Chapter Ten
I need new duelling robes.
This ought to come as no surprise: my last set is in tatters. I briefly toy with the idea of enchanting a pair of standard robes and getting some utility out of that, but the idea is quickly discarded. Combat at this level is unforgiving— it would be embarrassing to kick the bucket due to skimping out on dragonhide.
So after breakfast, and after taking some time to reflect over the emotional conversation I've had with Daph, I badger her to accompany me in my quest across Mercato della libertà. For all her faults, she's always had a superb sense of fashion; and if I am to drop thirty or forty quid on robes, then I'd prefer them to be fashionable.
She is indecisive.
"Someone needs to be with Tracey," she murmurs.
"You heard the healers, Daph. Magically induced coma for a quicker recovery. Trace won't be up till tomorrow afternoon. Not being here won't make a difference."
She gnaws at her lip as she considers this.
I try to sweeten the deal.
"I'll get you something to eat afterwards."
"I'm not Tracey. I cannot be bribed with food."
"How 'bout a cone of ice-cream?"
Greed glints in her eyes. It is reluctantly suppressed. She affects nonchalance.
" . . . on the other hand, you would be totally lost without me, wouldn't you?"
"Oh yes, totally."
"And you certainly lack an artistic eye."
"Hear, hear. Took the words right out of my mouth."
"And you lack the technical understanding to spot a bargain when you see one."
"Your knowledge of magical markets is unsurpassed, my queen." I bow.
"If I choose to come, it has nothing to do with ice-cream, you understand?"
"Oh, never. You're incorruptible. Iron will, thy name is Daphne Greengrass."
"All right. Let's go."
She takes my arm and we drift down the corridor.
"Which ice-cream, by the way?" She asks casually.
"Chocolate sundae."
"Two scoops," she says immediately. "No, three, with vanilla in between."
"Deal."
I have faced down spells that would turn lesser men into a puddle of goo.
I have stared psychopaths in the eye and dispassionately said, not today, you lunatic.
I could confront a Hungarian Horntail, given the right incentive.
But this indignity right here surpasses them all.
These pin pricks are unendurable.
I wince as the lady measuring me stabs a tack into my wrist for the third time in ten seconds. I'm starting to think this is no accident. It is a deliberate act of sabotage.
"Did Grimsditch ask you to cripple me?" I demand.
The employee bursts into a salvo of fluent Italian, making vehement gestures with both hands. She is verbose. She is flowery. She offers to yerk herself with the same pin if it would satisfy my bloodlust. She's quite the thinker, this lovely girl; she believes in an eye for an eye. Like Hamlet, she seems seconds away from launching into a soliloquy to the effect of: why are we still here?
That implicit soliloquy haunts me. Knocks me down. Its flowery corona of white noise redounds in my skull. Beats against my brain like a drum. I am confronted by the unending void. I stroke my chin thoughtfully and stare into it. I philosophically ponder its implications. This poor girl's apologies seem to be full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Then she stabs me with a tack for the fourth time.
"No!" I howl, wrenching the tack from her grip and chucking it out of the store. "Not this one either. D'you not have something better?"
Daph is smirking. Her sadistic glee over this death by a thousand cuts is out of line. Here I am, suffering the worst fate known to man, and there she is, smirking and giggling menacingly like an incarnation of death. I am starting to regret bringing her along.
Pooled around my feet are several robes, ranging from midnight blue to burgundy. They all have their merits, but nothing feels right.
The employee flushes.
"Rest of what we have is higher priced," she whispers.
"Show us," Daph commands. She is extremely adept when it comes to spending every last knut of someone else's money.
The employee leaves to get this 'pricier' range of clothing.
"Take pity, mistress," I groan. "Harry is a poor elf. His heart is heavy, his purse is empty."
"What was it you said to me the other day, hm? Something about a one-time expense, I think. These robes ought to last you a long time, so I shall treat it the same way. I refuse to take risks with your health anymore. If I have to clean out my own savings for this, then so be it; but we're not leaving this shop until you are spell proof."
I am touched by her concern. I abandon the horrid sense of humour and decide to get serious.
