Chapter Eight
On the day of the match, we go into the cafeteria adjoining the arena. Trace and I tear into crumpets with relish. But Daph looks sickly after a repeat experience with the rotating room, so she refrains from partaking in our meal.
"You need to eat, Daph, you're already thin," I say.
I mentally bless the proprietor for keeping scones in stock. I reach for one, but Trace reaches for it at the same time. Our forks meet in the middle.
"En garde!" She cries. It is a declaration of war. Our scone hunt devolves into a death match. We go at it fiercely with plastic forks; we really get into it, slashing back and forth, till her fork breaks on a parry and dangles limply. She pouts and hangs her head in shame, while my triumphant laughter rumbles through the hall. I take the scone. I bite into it. To the victor go the spoils.
"Can I . . .?" Trace stares at my half-eaten scone with undisguised longing. "Just a nibble."
I offer her the scone. She swallows it whole.
"For I am become the destroyer of scones," she sighs dreamily, smacking her lips.
Daph's turned a little green at this unsanitary display.
"Sometimes the two of you disgust me."
"Need any help getting that stick out of your arse?" I enquire.
In lieu of an answer, she poses her own question:
"How are you not tense at all, Harry?"
" 's Lockhart, innit?" Trace says between chews, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's.
"Do not speak with food in your mouth!" Daph shoots her a glare.
Trace ducks, suitably chastened.
"Sorry, mum," she mumbles.
"And you!" Daph rounds on me. I was just reaching for a crumpet myself. My hand freezes mid-stretch.
"Me?"
"Yes, you. I demand answers!" She cries.
"Oh, you demand them, d'you?" I mutter darkly, brandishing my fork at her.
"Yes."
"Daphne Greengrass." I grab my butter knife. I flash my cutlery at her like twin sabers. "I reject your demands. And what's more, I challenge you to an honour duel."
"You're such a goof," Trace whispers in awe.
"This is serious business, Trace." I go back to my crumpet. "That harpie over there has the audacity to get between me and breakfast. We are inseparable. You hear me, Daph? Inseparable!"
"Lockhart." Whatever cacodaemoniacal entity crafted Daphne Greengrass forgot to include a sense of humour. Either that, or she finds my jokes terrible. Coin flip on that one, lads.
"Lockhart," I agree. "What about him?"
"He's not the pushover you're making him out to be."
"And no one knows that better than I do." I set aside my fork. With tears in my eyes I let go of my crumpet. I swear to it that I will savour it in a minute's time. Then I give Daph my full attention.
"He's about as strong as an average auror. Do you think the average auror could lay a glove on me?"
"I don't know. Maybe? They have seven years of schooling, three of training, decades of field experience—"
"And remain average," I interrupt. "I'm not talking about Moody or Shacklebolt; I mean the paper pushers, the types who do their nine to five then slink off home. Those people have the sharpness of a cudgel. They are glorified security guards, not the dark wizard catchers they claim to be."
"And you insist Lockhart is no better than them?"
"He's not." I shrug. "Competent, but not a threat whatsoever; not to me, at least. I expect this to be over inside two rounds."
"There's a thin line between confidence and arrogance."
"Eh, I've done my due diligence. I've prepped for him the same way I do for everyone else. And I mean no disrespect, but he's the weakest duellist left in the competition. If it weren't for my personal history with him, I'd be celebrating this matchup, not treating it like a toothache. Know who Lacroix's fighting? Ivanka Atanasov, who is 9th in the world. That's the level you expect, not Lockhart. If I can't beat him, I might as well quit the sport."
Daph has no more objections. It occurs to me that Trace has been unnaturally quiet. This is bamboozlingly Un-Tracey-like behaviour. It takes me two seconds to discover why.
During my conversation with Daph, Trace has, with great stealth, polished off the remaining crumpets, the ones on my plate included. She gives me a guilty look when I catch her stuffing the last crumbs down her gullet.
I stare at the barren wasteland of empty trays in dismay. Then I howl in outrage. I brandish my butterknife. My eyes are ablaze with the hellfire of retribution.
"Reprobate!" I roar, levelling my weapon of choice at her. "Thou hast stolen a priceless artefact. Prepare thyself for judgment, for mine honour demands recompense."
Trace lets out a shriek, shoots up and foots it.
I chase after her, butterknife aloft. Daph trails after us, complaining under her breath about hopeless idiots.
The security check pre match is a lot more intense than it was during the group stages. They check for banned substances, outlawed enchantments, potion vials, forbidden talismans and whatnot. It takes them fifteen minutes to run a thorough scan. At the end of this we are cleared and waved through.
Lockhart's already at the centre circle. He waves when he sees me. I don't wave back. I don't go greet him either. I nod to the ref, then take up my duelling position.
In the first round a miracle happens.
No matter what I do, I cannot hit Lockhart. It is mind boggling. It is absurd. I throw the kitchen sink at him, and everything goes astray at the last second, not because he swats well, not because he dodges well, not because he shields well, but for the most trivial reasons. A four-spell combo aimed at his forehead flies wide, because when they are within a yard of him his cloak catches on a tack buried in the ground and pulls him under. When I pressure him and drive him backwards with conjured icicles, then try delivering the coup de grace with a dark crushing curse, he trips over his own feet, slips into the solitary niche not bearing an icicle, and watches the spell streak over. Then he flips back, stands up, grins widely, bows, and goes on as if nothing has happened.
Other inconsistencies creep in. For the first time in a millennium, my aim is off. I do not miss at sixty yards. I do not miss at sixty yards. I have not missed at sixty yards for two years. You defend or you dodge, but it is never a freebie. Yet three out of five spells are going wide by a fraction of an inch, so Lockhart does not even have to defend. As the round wears on my frustration grows, and right before it ends a disarming charm he gets off and that I effortlessly sidestep pings off a tile behind me, pings into another tile, plunges into a spot in the wards, then pinballs into me from behind. I watch my wand sail out of my hand in disbelief. But Lockhart only has ten seconds to make his kill, and I survive the spells he throws at me by a hair's breadth. I drop, dive and roll. It is most undignifying.
The buzzer sounds.
I am fucking incandescent. I cannot believe his luck. I cannot believe mine. It is almost as if—
Oh.
Oh.
I collect my wand, then head to the dugout. My face is stone.
Trace looks worried, but Daph's expression mirrors mine.
"Figured it out, have you?" I ask her, my jaw working. I have never hated Lockhart more than I do at this moment.
"Felix Felicis," she snarls. If possible, she looks angrier than I do.
"The luck potion?" Trace alternates her gaze between the two of us. "But how? It's a banned substance. And we were checked, weren't we?"
"He had inside help," Daph says. She looks at the security personnel flanking the arena and the team of competition certified medics huddled at the far corner, present to offer assistance post duel in the event of either team requiring it. "One of them, most likely."
"So, what, they smuggled it in for him?" Trace asks.
"And passed it to him after the security check," I say.
"It has a twelve-hour time span and remains in the bloodstream for twenty-four," Daph says. "What I don't understand is how he hopes to get away with this."
"They must've smuggled in the antidote as well," I say. "That wipes traces, doesn't it?"
Daph nods.
"You need to report him," she says.
"I'm going to. See you guys in a sec'."
I make my way to the referee, who is an elderly Italian wizard. He squints at me as I approach.
"Yes, Mister Potter?"
"Felix Felicis," I say. "I demand that Lockhart be disqualified this instant."
He hems and haws with great uncertainty.
"That is a very serious accusation to make. A minute, please."
He goes to the panel of judges and has a whispered consultation with them. Then he signals me over. He suggests that I hold my silence for a moment, then calls Lockhart over as well. The man jogs our way, stupid grin still plastered to his face.
"Mr. Potter, could you repeat what you said?"
"My opponent is cheating," I say. "Felix Felicis. You have eyes, you all saw that round. It is an absolute shambles that something of this sort happens at a competition this prestigious. I demand his immediate disqualification. And Lockhart, scumbag, I will be taking this up with the ethics' committee. You're a disgrace, you pathetic excuse of a wizard."
