is that where they kick the sentient half-egg into the goalhole?" Daph demands.

… as you can imagine, Daph does not follow muggle sports either.

Daph too is dressed like a muggle. Or she thinks she is, at least. Neither Trace nor I have the heart to tell her that the corset, cape, frock coat, hat and frilly high-backed gown she's wearing would not have looked out of place in the Victorian era.

Oddly enough, it suits her. She looks like Titania, queen of fairies. All she's missing is a diadem. She glides, even as Trace and I tromp after her. There's this refined elegance to her that is inimitable. It would be awkward if she had not taken the trouble to cast notice-me-nots, however. The muggles would stare.

"Forget sentient eggs," I sigh. "Where are we headed?"

"Don't ask me. All I wanted, after the madness today, was some time with my textbooks. Eight hours' sleep after that would've been nice. Instead, I've been strong-armed into this city's nightlife by a pair of deviants."

"Live a little, Daph."

"It's OWLs year," she reminds me. "We'll miss at least a third of our classes, if not more. The week before the exams, the two of you will want my notes. Theory only, but still. How do you think I make those? By living a little? "

"You could always nick Granger's," I point out. "She carries bundles of them in her bag, and she's always in the library. Mostly alone, too. One well-placed confundus charm ... hell, if the idea of theft appalls you, then just borrow it for a few hours, run some charm to copy the entire stack, then put it back, with no one the wiser for it."

"No theft," Trace says. "Stop breaking the law just because it's convenient." Then, seeing Daph's contemplative expression: "Don't even think about it, Daph! He was joking. You were, weren't you? Tell her, Harry!"

"Maybe," I hedge.

"You know," Daph says slowly, "It never crossed my mind—"

"No," Trace says, hands on her hips. She glares at us. "It's her hard work, we've no right to it."

"What she does not know won't hurt her," Daph says.

"We'll give it back after we use it, Trace," I promise.

"You stand to profit too, Tracey. Granger's better than I am at note taking. We'd all score an extra five to ten marks in theory."

"Do as you wish. But I tell you now, it would break my heart if you did this," Trace announces solemnly, her bottom lip quivering.

We both grumble. That's that idea nixed, then.

"Stop doing such a good job at being our moral compass," Daph complains, wringing her hands.

"Moral compass? " I scoff. "She's blackmailed us into taking the high road. Holds us hostage with the threat of her disappointment, doesn't she? You're an emotional terrorist, Trace."

Trace shrugs.

"The two of you are the most gifted students Hogwarts's had in forever, and here you are, talking about pilfering some muggleborn's notes because it would be easy. Like a pair of common crooks. For shame."

We grumble again, but we let the matter drop.

You might wonder how someone like Tracey ended up in Slytherin. As she told us, when she was still an ickle firstie, she 'rather liked the colour green'. So, despite the hat offering her Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, she picked Slytherin. This is at odds with Daph and I— we were both offered Gryffindor, but that is where the similarities end. Daph chose Slytherin due to family history, whereas I was seduced by the promise of greatness. Even at eleven, there was nothing I wanted more than to carve my name into the annals of wizarding history. I didn't much care whether I ended up a Prometheus or a dark lord. Still don't, as a matter of fact. But over time my priorities have shifted. They've come to include this little family of mine I'd give my life for.

So if you sent us back in time, and allowed us to redo our sortings, there's not a damn thing any of us would change. We grumble, we argue, we take the mickey out of each other; but at the end of the day, these friendships are all we have.

Milan, like London, is a city of sprawling marketplaces. I don't mean the muggle kind — that is implicit; muggles breed like rabbits. I mean the wizarding sort.

I have always found it amusing that you could ask most Hogwarts students to list out marketplaces in magical London, and they'd name two: Diagon and Knockturn. You press them for more, and you're met with a blank stare. As if that's all that can exist in a city so storied and tightly packed. As if two millennia of wizarding history can be distilled down into two miniscule marketplaces, one catering to Hogwarts students and the other to career criminals.