I whip my wand out and level it at her.
"What have you done to Daphne Greengrass, skin-walker?" I cry, quivering.
"Ate her last morning, actually."
"Nah, shucks." I tuck my wand back in. "Really, Daph, I don't know how to react when you're so nice to me. I like it more when we're trading barbs; that's routine, that's what we do. But this entire day you've just been a unicorn. I can feel my worldview crumbling with each word that leaves your mouth."
"Don't get used to it."
Before I can respond, the woman returns with a new set of robes.
My pulse patters, my breathing quickens. Sea green with black trim; burnished like jade, the material sleek, form fitting and light . . . but that's not what catches my eye.
It's the pattern of scales on the inside when she flips it over.
Basilisk hide.
My fingers tremble as I stroke the scales. They ripple. They are smooth to touch. I lift the robe— it is weightless. The fibre feels like flowing water, like madeline melting. I can almost taste these robes. I bring them up to my nose and take a greedy sniff. I don't look like the brightest bulb in the shed as I do this, but I am insensate, lost in my own little world. This right here is a duellist's wet dream, and other than Grimsditch I've never seen anyone on the circuit wear it.
"How much?" I ask, knowing, even as I do, that it will be well beyond my budget.
"One hundred galleons," she says.
I caress the material. I consider the price. That is a lot cheaper than I'd expected it to be. The dragonhide I use costs thirty odd and lasts eight matches on average. This would have to last for about twenty-five for the price to be worth it.
It is unlikely but not impossible.
See, dragonhide resists spells. Basilisk hide very nearly nullifies it. An overpowered bone breaker with killing intent, when fired at dragonhide, would require the janitors to scrape your remains off the arena floor— whereas with Basilisk hide, your bones would shatter but you'd probably survive.
"Self-repairing," the employee adds.
That almost clinches it for me. I can get fifteen matches out of this, at least. It's too good an offer to pass up.
"How much Basilisk hide do you have in this?"
"A yard."
"What a load of bollocks. Market rate was one fifty a yard last year. Is this mixed? Or worse, fake?"
Daph takes it from me. The employee shoots me an injured look. The rapid hand gestures make a return.
"Signor, we would never! Everything in this store is one hundred percent original."
"It is original," Daph confirms, running a bunch of charms over it.
"Why the drop in price?" I ask.
"Big shipment from Britain this summer. Many yards."
Silence.
"Chamber of Secrets!" Daph and I exclaim at the same time.
"Basilisks grow up to thirty yards," I breathe.
"And the venom costs an arm and a leg," Daph rasps. Her eyes are the size of galleons.
"Holy shit, if that's the one they harvested, then Longbottom's rich."
"Think we could hold him hostage?" Daph asks wistfully. "Ransom him for half of what he's made?"
"Dumbledore will disapprove."
"You could take Dumbledore, Harry."
I puff my chest out.
" 'Course I could. For you, Daph, I'd beat up two old men, not one. Just send me the location of the other one. I'd prefer it to be a muggle."
"Excellent. After you kick the snot out of Dumbledore, we'll convict him for hate crimes against wizarding fashion. We'll shave his hair off, set his beard on fire, and lock him in a cellar."
"Throw away the key."
"Kidnap Longbottom."
"Stick a tack in him," I thunder. "No wait, stick four tacks in him, because I'm petty. Turn him into a life-sized voodoo doll."
"And when he succumbs to puncture wounds, we'll empty his vaults." Daph sighs in contentment.
This is why I keep Daph around. Her stratagems are flawless.
The employee clears her throat and puts an end to our diabolical machinations. Truly, the difficulty with hatching such brilliant schemes for larceny and world domination is the disapproval of random spectators.
"Signor, will you be taking the robes?"
"Yeah, pack 'em," I say. "I'll be back in a couple o' hours with the money."
My prize money for the tournament is already two fifty. I can collect it from the front desk on the second floor. This will put a dent in our finances short term, but long term I can only hope that it's worth it.
After being treated to chocolate sundae— she had six scoops, not three, the liar— Daph has given me the slip. She refuses to leave Tracey's bedside, so I make the journey to the arena alone. I go past the contraptions, get to the second floor, head to the accounts' office and pocket my winnings.