"Oh, come now," Lockhart says, spreading his arms, grin still in place. "This is nonsense, gentlemen. These are the delusional ramblings of a petulant child. He sees he's about to lose, so he cries about it and makes wild accusations. Surely, you can't believe this?"
"Mr. Potter, our security checks are stringent," the judge on the right says, "and yours is a very serious accusation. Do you have any proof?"
"Not at this moment, no. But I know you, judge. You've been on the circuit for over twenty-five years. You've arbitrated thousands of duels. You know what a natural duel looks like. Could you look me in the eye and tell me that what you saw isn't a textbook case of Felicis usage?"
He strokes his chin and contemplates this.
"I can neither confirm nor refute that," he says slowly. "What I can say, however, is that the match must go on, unless you can offer proof of wrongdoing. The spectators must not catch wind of this. It would damage the association's reputation." He raises his hand to forestall my protests. "Be rest assured that your allegations will be investigated the second this match ends. Mr. Lockhart, you are not to leave the arena or interact with anyone, not even your Second or your healer. You will be subjected to further testing. If your results are clean, we shall apologise and suspend Mr. Potter for three months. If they aren't, we will ban you forever."
I am pleased to note cracks in Lockhart's composure. He's no longer smiling.
"I have already been tested!" He stutters. "You cannot—"
"We can," the judge in the centre says. "The rules allow for judges to call spot checks. Now, duellists, please go back to your dugouts. We shall give you an extra sixty seconds to prepare. Goodluck, gentlemen."
I make the long walk back to my dugout. We put our heads together and try coming up with a plan. When I say us, I mean Daph and I— Trace has never been one for plans. She's a free spirit who muddles through life. But she still huddles with us, less for intellectual input and more for moral support.
"So we have a luck potion that turns every attack of mine into a crapshoot," I say. "And, as we saw right there at the end, I can't fully trust my defences. Any bright ideas?"
"Cloak's a must," Trace suggests.
"Was gonna do that," I nod.
I'd skimped on it the last round, because if Lockhart hadn't been doped up, my reflexes alone ought to have been enough to overwhelm him.
"I'll also keep the distance, I think," I add.
"No, close it," Daph tells me.
"Huh? What's your idea?"
A self-satisfied smirk lights up her features.
"That potion has a weakness," she confides.
I lean forward.
"Yes?"
"The luck it confers is relative, not absolute."
It clicks for me. My demented grin matches hers.
"You're a genius, Daph."
"Why, thank you."
"No, truly, you outdo yourself."
"It's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"I could kiss you. I don't know where we'd be without you."
"Now you're laying it on too thick."
Trace looks between the two of us. Her expression is baffled.
"I don't get it," she admits.
"Tied round," the ref announces, even as I open my mouth to explain. "Potter 0 Lockhart 0. Duellists, please retake your positions."
I pull on my cloak.
"Watch and learn," I tell Trace.
Say you fall from the fifth floor of a building. You could break your spine. You could die a gruesome death. Instead, let's say, you break both your arms. It's a slice of good fortune, everyone says. You've been lucky.
Or say you get hit by a speeding truck while crossing the street. Again, the normal outcomes might range from death to dismemberment to permanent paralysis. Instead, you end up in crutches for six months. You've been lucky.
You see the idea now. The mistake I've made so far is that I've chucked some of the nastiest spells in my repertoire at Lockhart. His shot of liquid luck covers that— hence why everything goes astray.
There's an easy workaround. So easy, in fact, that I am ashamed it did not occur to me first. This is the perfect opportunity to switch to two branches of magic I left behind in the youth leagues: namely, jinxes and hexes. His potion would not protect against those, as long as there are significantly worse outcomes still on the table. If I don't aim to kill him, maim him, dismember him, or cause any other form of grievous bodily harm, I can do whatever I want, and criteria for Felix Felicis's luck will still be met. After all, he's still extremely lucky.
Or, to put it the clearest way I can: fortune does not guarantee victory; it simply mitigates the severity of defeat.
This requires setup. Jinxes and hexes, by definition, are too weak to break through the advanced shields a professional duellist can cast. So my strategy is to brute force my way through anytime he shields, but only use enough force to break the shield, not to mar him significantly.
Our plan works a treat from the first minute of the second round. Straight away I cut the distance, subduing the urge to dodge. I shield instead, to neutralise the brunt of his charge.
And then I paste him. I underscore the gulf in class between us. I don't quite paint the walls with Lockhart's innards, but this is more humiliating. I blast through his first Aegis with an overpowered Bombarda Maxima. The magical backlash has him doing cartwheels. Lockhart recovers, but there's only so much he can do. The bombardment continues unimpeded. He tires, he flags, his reflexes start to lag. Eventually he falters. His shield bursts like styrofoam subjected to a hydraulic press. As he totters back onto his feet, I clip him with a bat bogey hex. As he vainly claws at his nostrils, I follow up with every third to sixth year jinx known to man, till he is wobbling on his feet, belching slugs, dripping mucal matter, spouting ear wax, crying maggots, and voiding both bladder and bowels simultaneously.
I raise my wand. I take aim. My wrist trembles— in the heat of the moment I want nothing more than to slit this man's throat.
I resist. My wrist jerks higher; I snap off a bludgeoner at him from thirty yards. It catches him plumb in the moaning mouth.
He recoils, as if kicked in the face by a mule. His teeth scatter— a necklace of pearls with its thread snapped.
"My seven-time witch weekly smile of the year!" Lockhart screams, falling to his knees and wading through excrement in a valiant attempt to rescue his teeth. He realises the futility of this— he drops his wand and runs off weeping.
Awkward silence follows.
"Er, Second?" The ref says. "Do you wish to—"
But there's no Second to speak to. She has taken one look at me, another at the pile of refuse littering the arena, and noped out on instinct. She follows Lockhart in his mad scramble for the exit.
"Well, that happened," the ref says to himself. He shakes himself out of his reverie. "Potter 1 Lockhart 0," he announces. "Potter wins by forfeit."
I'd leave it there, but in the evening edition of the Italian Times I am treated to further good news: Gilderoy Lockhart has been found guilty of Felix Felicis usage. He's been banned from the circuit forever. His stock has plummeted and his reputation is in tatters.
All is right in the world.
Daph and I have become unwitting co-conspirators. Her romantic aspirations are the Caesar we're trying to murder. I would find this hilarious, but something about her self-sacrificial attitude leaves a sour taste in my mouth. It is not right, I tell you. This is a girl that needs years of therapy to be refashioned into a functional human being. I make a mental note to do something nice for her once the tournament is over. It's the least I can do.
"You should take her out tonight," Daph whispers to me. She looks around cagily. It is a wholly superfluous action: Trace is in the bathroom; I can hear her humming in the shower.
"Prep," I yawn.
"It can wait. Draw's not out yet. Who would you even prepare for?"
"Lacroix."
"Forget it. Preparation won't help there."
"Are you saying I can't win?" I demand.
"Exceedingly unlikely, but due to no fault of yours. It is an outrage they let an abomination like that compete."
I sigh.
"We've had this discussion, Daph. He's a wizard."
"The ability to use a wand does not make that creature a wizard."
"Creature is really harsh. His mother was human."
She glares at me.
"His father is a vampire. I've heard you complain about his superhuman speed. About how he seems to anticipate things before you've even completed the wand movements. That's an extrasensory ability unique to vampires, no matter how he pretends not to be one. He wins because he never gets hit, not because he's a great wizard. That wrist work is unnatural as well. If he can get off five spells to your three just because of what he is, then he ought to be banned. It's cheating, Harry."
"An inbuilt advantage," I concede. "But so what? No one complained when they let Flitwick in."
"Flitwick is part goblin. Those stubby legs of his are a disadvantage, if anything."
"Say that to the people he leapt circles around. Bloody impossible to hit an acrobatic target that's three-foot nothing, innit?"