No, the truth is, there are at least half a dozen I can list off the top of my head. There's a book market you can only reach through the fountain in Trafalgar Square. You have to throw in a knut first, then wait for the fountainhead to suck you in. It's in operation only after midnight though, since the streets are crowded during the day, and there are serious concerns regarding breach of statute.

There are resorts next to St. Paul's Cathedral. That one is trickier to navigate— it was initially built as an underground bunker during the witch hunts. Someone had the glorious idea of setting up right next to the enemy. They were correct in doing so. It's the one place no one would ever look for a wizard.

There's a warded area adjoining Brockwell Park. There's a specific bench you have to sit on, a certain rhythm you have to tap out with your fingernails, and the bench flips over with you still glued to it. Before you know it, you're staring at a marketplace for exotic creatures. Next to it are a gamut of shops for potions' ingredients. Daph's dad has a shop there too, I believe.

There are duelling arenas under the British museum. There's a bust on the first floor you have to push over. When it shatters, it opens a trapdoor that leads underground.

There's also a robust Mermish community under Thames. They run a drug cartel and a black market. You don't know true terror until you've met a tattooed merman called Chuck, who threatens to break your legs if you don't give him hush money.

If you fall asleep there, you forfeit your internal organs.

There are other locations too. I could go on like this forever. Not just for London, but for every major city in Britain. While the wizarding community is tiny, it does not mean we're lacking in options or amenities.

It is the same here. Rome might have a richer history, but Milan plays host to some powerful Wizarding families, the Zabinis amongst them. The marketplaces have evolved to cater to their tastes. And, as I mentioned above, they are everywhere.

We stumble upon a posh little club that goes by the name of Syracusan Orchestral. Entry fee is a galleon for the three of us combined. This is quite clearly a rip off, but I pay it anyway, because the occasion has made me charitable. They serve complimentary firewhiskeys at the counter without checking for ID, but we decide to settle for Butterbeer. There's a funereal dirge playing in the background— Daph informs me this is a record topper from the latest Weird Sisters' album.

We occupy a booth in the corner. We drink, we laugh, we gossip about everything and nothing. Time ticks on. The complimentary round of drinks is guzzled down, then Daph decides to buy us another round. We get roasted veal dipped in salamander sauce to go with that. Despite my better judgement, we get firewhiskey. We get buzzed, we grow brash. There's a dance floor in the middle, populated by swaying couples. They're all rich, they're all in their twenties and thirties. The grace in their motions screams old money. Midway through a peppy number, Tracey takes my arm and guides me to the floor. We stick out like a sore thumb. I've never danced, Yule Ball aside; I'm horrible at it. Trace herself, despite her dainty figure and her springiness, is not particularly good. We settle for a waltz that sadly looks like two bound curtains being molested by a breeze. The couples next to us shun us. If we had any shame whatsoever, this would upset us, but we don't, so our eyes are on each other instead. She's objectively attractive, but this knowledge is something I've consciously buried during my interactions with her. Now, however, with the excess of drink starting to work its charm, I am entranced. She's never looked more beautiful. There's something about the suppleness of her frame, the sweat dappling her skin, the warmth in her eyes, the harmony of her laughter; something, too, about the way she presses against me on a half turn. I am intoxicated by her floral aroma. My breath ghosts past her ear, my hands trail her neck, her back, her waist, her hips. She shivers. When she turns around there's something nectarine about her lips: she closes her eyes, leans forward, invites me in. Our faces are inches away from each other's; I can see her moist mouth part. All I have to do is dip in—

I push her away.

There's a flicker of confusion in her eyes, then a brief flash of hurt. Trace tries suppressing it— she laughs it off. The music dies. The dance is over. I am left standing in the middle, while she gives me a cursory bow, then turns away and makes a beeline for our table.

The next song comes on. I remain stranded, I sway back and forth. Tracey's back is to me, but I can see Daph glare daggers at me.