On the way out I run into Lacroix.
Unlike Grimsditch, who is flashy, and Chang, who is insane, Lacroix is conservative and utilitarian. He's in his early thirties. His hair is slicked back and silver. His robes are grey; his cloak, the same dull dishwater grey. They're both equally plain. But the man himself arrests your attention the second you spot him. At six feet four inches, he's almost a head taller than my five' ten. He's also forty kilos heavier and built like a brick shithouse. His skin is pale, his eyes intense, his looks are something straight out of a Hollywood poster. But despite this he's always been a private individual. You won't hear a murmur about affairs, wild habits, wealth thrown about and what not. In fact, he's too reserved— he does not have a designation other than pro duellist and his entire backstory is a mystery.
Except for one prominent visual cue, I suppose. He wears a crucifix around his neck. He clasps it and prays every time he steps into the arena. Despite being a wizard-vampire hybrid, he's deeply religious. I've always found this irony of a Christian vampire to be cosmically funny. It's the sort of stuff that makes one doubt holy water and its acidic effects.
Today there is a new addition on his person. He's hobbling along and supporting himself with a cane. Given his grimace, he seems to be in some pain.
"Monsieur Lacroix," I greet.
"Meester Potter." The note of surprise in his voice is genuine. He has a deep, reverberant voice. It's the sort of voice that could command armies if it so wished. He flashes me a tight smile. His incisors are abnormally sharp. "My pardons, I was not seeing you there."
I switch to French. His English is okay, but he's not particularly comfortable with the language. Whereas my gramps had big dreams: he intended to send me to Eton, then Oxford, if I did not make the cut as a wizard, so I happen to know quite a bit of English literature, and I can also speak French and Latin, both of which I was tutored in up to the age of ten.
This is what drew Delacour to me in the first place, I think. Amongst other English pigs, this French oinking Englishman was quite the novelty.
"Your leg," I say, pointing to the appendage. "Did you pick up that injury against Fischer?"
"No." He turns to face me. I see conflicting emotions flit across his face.
"You are British, no?" He asks eventually. This is half statement and half rhetorical question. While I'm by no means close to Lacroix, he's obsessive enough about duelling to know the nationalities of all his prior opponents by heart.
"Unfortunately," I admit, with a wry smile.
"Do you have five minutes? I wish to speak to someone from your territory about this, and Kingsley is— they tell me he's left for Britain already."
"What's it about?"
"Not here." He inclines his head towards the people around us, some of whom have stopped to stare.
"Cafeteria?" I ask.
"Sure."
He hobbles off, leading the way. I trail after him, wondering what this is about. I might've made him sound like my arch nemesis and my greatest fear, but in reality this man is little more than a stranger to me: we've fought twice, exchanged words a couple of times, and that's it. Of course, I don't particularly like him due to what he said about Trace, but I'm mature enough to recognise there was no ill will behind his statements. He just comes across as really blunt. Under the wrong circumstances, that can make you sound like a total bellend.
We find a table. He seems to struggle with walking, so I draw a chair out for him. Lacroix nods in appreciation and sinks into it.
"What's this about?" I ask again, taking a seat myself.
"Pleasantries first, before the grim business." He hands me the menu. "Please have something; it would be my pleasure to pay for it."
I wave him off.
"Just had ice cream with a friend," I say.
"Your Second?"
"My healer, actually. I'm surprised you'd bring up my Second though, given—"
"Ah, yes," he interrupts. "Monsieur Potter, I must apologise for that."
I am momentarily dumbfounded.
"Chang fight?" I prod.
"Yes." He nods. "I watched the entire thing yesterday, and while I maintain that you could find yourself a much better Second in terms of technical skill, the heart that that girl displayed is something I have rarely seen in my life. I was mistaken— you chose well."
Silence settles over us.
"Takes a big man to admit that," I grumble. "Especially when you could've just not brought it up at all. And I was rude to you at the time as well. I won't apologise, because I was defending a friend's honour . . . but yeah, let's put this behind us and start over. What d'you say?"