"I'd have barred him too, just so you know. Filthy halfbreeds like that have no place in a sport this prestigious."
"There's the Daph we know and love," I agree amicably. "Couple o' days ago I was terrified, you know, because I thought Trace had finally reformed you. But this is fine, this is how I prefer it. We can always be racist together against the goblins."
"We'll always have that," she nods. Then she huffs. "But we're getting sidetracked, dolt. You need to go out with Tracey."
"You gonna come with?"
"No. I'll make notes for OWLs tonight, and I mean it this time. We'll fail if I don't. Besides, I am not needed— this is about the two of you, not me. There'll never be a better opportunity for you to get to know her."
"Get to know her?" I can't believe my ears. "Daph, I've known Trace half my life."
"Oh, really?" She raises an eyebrow. "What's her favourite dish, then?"
"Pumpkin pasties. Six teaspoons of sugar, else she finds them inedible."
"Hmph. Lucky guess. Favourite colour?"
"Green. Daph, she literally told us that the first time we met her."
"Favourite dress?"
"Sleeveless sundress with zebra stripes. The green one. She showed it off last summer."
"Favourite feature?" her confidence is starting to evaporate.
"Hair. Your questions are obvious, and what's more, they are stupid."
"Favourite quality?"
"Kindness—" I see her open her mouth in triumph; "—is what you want me to say, but it's her ability to laugh at herself, isn't it?"
"Favourite subject?"
"Transfiguration."
" . . . favourite place?"
"Urquhart Castle, Inverness."
"Even I didn't know that," Daph sputters. "How could you—"
"Seems like you need to spend more time with her," I mock. "Maybe you should be the one going out tonight, hmm?"
She falls silent. There's a metaphoric thundercloud hanging over her head.
"Do you want to ask 'favourite person' as well? Because it is me, of course." I offer Daph a winsome smile.
"Yes, go ahead and gloat," she grumbles, giving me the gimlet eye.
Then a slow smirk makes her features vulpine.
"Oh, but I bet you don't know this one."
"There's nothing about Trace I don't know," I boast.
"Indeed? What's her preferred romantic hangout?"
My brain short circuits.
"Um, movies?" I venture tentatively.
Daph's smirk takes on a very smug contour.
"You're taking me to the arcade?" Trace squeals. "Really? Oh my gosh, how did you guess?"
"I have my sources," I say mysteriously. We are in muggle clothes; we are tromping through the muggle side of Milan. My pride is still smarting from being one upped by Daph.
Tracey's eyes sparkle.
"Is this source blonde, classy, and about this tall?" She presses a finger against the top of my ear.
". . . maybe."
"Knew it. Daph's such a gossip."
"Pot calling the kettle black, no?"
"Guilty, guilty." She laughs it off and links her arm with mine.
"How does Daph even know this?" I wonder after a while.
"Took her along last summer, when mum and I were in London for a few days. Didn't think she'd remember tho'."
"She does not know what an arcade is, but she said bare knuckled brawling and miniature fighters. So it was either an arcade, or an underground fighting pit for Cornish pixies."
"We played Street Fighter II," Trace says.
"Must've been right up Daph's alley," I snort.
"She had trouble with the controls. Kept saying I was cheating every time I walloped her."
"It's just stiff wrists and clumsy fingers."
"And being a sore loser, ye. That's what I said too. She has pretty hands, y'know, but they've never seen a minute's hard work their entire life."
"Ah, yes. The incredibly hard work of playing Street Fighter II."
She punches my shoulder playfully.
"Don't bash it, ok? It's the best game ever."
"We'll find something better today," I promise. "And this time you'll have actual competition."
The side-eye she gives me is wry.
"I don't think so."
"How are you doing this?" I bellow, spittle flying from my mouth. I'm seconds away from looking like a rabies victim. "Merlin, Daph's a superb judge of character. I wronged that poor girl by doubting her. You're a dirty cheat, Trace. There's just no way . . ."
"Skill issue," Trace replies, eyes glued to the screen.
We're playing the newly released Mortal Kombat 3. I glare in disbelief as her Liu Kang brutalises my Sub Zero. I'd be tickled if this were the first time, or even the tenth; but I've been at it for three entire hours, played hundreds of rounds, spent god alone knows much muggle currency buying us coins; and each time it is I who am the recipient of the dreaded fatality. I'm not a gamer, I admit; and I've always preferred the magical world to the muggle one; but I like to think myself as a quick study.
I've not even come close to laying a glove on Trace.
Liu Kang flickers on the screen. Sub Zero disappears in a conflagration. There is only a disintegrating skeleton left.
"I win!" Trace chirps. "What's that make it, one forty-seven to nothing?"
"You don't have to sound so smug," I grumble, letting go of the controls and stepping away from the machine. A Potter knows when he is beaten. It'll be a cold day in Hell before you see any sort of sportsmanship from me over it, though.
"Now you know what it feels like when we duel," she rebuts, joining me. We exit the arcade.
"That's different."
"Uh huh."
"It is," I insist. "I fight clean, I win fair and square."
She giggles at the accusation. There's no heat in my words, just the world weariness of the resoundingly routed. She can tell I don't actually believe she used cheats. It's Trace—she's a sweetheart. She won't set aside her value system even if threatened with the heat death of the universe.
"I spend every penny of my pocket money on movies and games," she says proudly. "Sometimes there's an arcade open next to our place, but when there isn't, I go around town, looking. When I find one I stay till sundown. You're not beating me at this, Harry, it's the only thing I can do better than you and Daph."
"Don't sell yourself short." I'm still depressed over the trouncing I've been at the wrong end of, but I'm quick to defend her honour. "You're better than us at runes."
"You and Daph don't even take runes."
"Yes, but you are better. It counts. There's divination too, you're a fair hand at that."
This time she cackles.
"Oh, yes. Yes, I am. Show me your palm, lemme give you a reading."
I stick my hand under her nose.
"Lend me your wisdom, o wise one," I intone solemnly.
She grabs it and brings it to eye level. She's having trouble stifling her giggles. You could fall in love with the sound of her laughter.
She traces a finger over the lines. The finger goes slower and slower, till she adds a thumb and rubs delicately.
"You started snorting coke at seven," she decides, after intense scrutiny.
"Eight."
"Huffing helium at eight, then."
"Nine."
"You're thrice divorced."
"Twice. Third marriage's on the rocks. Daph and I are fighting over custody."
"You run a drug cartel in Siberia."
"Cyprus, but close enough."
"Sometime in the future you'll change your name to Hardwin."
"Hadrian. But I'm considering it, yes."
"It's also written here— oh dear, oh dear! There's great misfortune threatening you, Harry Potter! But for the token fee of five galleons I can help you avoid it. I accept cash or credit."
"Is this really how you got an O in divination?" I enquire.
"That's the gist," she agrees, letting go. "Trelawney tells me I'm a prophetess, whatever that means."
"Eloquent at spouting bollocks, I'd presume."
"Oh, absolutely. You should see the stories I write in my dream diary." She sighs in contentment and sways back and forth.
"Share a few."
"There was that one time I wrote about kissing you."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Mm hmm. I was sorta in a hurry due to not having written anything, and I had, like, thirty mins to make some gibberish up, so I went with that."
"Most upsetting."
"You were a talking head without a body in that dream."
"Is that supposed to make it sound better?"
"When I kissed you, you consumed me and became whole. You ate me like a communion wafer. Gobbled me up like a blueberry muffin. There was nothing left. One could say, I disappeared without a trace."
There are two kinds of people: the classy folk who understand puns to be an assault on our national heritage, and the disgusting degenerates who are pun lovers.
I am a pun lover. I chuckle appreciatively at her attempt.
"You're a weird girl, Trace," I say.
"See, that's what I thought too," she nods. "And I thought for sure Trelawney would fail me. But she called me aside after class. She was in tears. She gave me an O."
"What for?"
"I'd witnessed the metaphoric devourment she herself once suffered at the hands of a cruel man she loved, she told me. I was warned to avoid the carnivorous and predatory instincts of all men."