Oh dear.

A few seconds afterwards, Daph sets her coat aside and glides up to me. She extends an elegant arm, places the other around my shoulder, and leads me into a much better version of the waltz I just performed.

"You're a stupid twat," she tells me, pivoting on one foot and flawlessly executing a twirl. We face each other.

"Don't I just know it," I sigh. "The hell was that about?"

"Surely even you can't be that dumb." She guides my arm across her waist and dips in tandem to a swell in music. "Tracey's carried the torch for you since first year."

I sigh again. My eyes hurt, my head's pounding. The win against Shacklebolt feels like it happened a century ago. The joy's turned to ash in my mouth.

"I figured. Didn't think it went that far back, but yeah . . ."

"And you did nothing about it? Just let it fester? She cried, you know, when you took Delacour to the ball. Made me swear I'd never tell you, and she was all smiles afterwards, but Tracey was waiting for you to ask her. Merlin, if you'd waited another day, she would've asked you herself."

"Drop it, Daph, I don't want to talk about it."

"What's wrong with her?" Daph's irises are flecks of frost. "She's the prettiest girl in our year; she has a goodness of heart most people would kill for. She's turned down half our classmates, waiting for you to hint in some fashion that you're interested, while you've shamelessly frolicked around, throwing yourself at anything wearing a skirt. If you aren't into her, then say so. Say it to her face, coward, don't lead her on."

"The same way you've admitted your feelings to her face?" I ask with a thin smile.

"That's different—"

"Then this is too. She's my best friend, Daph, and I'd like to leave it that way."

The music stops. The couples part.

"Good dance." I shrug off the hand that's attempting to crush my shoulder. "It is late, though. Time to head back to our hotel, I think?"

Come morning, we're back to pretending nothing's happened. If Tracey's a little too chirpy, and if her smiles are too wide and brittle, then I don't call her out on it. Similarly, while Daph's responses to me are monosyllabic, she avoids being rude, and before we set out she draws me to one side and tells me I can still rely on her healing abilities. She doesn't need to say that, of course— Daphne Greengrass is nothing if not professional, and no matter how much I rag on her, I trust her implicitly.

My second group stage match is against the champion of Norway. I have no reason to be worried. He's a semi retiree who is ranked one hundred and twelfth in the world; he only qualified for this tournament because the national tournament in Norway turned into the perfect swansong. He's come into this with no expectations, and has already announced he'll be retiring once he gets eliminated. He fought my third and final group stage opponent, the champion of Bulgaria, yesterday, and I believe it ended in a spirited 3-2 defeat for him. Shacklebolt was the big one— the others just aren't on my level.

Regardless, I am taking this seriously. As I stride into the arena, I notice that the crowd has gone down to about two hundred people. This is more in line with my erstwhile expectations.

My opponent, Fredrik Haugen, is in his eighties. At the height of his career, he broke into the top ten. But that was four decades ago. He was a contemporary to Filius Flitwick, and has spent the last twenty years rattling around in the state divisions. Despite all this, he remains jolly, portly and red faced. There are only scattered strands of grey on his scalp, and he's heavily favouring his right foot, the left having been crushed in the last duel. He's taped it up, and his healer has done the best he can, but it is quite clear that this will prove to be a decisive weakness. But you would not know it, given the spring in his step. He limps across to greet me— he's having the time of his life.

"Saw the footage for your battle with Shacklebolt, and bloody 'ell, sonny, you're something else, aren't you?"

"I try," I say modestly.

"Not much of a challenge today, I think," he confides conspiratorially, gesturing to his foot. "But clean fight, eh?"

"I'll take nothing for granted," I promise him. "But you know I'll target that foot, sir. I'll go pretty hard on it. So if it's troubling you, you ought to forfeit, or at least give the entire thing to your second."

His jowls jiggle in mirth. He strokes his moustache.