"Agreed." He smiles. "They updated the rankings. Did you take a look?"
"I just woke up from a coma this morning."
"You're seventh in the world now." He offers me a hand to shake. "Congratulations."
"Whoa." I shake the offered limb in a daze. I'd expected to break into the top ten come the end of this tournament, but a jump of seven places with two matches to go is quite the feat.
"Indeed. Now, onto less pleasant matters."
His smile fades.
"Monsieur Potter," he begins, "what do you know about this man, this dark lord, called Voldemort?"
He pronounces it Vohl-de-morr.
To be honest, when your mind's so fixated on duelling, it's not the sort of question you expect to be put to you. The mental switch is difficult to make. I get whiplash from my attempt.
"Huh?" I am currently sporting a deer caught in the headlights look.
"What are your feelings about him?" Lacroix probes.
"I— Monsieur Lacroix, this is very sudden . . ."
"You are not a supporter, are you?" There's a subtle shift in his visage. His nostrils flare. His mouth thins, his eyes harden.
"No, no, no." I shake my head vehemently. "I was just— it's not what I expected you to ask, that's all. I have no opinions on Voldemort, I don't think about him; I have no intention of walking in the footsteps of my father, if that's what you mean."
"Your father." His expression sours further. "I had forgotten about that. Maybe you are not the right person for this conversation, then."
"We just buried the hatchet." I say incredulously. "Are you trying to start shit again by implying I'm a Death Eater, just cuz' of my father? Because world champion or no, I'm not averse to breaking your nose if you disrespect me."
My face is flushed. My tone has risen.
This somehow is what convinces Lacroix.
He backs down.
"For the second time this morning, I find myself apologising to you," he sighs. "Forgive me, I did not think before speaking out. I myself know what it is like to be judged for parentage. In the heat of my anger, I overlooked it."
My nod is stiff. It makes it clear that this time there won't be swift forgiveness.
Perhaps in recognition of this, Lacroix does not speak again. He reaches for the leg of his trouser and rolls it up. He shows me the back of his right calf.
It is red, raw and darkening. An entire chunk has been chewed out. Clotted blood stains the open wound.
I gape at the sight, rage forgotten.
"The fuck . . ."
"I received that from a dying rival," Lacroix says. "This was after the round of sixteen, before the quarter final against Fischer."
I wrestle down my surprise.
"And I take it Lord Voldemort is somehow involved?"
"You would be correct in that assumption." He lets go of his trouser cuff and tucks his leg back in. "Tell me, Monsieur Potter, how much do you know about my life?"
"Very little."
"I shall restrict myself to the important parts. My mother died when I was seven, bequeathing me with this, and with my faith in our lord and saviour, Jesus Christ." He clutches the crucifix. Brings it to his lips and kisses it.
"I did not know at the time who my father was, since my mother always kept it a secret from me. But on her death he sent his subordinates, he took me in. He is Count Maximillian Lacroix, leader of a tribe of vampires housed in Marseilles."
"I've never heard you openly admit your vampire heritage before," I say.
"Because to do so would be misleading. I am tied to him by blood, and I recognise him as my father, but I am not a vampire. I am not undead; I do not thirst for blood. My mother's faith saved me."
His hand twitches. He almost reaches for the crucifix again. Decides against it at the last second.
"I have the best of both worlds," he admits. "I have a vampire's speed, its innate resistances and its nigh indestructible constitution. But sunlight does not hurt me, nor do I shy away from instruments of faith, vested in myth . . .
"However, the spell resistance I have is a double-edged sword. I resist all offensive magic, but healing spells are equally useless. Hence my current predicament."
"How long will that take to heal?'
"A few months. It has to heal the muggle way."
"Hm. How is all this related to Lord Voldemort?"
"Recently, the tribe I live amongst has grown restless. My father has had difficulties commanding the same respect he once did. He prefers the peace our current lifestyle brings; and while he has support in some sections, others believe he lacks ambition. They call him a human apologist; they condemn how he cherished my mother. I myself am only grudgingly accepted.