"Yes, my lamb. You must avoid us at all costs. But hang on a minute, run that back. The man she once loved?"
"Snape, apparently."
"Snape? As in, Severus Snape? That Snape? Our Snape?"
"Yeah. She asked me to weigh in on how dark and broody he looks."
"Due to perpetual constipation, I'd wager."
"Mysterious, is what Trelawney said. Very intense. Like Snape wants to stick something in you."
"He does. It's a knife. He's a serial killer."
"You don't know the woes of a broken heart, Harry," Trace says, shaking her head. Her eyes shine with merriment.
I would've preferred to avoid an Asian opponent.
But let's backtrack a little. The wizarding community, as you well know, is culturally rich and diverse. Fourteen schools situated across the world; hundreds of cultures and subcultures, each of which, over the course of history, have dabbled in spell creation. Some of these civilizations date back thousands of years; and in that sense, the system of Latin and Latin inspired romance languages we use is relatively recent. I make no claims about it being the most effective, but it is certainly the most convenient and widely taught. You will find a great degree of homogeneity in the spells and wand movements used across Europe, The United States and the Latin Americas.
This makes it easier to prepare for opponents from these regions.
Asia and Africa are where it gets muddled. Africans, to this day, use staffs, not wands. This makes them less of a threat at duelling. Make no mistake, their culture is more ancient than ours, and they are light years ahead at rituals and runic magic; but the staff is cumbersome to use as a foci. Its unwieldy nature makes it a chore to lug around, and anytime you require speed or reflexes it is a complete failure. The African magical community persists with the staff, however, because they are culturally attached to it, and because it can be augmented with supplementary runes to give the exact same effects and outcomes as a wand.
Despite its several disadvantages, a staff does have some advantages over a wand. Since the emphasis for staffs is on runic arrays and wood quality, one may argue that it allows the maker to use an inferior core, or sometimes even forgo a recognised core altogether. You don't have to chase after phoenixes or unicorns: pick an archaic tree, cut and shape a six-foot branch, supplement it with the right runes, add a pint of your own blood; and presto, you have a foci of about the same standard as a mismatched wand. This makes them inexpensive and easier to craft. If your staff is destroyed, and you have an in depth understanding of African runic magic (most Africans do), you could make yourself a new one — if your wand is destroyed, and if the wandmakers in your proximity are out of commission, then good luck sitting around and twiddling your thumbs.
Asia, on the other hand, uses wands. Where they differ from us is in the languages they use for incantations and what the wand movements signify. Their hovering charm, for example, is not a swish and a flick, and the incantation is not Wingardium Leviosa; depending on regional differences, the mnemonics for Russia, Japan, India and China all vary wildly.
I do not speak a lick of Sanskrit, Japanese, Russian or Mandarin. I do not understand it either. I have thoroughly researched Egypt, Sumeria, Eastern Europe and parts of the Latin Americas, and am well versed in some of the subsidiary non-Latin spells these regions use; I am currently in the process of ponderously poring over Mesopotamia; but when it comes to the current trends in South and Central Asia, I am completely clueless.
As a result, any duel against someone from these regions is guess work. There's no point in watching wand movements— if anything, I have to consciously unlearn everything I know, as the movements are misleading.
Hence my earlier dilemma.
When I look at the brackets for the quarters, I discover that it consists of two Western Europeans (Lacroix, Potter), one Eastern European (Gregorovich), two Americans (Fischer, Grimsditch), one Latin American (Morales), and two Asians (Agarwal, Chang).
Except for me, every single one of those duellists is in the top ten. Lacroix, Grimsditch, Gregorovitch and Chang are all in the top five. The notable absentee is Shacklebolt, who was 4th, and whom I've eliminated.
I've been handed Chang.
I do not say this lightly, but I would have preferred Lacroix over Chang.
It has everything to do with personality. Outside the arena, Qiang Chang is a harmless eccentric. Once he steps into it, he turns into a depraved psychopath. He's third in the world and the most fearsome practitioner of the Dark arts I've ever fought. My round wise record against him isn't as one-sided as it was against Shacklebolt (3 wins, 2 draws, 5 defeats); but considering the torment he's put me through every time we've faced each other, I'd have preferred the losing streak.
His original surname wasn't Chang. He was an orphan brought up in China who received an invite from Mahoutokoro in Japan. After graduating the school as the best student in its history, he moved to Britain, where he married into the Chang family and took on his wife's surname. An uncommon practice, but not unheard of. The Changs, while not a part of the sacred twenty-eight, are wealthy in their own right, and migrated to Britain three generations ago.
Oddly enough, overcome by the spirit of patriotism, Mister Chang moved back to his homeland. He keeps in touch with his family via floo network. He teaches underprivileged children in his spare time, since China has no magic school; and it is China he represents on the duelling circuit. He's in his late forties. He is currently Director of Dark Arts research at the ICW. He has a daughter, Cho, who studies at Hogwarts, and whose acquaintance I was disappointed to make— she has not taken after her father and seems to prefer Quidditch to duelling.
Anyway, the dark arts. What makes his repertoire ironic is that Qiang Chang's role at the ICW entails research into the dangers of the dark arts. He's part of the panel which decides what spells to outlaw. There are few wizards on the planet who understand the dark arts better than Chang does. As a consequence, he is an advocate for their safe usage and a master at knowing just what he can get away with: what spells are barely legal, which ones can torture you within an inch of your life while causing the least amount of lasting damage. Add to that his Asian heritage, and the fact that the spell repertoire he uses at tournaments is exclusively Asian, and you can see the reasons behind my consternation. There are no tactical surprises I can spring on him, as three decades of working for the ICW has familiarised him with the Latin system of wand movements; whereas every single thing he could do would surprise me, no matter the amount of research I put into it during the three rest days I have.
What works to my advantage is that for a top ten duellist his body positioning is suboptimal. Also, ninety nine percent of his spells are dark arts oriented, so I don't have to prepare for anything else. His offensive technique is fucking terrifying, but his defensive technique is merely adequate. He has a tendency to stay flat footed. He has little instinct for self-preservation, which is what endears him to me, since I echo that sentiment. Regardless, it is hard to wrest the initiative from him— every minute of every round is a high stakes guessing game. If you dodge, and his spell is area effect, you lose; if you defend, and his spell is something that can break through your shield, you lose; if you block with conjurations instead of shields, it costs you your line of sight, and the last thing you want to do against this lunatic is lose your line of sight. If you swat— well, that's such a stupid idea that it's not even worth considering.
But then again, it is the quarter finals. There are no easy matchups out of this lot (I imagine every single one of them would have wanted me as their opponent, since on paper I'm the easiest draw). The only duellist on that list I'd have enjoyed facing is Alexandra Grimsditch, the current world number two, three-time world finalist and five-time national champion of the United States.
But look at me, talking into the void. Three rest days — three days to prepare. I will need every single minute of that preparation.
So time to go dissect the fifty odd fights of Chang I have in my pensieve, if only in the hope of reducing the spell damage I take.
Because if I want to win, then this one is going to hurt like a motherfucker.
Mine is the last quarter final. The papers tell me Grimsditch breezed past Morales, while Gregorovitch saw off Agarwal; but Lacroix versus Fischer was an all-time classic which went into a tie breaking sixth round after it ended 2-2. The (severely injured?) world champion held his nerve and eked out a win against an exhausted number six who had nothing left to give.
Frankly, I'd have loved to go investigate that injury. I'd also have loved to watch the others fight.
But I've been bogged down by analysis.
Not that it has helped. I am no closer to deciphering Chang than I was seventy-two hours ago.
I have, however, come up with a tentative plan for each round.
All quarter finals are in the evening, so it is seven by the time I stride into the arena. I greet the ref, I wave at the burgeoning crowd, then go over and exchange japes with the security personnel. There's a hint of tension, but this is nothing new: you fight thousands of rounds, the way I have, and you sort of grow desensitised to the glitz and glam of it all.