"Been on the circuit sixty years, sonny," he says. "Seen duellists come and go. I'm still here. Love fighting fresh blood. I've lost to each of the last twelve duelling champions. You beat me, you go on to win the 'ole thing, then that's thirteen, eh? So what's one more loss?"

I laugh.

The duel goes exactly as I predicted. Since he's struggling with his left foot, I make it a point to hug that side for the first two rounds. I force him to keep defending that weakness. He has no time to do anything other than to bunker down and suffer through volley after volley accurately spaced from waist to foot. Everything is aimed at his left side. Anytime he tries adjusting to this, tries centralising himself, I merely circle around and flank him from the left again. At the end of the second round, with my wand aimed at his left knee, with my entire body giving every appearance of once again targeting that weakness, I switch gears and fire off a seven-spell volley at his right shoulder.

He's not able to reorient himself quickly enough. And just like that, it is over. 2-0 once again. He's out of commission. His second is a twenty-four-year-old state quarterfinalist from Oslo. I take my seat and give Tracey the third round.

And that's when it all goes horribly wrong.

Allow me to point out that this is the sort of opposition I would trust Tracey to put away. From the outset it is clear that he's not on her level— he's quick, he's gamely, but his technique is horrible and his footwork isn't great either. He's too obvious with his movements; he broadcasts his spells.

But somehow, Trace today is even worse. She is limpid, listless and completely at sea. Her footwork's non-existent, she's second guessing everything, she's constantly making the wrong choices. Her spell work is shoddy, her aim is off, and it is no surprise when a minute from time her opponent clips her with a stunner, then banishes her into the wards.

She slouches past me once enervated. She doesn't bother looking at me, doesn't bother speaking to me or Daph— just slumps onto the bench and buries her head in her hands.

There are no forfeits, unless the primary duelist and their second are both out of commission. The rules require me to fight the final minute of the third round. It takes me fifteen seconds to put her opponent away.

We're handed a 4-1 by the judges. We don't bother celebrating. I've won, but it is all falling apart.

A lesser man would no doubt let the issue fester, but I decide to bite the bullet. So that evening, with the sun casting its saffron pall over the Naviglio Grande, I invite Tracey outside. We walk along in companionable silence. She looks like she hasn't slept well, but the smile she gives me when I ask her about it is buoyant.

"It's just like you to worry about such things," she says.

There's a chill permeating the air. Dewdrops stipple the balustrades, drip down in runnels, and when I run my hand across a railing adjoining the river, it comes away wet. I've worn a jacket atop my half shirt and slacks.

The silence persists. Much to my surprise it remains amicable. I'd wondered how best to approach this, steeled myself over saying such and such, but at the moment, I am lost. I tarry, I hem and haw. She looks prettier today in profile than she did last night — she's traded the pixie cut for the ponytail she usually maintains, and that brings with it an aura of familiarity. There are no obvious hints of sadness, nothing to suggest she's actually upset, but I know her well enough to see the silence as a symptom of something deeper.

"Listen, Trace," I begin. "About last night—"

"It's my fault," she says.

I swallow my tongue.

"It's not—" I begin weakly, but she cuts me off.

"It is," she reiterates. "I pushed too hard. I've always known, through all the fun, that . . . that you're aware . . ." She laughs helplessly. "And I've always respected your choice, respected the distance. But last night I . . . I got carried away, I think . . ."

"Trace, I've treated you horribly," I say immediately. "I've taken you for granted. I owe you an apology and an explanation."

She turns. She puts a finger on my lips.

"You haven't, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. You owe me nothing, Harry. Explanations just . . . they sort of take the charm out of everything, don't they? They make love seem . . . less magical."

She removes her finger. She turns away and slips her hand in mine. We continue on with our walk.

"I'll only ask . . ." she mumbles. "Do you . . . are you interested at all—?"

For an entire minute I am silent.

"It's complicated," I admit.

"I'll wait, then," she shrugs. "But I'd like an answer before the end of the school year. I can't wait forever."