"Last month, this pissant, this dark lord of yours, sought to exploit this internal friction. He sent emissaries to our tribe. They lived amongst us, supped at our table, accepted our hospitality, then covertly inspired rebellion, in an attempt to overthrow my father. Their aim was to win the tribe over to Voldemort's cause.
"There was a coup d'état attempted last week. You will not find it in the papers, because when vampires fight they are subtle. But the clashes were no less bloody for it. It is how I received this wound. There were several deaths on either side, and while we have, for now, quashed any talk of joining this Dark Lord, and while those emissaries will never darken anyone's doorstep again, the Dark Lord himself still remains at large and continues his recruitment amongst other creature communities, unopposed."
Lacroix drums the table in agitation.
"The French Ministry said it was not in their jurisdiction, and when I got in touch with the British embassy, they nearly arrested me for spreading incendiary rumours. I do not know who else to turn to, but there is a great darkness threatening our world. I was hoping that by warning Kingsley Shacklebolt— or you, as it turns out— I could help forestall tragedy. Please take this information back with you to Britain; please communicate it to the requisite authorities."
Silence prevails.
"I could try telling Dumbledore," I venture eventually. "But you know what the British stance on Lord Voldemort is."
"My father does not have a good impression of Albus Dumbledore," Lacroix sighs. "Else I would have gotten in touch already. He has survived for three centuries, my father; he was there to see Dumbledore's behaviour during the war against Grindelwald. He calls Dumbledore the coward who almost lost that war, not the saviour who won it."
This is news to me. I have heard Dumbledore serenaded by many names, but this is the first time I'm hearing such a blasphemous take. To be sure, there are historians who feel he could've ended the war sooner than he did, but history in general has been very kind to Dumbledore.
"Monsieur Lacroix, I'm afraid there's no one else I can . . ."
"I understand. I just needed to get this off my chest. Please keep it in mind, that's all I ask. And if you feel it prudent to share this information with Albus Dumbledore, then do so. After all, some resistance is better than nothing."
We trade banalities after that. Before leaving, I am able to wheedle out a pensieve memory of Grimsditch versus Lacroix, from the Montpellier Open conducted a month and a half ago. That was a final— it ended 3-2 to Lacroix.
The standard practice, when asking for a spell or a memory, is to offer something in return. I ask him to take his pick from my repertoire in exchange, but he declines. Lacroix tells me that I've done him a massive favour by even listening to him. He once again reminds me to exercise personal discretion regarding the details he has shared. Then we both go our separate ways.
I buy the robes. I return to the hospital.
Daph and I sit around Tracey's bed while we have our lunch. Trace herself is still unconscious. I feel immense agony every time I look at her petite form. Her individuality has been effaced— all that persists is a ghastly whiteness. It breaks my heart to see her like this.
To distract myself from the sight, I decide to hold a conversation with Daph.
"About the robes," I begin, "I know the price tag prolly caused you concern—"
"It did not."
"— and that you're wondering if it was worth dipping into our savings this way—"
"I am not."
"—but I have a money-making scheme up my sleeve, Daph."
"You don't have to justify yourself to me, Harry."
I set aside my tray.
"Yeah, but I want to," I insist. "See, here's the plan: I was hoping I'd make at least the semis, and that my name would be plastered across every tabloid. I've accomplished both. Now I'm a known entity. When someone says Harry Potter, they all think 'world duelling semi-finalist'. So what I'm going to do next hols' is send letters to all pureblood families, in Britain and elsewhere, asking them if they need a duelling tutor for their kids."
"There can't be much money in that."
"I asked Grimsditch the going rates. For a top five duellist, it's three hundred galleons for two months of classes."
"Per student?"
"Yeah. Four hours a day. Six days a week. Onetime expense. For the super-rich, that price tag is pocket change. Obviously, it includes the promise that the tutor will polish a turd into a diamond." I tap my chest. "But I back myself to do that. I think if you let me get my hands on Crabbe and Goyle, and give me two months with those dunderheads, I'd turn even them into fearsome warriors worthy of respect."
"Unlikely."