Chang arrives ten minutes before the duel. He's short, frail and balding; much like me, he too wears horn rimmed glasses. That's where the normality ends. Everything else about him is quirky. His nails are black. He's missing two fingers. There are anemic splotches discolouring his careworn visage. His teeth are yellow. His white robes are lined and speckled with dirt, and the cloak he wears on top looks like it's never been pressed before. His eyes carry the gleam of repressed madness. He's trembling with nervous tension, but he's five feet two inches of pure passion for the dark arts. The second he spots me he makes a beeline towards me and launches into garbled queries in pidgin English about the latest dark tomes I've read; he makes suggestions, offers critiques, and all in all is a benevolent goof.
We watch the stands fill up. I respect this man profoundly. Him and Grimsditch are the two people on the circuit I'm on excellent terms with. I pick his brain on the exigencies for international dark arts regulation, and am regaled with anecdote after anecdote about the grotesqueries he's seen over the last month from spells gone wrong.
"Very danger magic," he tells me. "But very beauty."
If you're wondering why his English is like that, I suppose it is because he does not care for the language. I know for a fact that he speaks flawless Latin, French, Russian and Afrikaans; but for some reason he seems to find this great language of ours long winded and defective. Yet instead of swallowing his pride and using a translation charm, he insists on talking to native speakers in their native language. When I asked about this, he said it was to make the other guy feel comfortable and at home. Translation charms, he told me, are unnatural; they're an insult to any well-travelled intellect.
I disagree, but I can appreciate the romanticism behind this approach.
"I doubt I'm going to feel much beauty for the next five rounds," I tell him wryly.
We share a chuckle over that.
"I not kill you, you kill yourself," he promises.
"I'd prefer to avoid dying if I can help it, sir."
"We see, we see."
"Got a Second today, Mr. Chang?"
"Bloody bastard run off with homeless man," he complains. "I sent patronus to ask, why are you gay?"
"Makes sense."
I have previously mentioned that Chang is eccentric. The most definitive proof of this is in his refusal to use a Second. He's never used one in a single tournament for over twenty-five years, and to this day no one knows why. Every time you ask him, he gives you a different answer. I have heard hair raising stuff, ranging from 'last Second stole lunch money' to 'last Second burnt down orphanage' to the even more sinister but possibly honest 'last Second slept with wife'. Personally, I think he's so coked up from dark arts use that he enjoys the sugar rush having no Second gives him— he likes living on the edge. Again, there are no rules that specify you must have a healer or a second: it's just a huge disadvantage to not have one, and you'd have to be a nutcase to forgo one as a top duellist.
At this moment, I am looking at such a nutcase.
The ref clamps down on our chumminess.
"Gentlemen, are you ready?"
We nod. We exchange a high five, then head to our respective positions.
"Begin!"
I am besieged right away. I have decided— and you may question my sanity for this— to hand Chang, the man who loves initiative, all the initiative in the world. I can hear his spells rifle across the arena; they crash into my defences and are snuffed out with crackles and bangs. The resultant flashes are reminiscent of hellfire and brimstone. I have no desire to find out what would happen if I got hit by that palpitating blood-beam I saw in my pensieve, or that zigzagging thunderbolt, so I have decided that losing my line of sight this round is a small sacrifice to make. In front of me I have conjured an interlinked rock front the size of a grotto. Anytime it is demolished, I throw up palladium maxima to shield from the debris and reinforce the rock front. Then I rebuild. The beauty of facing a dark sorcerer is that you don't have to worry about the wall of stone you've built in front of you suddenly turning into a crouching tiger or a storm of swords. His transfiguration is decent, but mine is magnitudes better, and he's not wresting control of my creations from me.
When the buzzer sounds, I have neither moved an inch nor thrown a spell. But I have not been hit either. The crowd makes its displeasure known through a chorus of boos when I trudge back to my bench.
To no one's surprise, the judges give Chang the round despite his inability to penetrate my defences. I am one nil down. I am tempted to complain about the unfairness of this, but it is in line with what I expected. The sun will rise in the west the day these people score defence higher than attack.
Now, onto my plan.
I am convinced that I am not beating this guy on the scorecard. His knowledge of the dark arts is too deep, and my inability to predict his spell choice too great a disadvantage. If I take him on in a fair fight, where I try going toe to toe with him for five rounds, not only will I get run over, but I will most likely leave this arena in a body bag.
No, what I'm going to do is go for a knockout.
But you have to time these things.
First, I remind myself not to panic.
Second, I forget the scorecard. Under no circumstances must I let its psychological pressure get to me. Nor should I let the time slipping through my fingers weigh me down. I could be losing four nil, and all I'd need, even at that point, is one good shot. His defences are far from stellar— if I can find the right moments to pressure him, he will crack. So I have twenty four minutes and fifty nine seconds to land a knockout blow. Twenty-ish, if I give Tracey five minutes. But I don't think I will give her a round. Partly because I don't want to lose out on the time, but mostly because I am worried about what someone with Chang's skillset might do to her.
I have earmarked specific points in this fight where I believe I can target him. The plan is to lull him into a false sense of security by cocooning for eight minutes. Then, in the final two of the second round, just when he believes he's in the ascendancy and in complete control, I go for the kill. It has to be perfectly executed— anything less, and I would be in serious trouble, since I intend to spend those two minutes throwing the kitchen sink at him. It is my belief that the shift in intensity will catch him flat footed and have him fall back on his substandard defences. Keep in mind, he believes himself to be two nil up, and when with two minutes left on the clock he sees that in jeopardy his first instinct would be to clam up and protect the lead, not attack and risk it. I know from experience that this psychological shift is incredibly hard to make, especially halfway through a round.
But if that does not work, then I intend to take Chang on in the third or the fourth round. I would have to go for broke, obviously— leaving it for the fifth might lead to desperation, even with my constant self-reminders to keep calm. Desperation always ends in stupid mistakes.
As an aside, when I read my name in the sports' sections, and when I hear analysts talk about me, the one thing that annoys me is that they all praise my attacking ability, but none of them does the same for defence. So let me set the record straight: my ability to defend is world class. Maybe a year ago it wasn't, but I've spent thousands of hours over the last twelve months drilling that specific aspect. You won't find ten people on the planet who are more creative with their usage of battle transfiguration in defensive situations, nor will you find ten who are as skilled at using their reflexes to evade incineration by a hair's breadth. Just because I usually do not defend, does not mean I cannot. It's also never helped my cause that by the time I resort to defending, I'm concussed or bleeding out or attempting to balance myself on a broken leg. So there's not much to do except survive. But when I'm not suffering from spell damage, there are few in the world who can defend with equal resilience.
Chang learns this in the second round. Where in the first he was still prudent, this time he comes out all guns blazing. He ups the ante. I am at the receiving end of a hailstorm of esoteric magic: I don't know what most of these spells do, but given the way my rockfront starts to reek, flake, smoke and blacken, I can only imagine this avalanche is not something you'd want to bury your face in.
He puts on a dazzling display for the audience. He fires off close to fifty spells in under a minute.
Nothing gets through.
Whenever he tries flanking me, I simply move in tandem with him, till we're doing a complicated waltz across the arena, all while maintaining the same distance. No matter what he tries, I don't let him get close. I don't even let him vary his angles of attack.
It is raining hisses and boos. Incidentally, it is also raining booze— out of the corner of my eye, I spot a drunken gentleman hurl his cup of firewhiskey at the barrier in disgust. This has been marketed as the most thrilling attacking matchup on the planet; instead, eight minutes have gone by and I've not thrown an offensive spell yet. This is not what the audience came to see.
It is time to give them what they want.
The scarred rockfront wrenches out of the ground and animates midair into a hulking five fingered hand. It opens wide and shoots forward. Using the distraction I sprint behind it. Of course, without my intervention to keep it reinforced, Chang blasts it to rubble.
He seems surprised to see me in its shadow.