"You don't have to. You're free to go out with anyone you want."

"I want you. And I want to wait. At least for a year, just in case . . ." She shrugs again. "Either way, there ought to be no regrets. No matter your answer, I want to know I tried everything."

Our third-round opponent is a pallid, dark haired, diminutive teen named Vera Stoyanova. She is nineteen, was an honours' student at Durmstrang, and is well known to anyone who's trawled the under eighteen duelling circuit. She was world champion at that level for four years. I eviscerated her to take that title from her. She's seventy third in the world, but I suspect it is not a good representation of her actual strength. She's perhaps a decade of experience away from breaking into the top ten. This tournament has come too early for her, though.

We shake hands. I'm 9-1 on the round count, she's 4-6. She lost 4-1 to a half fit Shacklebolt yesterday. To have any chance whatsoever of progression, she has to beat me 5-0. On the other hand, if I win a single round in this duel, then I top the group and qualify for the round of sixteen. I expect our respective strategies to reflect the pressures surrounding this situation.

They do not. It turns out to be a damp squib. Faced with a mountain to climb, Vera's mentally given up before the match has even started. She does not think she can blank me 5-0, and as a consequence she's fighting to avoid humiliation. She does not play the situation at all. Her technique is orthodox and rock solid, but it is too passive. She takes no risks at all. She has a decent repertoire in the dark arts, and this is what she resorts to. But she's getting off maybe three or four spells every ten seconds, then shuffling back into her cocoon of shields.

On the other hand, I don't go for the kill either. I've pulled on my cloak— I'm sort of just circling around her slowly, probing for gaps. Every minute or so, a spell breaks through and clips her, but her dragonhide padding is so thick that it does little damage. That's not the point, however; the point is to turn this into a fencing bout. I just have to graze her more than she grazes me, and the round is mine.

That's exactly how it pans out. I get in four hits, she gets in one— a blood freezer that tickles my shoulder but does not get through the padding, and so cannot work its wicked ways. Instead of trying to press for the initiative there, she retreats into her shell once again and lets the round drift. It ends 1-0 for me. It is over. I have qualified.

I give Trace the next three rounds. Daph is queasy about this, but there is a determined glint in Tracey's eye. She intends to make up for the fiasco yesterday.

She does. She loses two rounds and draws one, and when she retakes her seat she's swaying from side to side. She's been seared by more than a few spells, but she's put up a heck of a fight and made things very hard for Vera. In a way, this is a far more impressive display than the one against Tonks. She has still not defended the way we'd planned— she went half and half this time, taking the initiative at opportune moments and committing to an attack anytime one of her potshots connected. Her tour de force was holding Vera to a highly technical draw in the third round, where both duellists defended optimally, showed excellent footwork and anticipation, and only connected with each other twice. I'm quick to embrace her the second she returns— I've never been more proud.

I fight the fifth round myself and make it 2-2. This was another damp squib— Vera gave the round to her Second. I don't exert myself, I don't conjure anything arcane. I am keeping my cards close to my chest, and do not wish to give away anything from my repertoire that my knockout round opponents could prepare for. So her second and I exchange third rate spells till the buzzer sounds. I've treated it as warm up— the poor man was hanging on for dear life.

We progress with eleven wins, one draw and three defeats. Shacklebolt has made an excellent recovery and finished with nine wins and six defeats, but it is not enough.

I run into him and his second in the cafeteria.

(Trace and Daph have already left— the former was lightheaded and had a scare with a fainting fit, so Daph was insistent on getting her tucked in. I've stayed back to collect our passes and sign a bunch of forms).

Tonks looks morose, but Shacklebolt is all smiles. He's using a crutch— it seems to be precautionary.

"Harry Potter," he booms. "I could not say it day before yesterday, since I was indisposed, but you fought brilliantly. Allow me to congratulate you on progressing to the round of sixteen."