"Yeah, fine," I concede. "Maybe that's a step too far. But really, Daph, there's money in this. Good money. We have about five sets of holidays before that contract is due. If I can average, like, six hundred per window, then it'd be a close-run thing. Hell, I have the benefit of being able to coach these students at Hogwarts, assuming someone British hires me. Personalised lessons throughout the year. That has to be a big selling point."
"Three thousand galleons through one-on-one teaching, though?"
"Sounds generous, I know; but I looked at the updated rankings list and I'm seventh in the world. Consider the top six. Lacroix and Shacklebolt don't teach at all; Chang teaches for free and accepts only poor children; Gregorovich is a potioneer in his spare time, Fischer a ward breaker. Both have apprentices, so they don't have the time for these sorts of classes. So that leaves me and Grimsditch. Alex only accepts students from the United States. There must be hundreds of rich wizarding families around the world. A lot of them must have young children. So we have a market where my skills are in high demand, but where the supply is either non-existent, or reliant on second rate duellists. When you take all that together, there's money to be made. Piles and piles of money."
I bang my fist on the table, swayed by the strength of my own argument.
"This tournament's been a lifesaver, Daph. If I'd gone out in the group phase, then that was it, that was curtains for any commercial ideas. But now our troubles are at an end. There's light at the end of this tunnel. I'll have to break my back for it, but I swear to you we'll buy that contract out, even if it's the last thing we do."
And I mean it as well. If I cannot fit enough students into my schedule, or if the demand is staggered, then I intend to take my OWLs and quit Hogwarts at the end of this school year. I can spend all of next year travelling around the world and canvassing extra students; I can make the requisite money that way if necessary. Obviously, I don't say this to Daphne— she'd be outraged at the thought of letting Astoria's circumstances interfere with my education.
But I can always give my NEWTs separately at the Ministry if I have to.
Daph herself seems inspired by my garbled rant.
"I will help," she declares. "I can enchant trinkets and sell their rights to companies. It won't bring in more than a hundred galleons over two years—"
"— but every little bit counts, yeah." I raise my hand for a high five. She does not understand the gesture. Her consequent stare is blank. I am left hanging.
I lament her lack of social skills and limply let my wrist drop back to my side.
"It's a good idea, Daph. I'll ask Grimsditch. See if she can put you in touch with some companies. I mean, some of the stuff you add— defensive enchantments on robes, for example— certainly has commercial value."
We swap ideas in that vein. We discuss them throughout the afternoon. For the first time we truly believe there's an alternative means to scrape together the funds, regardless of how the semi-final goes.
This does not mean that I abandon due diligence. Come evening, I sit down with the tape, so to speak— I place my pocket pensieve on the table and add in the memories I have of Grimsditch. Daph sits with me. She's not my preferred partner for match analysis, but since Trace is out of commission, she's as good a choice as any. The issue, of course, is that Daph lacks on field experience. As a result, the things she observes are going to be more in line with what a spectator sees than what an experienced duellist notes. But it's bloody lonely to sit through pensieve memories without someone to chit chat with, so I welcome the company.
First we sit through Grimsditch versus Chang from the Vermont Masters earlier this year. I tap the pensieve, and the contents are projected like a hologram. We watch stone faced for half an hour; we make the occasional note and exchange a comment or three. The final score is five nil to Grimsditch. And what sticks out to me is the sheer disrespect on display: she completely nullified Chang whilst simultaneously leaving him unharmed. For the first half of each round she would defend well; then at the end of each round she'd corner him, tie him up in knots, then let him go, just to prolong the fight.
Grimsditch v. Gregorovich from the July tournament in Baghdad yields similar results. It is quite clear to me that she has styled herself after Dumbledore. This might sound surprising to the uninitiated, given the lack of tape on Dumbeldore's fights, but if you look hard enough, and if you are crazed enough about duelling, then there are pensieve memories for some of his victories traded in the black market. I myself was able to secure a grainy copy of his duel against Vinda Rosier, circa 1943. This is half the reason I was so desperate to study under him: his ability to defang someone who, at the time, was the most fearsome dark sorceress in the world, is a feat that inspires nothing but reverence.