For the glorious minute and a half that follows, I am convinced my strategy has worked. We're twenty yards from each other, and at this distance, given his lacklustre defensive ability, I pick him apart. Though he defends much better than I expect him to, I land at least four body blows. But try as I might, he's able to keep his face protected: if I land one shot on bare skin instead of dragonhide, this is over, and he knows it too.
That's when I make a mistake. Exhilarated at being so close to a knockout, I get greedy.
In retrospect, I should've taken my own fucking advice and stayed calm.
The round was mine. I should've taken the 1-1, then gone back and reset.
Instead, I push too hard— I risk a switch from curses to conjuration, despite knowing that the latter might be too slow at this range against a duellist this strong.
The split second's delay costs me everything.
Chang anticipates my idea and switches from defence to counterattack in one fluid sweep. Except for the unforgivables, the dark arts in Europe require three wand movements per spell at minimum— he's able to get off five spells with five flicks. At twenty yards, with my own cloak acting as an impediment, I stand no chance. I dodge the first three. They fly by, the first tickling my throat, the second kissing my hair, the third whispering past my ear; the fourth tags me in the gut and propels me ten feet off the ground. The fifth catches my shoulder padding mid ascent and, much to my disoriented disbelief, eats through the dragonhide with a venomous sizzle.
I summersault twice midair and land on that shoulder with a sickening splotch.
The arena lurches and discombobulates. Fades to black then bursts into colour again. The floodlights in the backdrop whiten my vision. There's a searing heat spreading through my left arm. Something gnaws at that shoulder — it is wet; it has a chitinous mouth and prehensile tongue. It stabs, it tears, it savours, it devours; in coruscating agony I wait for a death that does not come.
I do not know how long I remain splayed there, feeling my shoulder being supped on by whatever cannibalistic creature has nested in my bones. But at some point it dawns on me that the buzzer has sounded.
I hear a garbled gurgle. It is mine, I realise. Coherent thought returns to me. Sound rushes back into my ears, as does sensation across the rest of my body. I feel like I've been hit by a freight train.
"Chang 2 Potter 0."
The bitch of a thing about plans, I think, blood bubbling up in my mouth, is that none of them survives first contact with the enemy.
The atmosphere in our dugout is funerary. No one speaks. Trace does not even look at me. She fiddles with her gloves then pulls on her cloak. She stalks around, stretching every five steps. I hear her feverishly strategise under her breath— she's trying to work herself into the right frame of mind for the next round.
Daph's skin has taken on a sickly hue. She places a palm against my chest and gently guides me into my seat.
"Strip," she orders, rolling up her sleeve.
I'm too tired to argue. Whatever is rioting in my shoulder is now crunching through my ligaments, and the pain is no longer localised to that area alone. It seeps outwards into my chest— ripples through my ribs and seems minutes away from stopping my heart.
Whatever caught me in the gut, however, is even worse. At first it caused extreme fatigue, but now there's pain pretzeling my kidneys. My lungs rattle as I struggle for breath. I gasp, I heave. I choke. The blood gushing down my mouth turns into a crimson spout. There's blood leaking from my nostrils too. It feels like the final stages of multiple organ failure.
Of course, something this potent, obscure, fast acting and potentially fatal would be banned under the rules. What's more likely is that Chang has hijacked my pain receptors and tricked my brain.
But the bottom line remains the same. I'm a disjointed mess. I have ninety seconds, plus however long Trace survives for, to get my head back into the game. And I have to pray Daph can do something for me, because in this state I would not be fit to fight a squib, let alone one of the most dangerous dark sorcerers in the world.
With a shaking hand I peel my robes off. They're steeped in red. I've worn track pants underneath, so I'm not quite in the buff. Trace turns around to look at me, and from the way her mouth falls open I can tell it's really fucking bad. The way Daph turns a shade paler than Malfoy just cements my suspicions.
I draw a deep breath, then assess the damage myself.
It is carnage. In my gut, there's a smoking hole the size of a gunshot wound. And when I look at the shoulder, I see blackened bone sticking out like a twisted bouquet. Spreading through that arm is a throbbing pattern that resembles intertwined barbed wires. What's worse— I can tell, even at a glance, that the rotator cuff in my shoulder has been destroyed.
An ordinary wizard would be in hysterics by now. They'd be airlifting him to St. Mungo's in a straitjacket, thrashing and raving. I've seen people shut down in shock. I've seen them literally hallucinate. I've seen them beg their medics for the sweet release of death.
I'm too dumb for these finer sentiments. Whatever fiend made me forgot to install the survival mechanism that is fear. Instead, they gave me ungodly pain tolerance. For me, this is just a very shitty Wednesday. On a scale of one to ten, my current level of outrage compares to what you would feel when someone pips you to a preferred toilet stall.
"'Mon then, gurls, wass the plan?" I slur.
Trace blurs in and out of my eyeline.
"Holy hell, you're dying," she cries.
"Nawnsens, im invnshibile." I riffle around in Daph's handbag and fish out a water bottle. I gargle, rinse and spit. Generally Daph would be apoplectic about the bloodstains on her precious leather, but she seems to have more pressing concerns.
"You need to quit," she says, delicately prodding my tum with the tip of her wand and cycling through incantations I've never heard before.
" 's a'right, I'll walk it off."
The ref approaches us.
"Mister Potter, do you wish to continue?"
I attempt to stand.
The glare Daph gives me nixes that idea.
"We'll continue," Trace says. "I'll fight. How long do you need, Daph?"
Daph nibbles at her lip and drags a hand through her hair. She's close to tears.
"I don't know," she murmurs.
"At least five mins, then. Got it. Take care of him for me, a'right?"
My head lolls.
"Don't get hit, Trace," I warble.
"Don't worry about it." She winks at me, then goes to her starting position, head held high. I've never seen her look more determined or beautiful.
The buzzer sounds.
I try to watch, but Daph kneels in front of me and cuts off my line of sight. She does not look over her shoulder. I'm pinned down by the intensity of her gaze.
"This is not a spell I've seen before. What does it feel like?"
"Burns." My throat is parched. The pain has intensified. Despite this, all I want to do is curl up and go to sleep.
"Fatigue?"
"Mm."
She exhales incantations under her breath with great urgency. Now I catch a glimpse over her shoulder, and there's a frazzled scarlet blob dancing in the arena.
Spellfire splashes around Trace. She has been tagged once or twice already, I think, but they are glancing blows. She has relegated defence to the backburner and seems dead set on dodging everything. She is baiting Chang, almost daring him to cut the distance. He does not risk it— the hits he took from me last round have winded him, and he's already 2-0 up. Soon to be 3-0, at the rate this is going.
Daph draws my attention back to her.
"Pain?" She asks.
"Lots."
"Specific organs?"
"Kidneys, lungs."
"Nausea?"
"Lil' bit."
"Dizziness?"
"Uh huh."
"Hallucinations?"
"Don't think so."
"Stomach issues?"
"Other than the hole? Nah."
"Numbness?"
"Starting to set in."
"Sleepy?"
"Very."
Each time I respond, she tweaks the spells she's whispering.
"I don't know what he's done," she mutters, her wand doing a ballet. "St. Mungo's case, if I've ever seen one. There's some internal bleeding. No organ damage. Muscular oddities— some of them have gone slack. I've found a way to isolate the curses, but I can't counter them. My best guess is that one of these spells imitates the agony of basilisk venom whilst holding none of its properties—"
"Shoulder," I say.
"— while the other is causing the fatigue and the muscular oddities."
"Gut," I say.
"There isn't enough time to fix both," Daph says. "I can contain and suppress the symptoms for one of the two. Which one would you like me to work on?"
My shoulder, I suspect, is starting to resemble the last lumps of wood being gnawed through by termites.
"Gut," I mumble. "Need to move."
She does not question my rationale. Just gets to work immediately. Dark smoke exits the hole in my gut and follows her wand every time she probes and pulls away.