"Cheers, Shack. Thought you were pretty unlucky, to be honest. That cheap trick in the first round is not something you fall for nine times out of ten."

He waves away my objections.

"It was unexpected. I have seen variations of it, usually while chasing dark wizards, but no one has ever combined several ideas so effectively against me. You deserve full credit for it, young man, so don't sell yourself short."

He introduces his Second.

"This is Tonks," he says. "Emmeline isn't here; there was an emergency at St. Mungo's, so she had to run."

"Wotcher," the girl bleats out glumly.

"First tournament, Miss Tonks?" I ask.

"Uh, yeah."

"Chin up, then. I remember mine, it was way worse. You'll only get better with time."

She snorts.

"You're, what, a fifth year?" She asks me. "Can't believe I'm being consoled by a literal schoolchild."

"Hey, if you're determined to beat yourself up, then can't really do anything about that, can I? It's just, I've never seen you on the youth circuit either, and being tossed into a pro duel as your first ever experience of this sport is fuckin' terrifying. So don't — er, just don't take it too hard, a'right? Most of us here have been doing this from the time we were in our nappies."

Her hair flits from mouse brown to pale pink.

"You're not what I expected," she admits slowly. "When Kingsley told me you were Lockhart's second, I expected someone more, I dunno . . .?"

"Full of himself?"

She giggles.

"That's it."

"Well, you're wrong. Don't lump me in with that jar of bubotuber pus. If literally anyone else on the circuit would've taken me in, we'd not be having this conversation."

"Fair," she says. "Tell your second she's a mean bitch, by the way. Felt like I was suffocating in there. Half my bruises still haven't gone down."

Shack and I trade grins. We don't wish to tread on her ego by telling her Tracey is at the lower end of the totem pole.

"Speaking of Seconds," I say, "where's Dawlish?"

Both their expressions curdle.

"We've had a disagreement," Shacklebolt says.

"Gone over to Fudge, hasn't he, the lapdog," Tonks says darkly.

"Dora," Shacklebolt warns.

"Er, does it have something to do with Longbottom, then?" I ask.

"Maybe." Kingsley's expression is inscrutable. He looks at his watch. "We'll be taking your leave, Mr. Potter. I have to get back to Auror office, and Dora here works for Improper Magic Use, so she'll be heading home as well. My best wishes to you for the rest of the tournament."

"See you 'round." Tonks winks at me. "Go get 'em, tiger."

I step across, I sign a few acknowledgement forms, then notice the half ghoul who ref'd my first match glaring daggers at me.

"Wassup, ref?" I call. I'm determined to not let this pustule ruin my day.

The snarl it gives me is all teeth.

"Don't get too familiar, wizard. Your racist jibes are still fresh in my memory."

I shrug.

"Just being courteous, boss. You look like you've had a bad day."

"Indeed. And the sight of you only makes it worse."

"Anything I can do to help? Other than, y'know, buggering off?"

"Not unless you know how to charm everyone's tickets for every round of sixteen match. I don't have a wand; I can't believe they're forcing me to do this nonsense."

"Oh, yeah," I say. "Yeah, sorry, no chance, I'm rubbish at charms. Good luck with that." I sign my last form, I turn away.

Then I remember something important.

"Speaking of, any chance the round of sixteen draws are out? I'm still mad at the stunt you lot pulled, but you said it was only for the groups, right?"

The goblin chuffs, snarls again, then flips through a schedule.

"It's out," it grumbles.

"Any chance you could look past our bad blood and tell me who I'm facing? As a favour, let's say. Want to hold one over me, don't we, ghoulie, m'lad?"

"Stop calling me that. My name is Theocritus."

"Theo, then. We'll settle for Theo. Now, the draw . . .?"

It looks down. It flips through a few more pages.

"Harry Potter versus Gilderoy Lockhart," it tells me.

Sometimes I'm convinced the universe must really fucking despise me.

Endnotes:

Aegon/Visenya/Rhaenys. Sort of. If you know, you know.