But I believe Grimsditch has gone a step further than I have. She has, through dubious channels and her family's influence, secured the Holy Grail: Dumbledore versus Grindelwald, 1945. The stylistic influences are thus a lot more pronounced, and extremely obvious, if you know what to look for— Grimsditch is not as good as Dumbledore, but there is the same effortless grace, the same stellar defensive technique, the same fondness for the esoteric, the same tendency to incapacitate without leaving a scratch. She considers bloodshed to be beneath her.
Finally we examine the memory I secured from Lacroix this morning. It's a duel on a completely different level. Where Grimsditch had looked almost bored against Chang and Gregorovich, it is clear here, from the wildfire crackling in her eyes, that she's fighting an opponent who causes her great discomfort. She has no answer for the terrifying speed of casting or his ability to keep switching angles of attack. He keeps her on her toes, he forces her to keep turning with him, he dances in and out of range till her pristine technique starts to erode and mistakes creep in. Yet she holds onto her composure. She resets after a bad round and keeps her nerve. She continues posing questions, and come the end of the fight she can rightly feel hard done by the result. For me that was neck and neck. It is fucking unbelievable just how good these two are.
I put my thoughts into words.
"She's quite a bit better than me."
"Don't be defeatist," Daph snaps.
"Nah, it's the truth. We've reached a stage where I'm out of my depth."
"Meaning?"
"Neither Grimsditch nor Lacroix have any weaknesses. Gregorovitch does, but there's no chance he's getting past Lacroix. Even injured, the champion is the champion for a reason."
"Hm. I agree on the half breed. But Madam Grimsditch, surely—"
"Did we watch the same shit, Daph? She has the best technique on the duelling circuit."
Daph raises an eyebrow.
"I thought that was you."
I grimace.
"Nah. I'd put myself in second place for technical ability. But Grimsditch's footwork is perfect, and her defensive technique . . . how much of her history d'you know anyway?"
"Most of what's out in the public domain."
"Then you prolly don't know this part. See, her family takes perfection very seriously, to the point of cruelty. They put a wand in her hand when she was four and had a former world champion train her for a decade. If she was subpar at any of her lessons they'd send her to bed without dinner. Never laid a finger on her, but sort of withheld affection, if you get what I mean."
"That's . . ." Daph sighs and looks away. "It's normal pureblood behaviour."
"Suffered through it yourself?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
I say nothing. I stand. I go around the table. I bend my knees and gather her into my arms. She's warm to touch. She presses her face against my shoulder. Her breath ghosts past my ear. We stay enclosed like that for a few seconds. Then I let go and return to my seat.
I clear my throat. I scratch my collarbone.
"Yeah, so. That's why Grimsditch is so dedicated to goofing about. It's her sticking the metaphoric middle finger to her family. She hates how they destroyed her childhood."
I grimace again.
"Alex is not serious half the time, but she's too bloody good at what she does anyway. If Lacroix did not have his speed gimmick, and if she were just a little more committed to the circuit, Alex would be champion, hands down. But she doesn't care— she comes to the tournament to see flashy shit."
"So, what, there's nothing at all you can use against her?"
My lips twitch.
"Well, she's loopy."
"In what way?"
"She once got blackout drunk, dressed up as Snow White, hired seven dwarves, and robbed a convenience store at gunpoint. Each dwarf was a different race, and from a different continent."
". . . Snow White?"
"Muggle fairy tale."
"Hm. And guns are those muggle pew-pew thingies?"
"Your knowledge of guns is surprisingly up to date."
"I saw them in a movie Tracey took me to," Daph boasts. "I can go undercover as a muggle if I want."
"Yes, I can quite clearly see that."
"But how does Madam Grimsditch possess this obscure know-how of pew-pews?" Daph asks conspiratorially, making gun signs with both hands. "She is pureblood, isn't she? I know the Grimsditches usually are, but—"
"Nah, you're right, she is. It's different across the pond, though. They're a little more . . . open-minded, shall we say? I'm sure she grew up on muggle references."
"Despite the strictness of her family?"
"Due to it. Probably force fed her muggle culture as well."
Silence follows. Daph notices that we're getting off topic.