I look beyond her. Look at the clock, which says a minute and a half left in the round. Stare at Trace, who looks worse for wear. She is being harried. Her cloak is in tatters. Chang is not taking her seriously— he's let her keep her distance, yet the odd spell still finds its mark with the force of a sledgehammer. Thrice she's been tossed back, and thrice she's sprung back to her feet immediately. But this time, when the fourth connects, she's slow to recover. Fortunately, given the hundred yards separating them, his aim for the next spell is off and it is her cloak that takes the brunt of it. She still lets out an agonised cry that echoes through the arena.
The crowd is roaring. Goading Chang on. They want to see Tracey bleed. I consider calling it off, because despite the stellar work Daph is doing, I can tell she's not going to be able to leech off the effects in time. My body feels better, but better only insofar as not being ground to goop by a sugarcane crusher. There's no chance I'll be ready for the next round either. But I desist from the forfeit, less due to Tori's circumstances and more due to the sheer ferocity Trace is showing. There's little technique on display, but this is grit, heart and spirit personified. She fights like a cornered alley cat. I've seen her fall to pieces with less damage than this, but tonight she's come of age: it seems impossible to keep her down. With sixty seconds to go, and with Chang finally getting impatient and cutting the distance, she throws up her wand for the solar flare. When the light fades she's disappeared.
"Homenum revelio!" Chang intones.
The search comes back empty. He does three, four sweeps with it, going as far as to scan the barriers; but it's like Trace does not exist anymore.
The buzzer sounds.
Trace shimmers back into existence and trudges to our dugout. She had draped herself around the wards. This baffles us, because we both saw Chang do a thorough sweep of that area.
"How did you do that?" I demand.
She shows me her arm. She's carved five intersecting lines into her skin and burnt a circle at the centre. Her arm is charred. The array throbs and eats away at her like centipedes feasting.
"Christ, Trace!" I swear.
"Veldismagn," she whispers wearily, tears trickling down her chin. She slumps into her seat and shuts her eyelids. "Icelandic rune for health, safety and power. Had ten secs', so tweaked the array a 'lil to include concealment."
She's panting. She's drawn and haggard. Up close she resembles a toddler's chew toy. The tie that held her ponytail in place was lost mid duel, so now a chocolate curtain shrouds half her face. Clumps on the right have been burnt off. Soot stains her right cheek; there's a deep gash spanning her left. But the blood dripping from it is violet, not red.
Seeing the state Trace is in, Daph clicks her tongue and removes her wand from my gut.
"No, it's ok," Trace says. "Tend to him. The spells I've been hit with aren't as bad."
"How do you know that?" Daph fires back.
"The first was an overpowered bludgeoner and the second a banisher. It's only the third and fourth that were dark, and even those . . . I mean, my cheek stings, so it's some sort of mild toxin, I think. He's not casting anything high grade at all."
"I'll be the judge of that," Daph says. She prods Tracey's cheek with her wand. Trace hisses and rears.
She whacks Daph's wand away.
"You'll poke my eye out, you bitch. I said I'm ok! Stop wasting time and just work on Harry, will you?" she snaps.
Tempers fray. They're both high strung. This shows all the signs of devolving into a raucous back and forth.
I intervene to head it off.
"She's right," I mumble.
Daph rounds on me and places her hands on her hips.
"Oh, you're a medical expert now?"
"Think, Daph. She ate at least four shots. Even accounting for lessened intensity due to range, that's a fuck ton. If they were anywhere near the same level as the stuff you're treating me for, we'd be airlifting her to St. Mungo's right about now."
Her waspishness fades.
"Why would Chang show mercy?" She wonders.
"Misguided sense of chivalry," I venture.
"No." Tracey's words are clipped. Her breathing has steadied. "It's because I remind him of his daughter."
A blissful beat of quiet.
"You're not Asian enough," Daph says.
"Not pretty enough either," I add. "Not anymore."
"Really, guys?" Trace giggles, swiping at the wound on her cheek. "I'm fighting for my life in there and you gremlins still take the time to neg me?"
"You know you love us," I sigh. My organs don't hurt anymore— there's ice spreading through my innards.
"Sometimes I wonder why," she grumbles.
So there we sit, huddled together— battered and completely at sea; but even in the midst of this chaotic mess there's time for levity. I think laughter is what keeps us sane.
That, or it makes a compelling case for our collective insanity.
"Chang 3 Potter 0," the ref announces. "Duellists, starting positions please. If you cannot continue, say so now."
I totter back to my feet. There's lead in my limbs. I'd not last a minute in this state.
"Forfeit," Daph says. "It's not worth it."
I consider that alternative and find myself inclining towards it. Not due to myself, but due to the risk of Trace taking a beating. I open my mouth to say so to the ref—
"Don't you dare." Trace gets up and pushes me back. "Five more minutes. I can buy five more minutes. Fix what's wrong with him, Daph, then let him go all out in the last round. I trust you— both of you. We can still win this."
This is a horrible fucking idea. But once more there's this defiant glint in her eye . . . Trace is willing to go to war with the world if she has to. If I scupper this, she'd resent me for the rest of our lives, because I'd be telling her I don't believe in her.
And I do. Heaven knows why, but I trust her to see this through. And if you had seen her then, bleeding, favouring one foot, yet upright and intense like an avenging angel, you would too.
Daph seems to have reached the same conclusion, because it is she who makes my call for me.
"If that's what you want, then go for it," she sighs. "But Chang will make you suffer."
"Meh." Trace shrugs. "What's a lil' more pain?" She cups her hands into a heart sign, blows me a kiss, then substitutes her wrecked cloak for mine.
It is two sizes too big for her.
"See you guys on the other side," she chirps.
Three minutes into the fourth round, I start regretting our decision. I feel a lot better— Daph has dulled most of the curse's effects. There's tartaric fluid draining out of my gut in tandem with every swish of hers. My muscles have regained their strength. Though my shoulder is killing me, I can move the rest of my limbs unimpeded. Two more minutes of this, and I should be fit to come out flying.
The issue is, I'm not sure we have two more minutes.
Trace is getting massacred. The solar flare trick does not work again. This time Chang's ready for it— the second she lifts her wand he hooks her foot and ragdolls her. I have to endure watching her torpedo twice into the ground with concussive force before she's able to cut herself loose. But he's done enough— her ankle is broken and she's lost all semblance of mobility. This is in addition to the other sundry injuries she has accumulated due to fall damage.
I shoot to my feet but Daph pushes me down and keeps healing me. She's bloodless and tight-lipped; there are tears dotting her lashes but she refuses to let me interfere. And far from being crushed and dispirited, Trace grinds her teeth and digs in. She wobbles but carries on: she remains unbroken; she howls in defiance. She's surrounded by transfigured constructs and no less than six different shields. Her ankle can't support her weight, so she kneels and makes her last stand. Every time something breaks through, she does the best she can to reinforce the gaps; every time something clips her and sends her skittering, she laboriously sways back onto her knees and continues with her defensive reinforcement; every time something is aimed at her head, she ducks into my cloak and lets it absorb the damage. The clock counts down— ninety seconds, sixty, thirty, then ten; with five left an area wide banisher finally ends her resistance: she is hurled headfirst into the wards. She adjusts midair— lets go of her wand and sticks both her arms behind her neck. The crack that echoes through the arena is deafening— then silence.
My heart seizes.
Daph's done sealing the hole in my gut. She bites down on her knuckles to suppress her strangled sobs. She does not even bother examining her handiwork— she gets off her knees and sprints towards Trace.
I am not far behind. When we get there, Trace is unconscious. Her wrists are shattered, her fingers are crooked and bent at odd angles.
But what crushes us is the content smile playing on her lips.
Daph does not stick around. I conjure a stretcher for Trace— I wrap my cloak around her in a poor parody of a bridal cloak. Daph floats her out. They're headed for the medical ward on the third floor. It is just me now. Me, alone with the guilt and the self hate. But I can save those sentiments for a later date.
"Chang 4 Potter 0," the ref announces.
4-0 down. Five minutes for salvation. In desperate need of a miracle against the third best duellist on the planet.
But this is not about miracles.
That final image of Trace is engraved into my soul. It will haunt me till the day I die. Her hair splayed and burnt, her face mauled, the residue of half a dozen dark curses saturating her skin. If not for that impromptu adjustment midair, she would be leaving in a coffin. She's always been my guiding light, so full of warmth and passion . . . always my moral compass, my humanity . . . I would be lost without her . . . I love her with the burning intensity of a thousand suns . . . she looked so fragile then, so defenceless and near death . . . . . .
There's red mist descending over me. Blood thunders in my ears. I'm going to ruin the man who almost took her from me.
This time I intend to do what I should have done from the beginning— what prudence prevented, what cowardice classified as risk. No more. No more.
"Begin!"
I walk him down. It is madness, but I am well past the point of giving a toss about self-preservation.
See, the dirty little secret about Chang's brand of magic is that it is not arcane. Except for a few exceptions, dark magic rarely is. The spells spawn as blazes of light that can be swatted away if you have the reflexes for it. If you wish to try this though, you'd need to be a demented masochist with nothing to lose, since he can fire off spells far quicker than you can swat them. He can go at fifty a minute—having timed the speed of my wrist work, I can swat thirty. You can dodge the rest, but get hit once and it is curtains. Not even Lacroix would try something this barmy, and Lacroix is half vampire. His entire gimmick is that he overwhelms you with speed.
Dodging and swatting, therefore, are strategies best used in moderation, and as a last line of defence.
I embrace it. I've forsaken everything but my reflexes. I make my way towards him, step by step.
Straight away Chang discerns my intentions. I find myself submerged under a torrent of spellfire. A lesser man would have crumbled on the spot.
I am no lesser man. I am Harry Potter. And I have a score to settle.
I am in a flow-like state. A trance, if you will. I don't think, I don't feel— I perform. I duck and weave through the deluge on instinct alone; I pirouette through gaps that should not exist; I swat away his spells with whip-like cracks every time he attempts to box me in. Some of these have such power behind them that I can feel them hissing and crackling. They smash against the wards when deflected and leave them groaning. If I get the timing wrong I'm dead. The handle of my wand grows hot to touch. My arm bucks horribly with every contact. It's like driving my fist into a wall, over and over. Skin shreds. Bones rattle. My palm grows slick with blood. I have multiple hairline fractures across that arm. I don't let it deter me. I am determined to shatter this wall through sheer spirit alone.
For every step away from me that Chang takes, realising the peril he is in, I take two towards him. Sulphur and noxious odours wing the smoke surrounding us. The arena is a gashed and staked ruin. Hundred yards become seventy-five; seventy-five, fifty; fifty, twenty-five. Two minutes have passed, and he has brought to life a deluge of magic, the likes of which this arena has never seen before.
None of it has left a scratch on me.
His wandwork outdoes itself. Yet he gets nowhere. Now I am almost eyeball to eyeball with him— I can see his expression transform. Gone is the smug superiority. There's panic in his gestures, desperation contorting his countenance. He makes a concession. He switches to transfiguration. It is the only branch of magic that has the raw power to bring a maniacal march like this to a dead halt.
It is also the worst mistake he could've made. There's a reason no one except Grimsditch tries going toe to toe with me in transfiguration.
I howl with glee. It sounds like crystal cracking, like the demented baying of death itself. With a dismissive flick I wrest away his control over the malformed six-foot pterodactyl, perhaps conceived with the idea of hopping on and putting some distance between us. A futile effort. There's no safety for him within this enclosure.
"Lemme show you how to use that," I say softly.
With another flick the bone structure jerks and warps; gains density and swells outwards, till he's staring at a metal rhinoceros, its tusk excurved, a phosphorescent sword. Its eyes possess the malignant gleam of sentience. With a rumble it thunders towards him.
He scrambles back and stabs his wand downwards. It brings up a reinforcement of concrete. The rhino tears through this like tissue paper, but it buys Chang the second he needs to throw himself sideways and aim a spell at its flank. It sails through the chinks in metal, then detonates with a blinding bang. It drops the rhino. But his triumph comes at the cost of me bridging the distance between us.
It is now ten yards. I've taken a couple of potshots at him in the midst of the pandemonium, but he was cognizant enough to bat these away. He winces as he scampers onto his feet. He has jarred his knee during the fall.
This is not the range for fancy flicks or slow acting curses. It is standard fare, schoolboy stuff, the quickest spells we can cast at each other. Our hexes and curses collide midair, trailing smoke, fulminating into showers of sparks. For twenty seconds and nineteen spells we maintain this status quo. On the twentieth we hit each other at the same time.
My banisher catches his left collarbone and shatters it. He is sent spinning mid scream.
His bonebreaker catches me on the crook of my right elbow. With a crunching whump my arm flops uselessly and the wand slips from my fingers.
Pulsating pain lances through me. Rushes through every pore. My ears pop. My teeth chatter. My vision goes white. My body goes into shock. Yet I drag myself towards Chang, wand forgotten.
Twenty yards away, he is laboriously pulling himself back to his feet. He sees me coming. Through the tears and the muffled groans he raises an arm.
I must not let him get this spell off.
It is the only conscious thought beating against my brow. The entirety of my focus narrows into a luminous dot. I meet his eyes and project that dot into a legilimency probe.
It impales him.
Flashes. Spells. Sentiments. All too quick to analyse. Then he repels me. But it is enough. His eye is bleeding. I have thrown him off. I sprint the distance separating us.
He shuts his damaged eye, raises a trembling arm.
He takes aim.
He shoots.
He misses.
And then I am onto him.
The first thing I do is break his wand. The second I do is break his wrist. Then I trip him and we go down together in a tangle of limbs. He's screaming. Begging. I am insensate to his pleas.
I have one functional arm, and the shoulder on it is destroyed. No matter. I spin him around. I bend my arm. I elbow his head into position. Then crack it into the concrete with my knee. Once, twice, thrice, with debilitating force . . . then I'm sent flying back.
The ref stands between us. He is grim and white faced.
He checks on Chang, whose head is a ruined red blob. He signals to the medical staff, who rush on and get to work immediately.
The ref stalks away without saying a word.
My eyelids flutter. I rub them, stain them red by accident, then blink out the blood and take in my surroundings. I spot the clock. There are five seconds left on it. From the jeers raining down, I know the crowd wants nothing more than to see me disqualified. No, prosecuted. To them I've committed the cardinal sin of fighting like a muggle.
They can go suck on a fat one. There are no rules in place against what I've done. If Chang could not take out an unarmed opponent, then that's on him, not me.
"Chang 4 Potter 1." I can hear the disgust in the ref's voice. And when I look beyond him, I can see it lining the judges' gallery.
"Potter wins by knockout," the ref continues. "Harry Potter progresses to the semifinals."
I limp to my wand. I pocket it. I bare my teeth and raise an exhausted arm in celebration. When the jeers continue I cup my ear then show the crowd the middle finger.
Fatigue prevails. My vision fades. The ground rushes up to greet me.
Endnotes:
Regarding why Harry does not swat spells the first time he gets caught, it's because much like he uses tactical ideas against his opponents, they do the same against him. The first time around, his wrist is locked in an awkward position due to his attempts to conjure. To exploit this, Chang shoots three spells at head height to force the dodge. Harry can't get his wand up in time because, again, his wrist is stiff and too far away from his body; the shoulder flexion is not there either. Try it yourself if you don't believe me; extend your arm the furthest you can from your body, tighten the wrist and keep it at about chest height, then try making a swift slashing motion across to protect the face: there's little momentum in this and zero flexibility, so even if he had swatted one spell the other two would've caught him.
So Harry dodges. And when the dodge happens, the movement opens up a gap in the cloak, which is what the fourth spell goes through.
Whereas in the fifth round, if you noticed, Harry doesn't try throwing any spells at all till the distance is cut to ten yards. He leaves his wrist loose, relaxed and close to the body for the sole purpose of swatting spells. He doesn't even try counter attacking, because it'd leave him in the same horribly awkward situation he was in, in round 2.
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