"Do you really have no strategy against her?" She asks.
"Come match day, I always have some sort of a plan," I protest. "At this level you have to, even if the plan isn't very good."
"So what is it this time?"
"A plan that isn't very good," I laugh. "I'm going to see if I can use her personality against her, somehow."
Daph is insistent on keeping a candlelight vigil by Tracey's bedside. But given the state she is in, and given that she seems to have slept horribly for two days straight, I put my foot down. I argue that I do not need my healer teetering on the brink of hallucinations. This is enough to shelve her feeble objections.
It is midnight by the time we return to our hotel. Noctuid moths clunk against the streetlamps. Snow swirls against the purple sky. White rims the fire hydrant outside the entrance, bedecks a sprig of holly, turns this city of flickering lights into a ghost town.
Since Daph's lightly dressed and quivering, I take off my travelling cloak and wrap it around her.
We are morose by the time we enter our room. We've spent the day pretending to be jovial, but now that it's just us in the dark there's this suffocating silence. We feel Tracey's presence in every nook and cranny. It makes her absence all the more stark. Even now, with seventy-two hours having passed, the residual scent of her perfume wafts about the room. There's her hair clip next to the bedside lamp. There's a rumpled skirt carelessly tossed to the floor. There's a checked top missing its mistress. It overhangs a stand. A pair of stockings lie coiled around the bedposts. The novel she was reading is wedged between two pillows. We almost expect her to leap out from behind the curtains. We expect her boisterous laugh, and when it does not come we grow glum.
"Bed?" Daph asks quietly. There's desolation in her voice. It mirrors the sudden spurt of grief rioting in my heart.
"Yeah," I mumble. "No need to change."
We curl up and face opposite directions. It does not feel right. Five minutes elapse. Then ten. The clock on the mantelpiece heralds oblivion with its monotonous ticking.
"This is stupid," I say to the ceiling.
A muffled "mm hmm" from the other side greets my pronouncement.
"Wanna try big spoon little spoon?"
"What's that?"
"Side hug of sorts. Here, lemme show you."
The springs creak as we navigate this new idea. I end up the big spoon.
For the first five minutes it is uncomfortable. But as time ticks away, she relaxes and leans into me. We bask in each other's body heat.
Her scalp smells of rosewater and apricot. The honeyed tangle of her hair brushes against my nose. She still has not found the time to comb it. This saddens me— Daph has the most beautiful hair I've seen.
I thread my fingers through it. It reminds me of sunlight and spun gold. Of the fields of Asphodel. I unspool individual strands. I disentangle snarls and massage her scalp.
Daph hums in contentment and burrows herself deeper into my chest.
"My grandmother used to do this." It is a tired whisper.
"You've never mentioned her."
"Haven't I? Emillia Greengrass. Cottage by the sea. We'd visit every summer. I'd eat ice cream and watch the clouds. Trace the flap of gulls. Gather seashells. Write my name in the sand and watch the waves come and claim it. Claim me. And in that moment I was free: I was a mermaid— I'd follow the retreating sea, laughing. Warmth against my skin . . . wet sand between my toes . . . seawater up to my knees . . . the waves rising and falling in rhythm, matching the peace in my heart . . . the comfort in my heart. . .
"Come sunset, grandma would be at the porch. She'd sit in her wicker chair and beckon me over. She'd stroke my face. Kiss me on the forehead. Brush my hair, just so. She'd tell me such sweet lies. . . tell me I'm pretty. . . tell me my life has meaning . . . promise me everything's going to be okay. . . but it never was. It never was. And then she left me as well— they all do."
She's crying, I realise. Her voice breaks. Tears trickle down her cheeks. Her irises are sapphires flecked with pearls.
"She . . . died when I was seven. Hers is the only warmth I remember."
Sympathy blossoms in my heart. I turn her around, so we're facing each other.
"You have me now, Daph," I murmur. "And your grandma was right. You're pretty. The prettiest girl I know. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
And I kiss her forehead.
That ought to have been it. There ought to have been nothing more. I do not know when the shift happens— I do not know how this turns sensual. But soon her fingers are digging into the nape of my neck as I trail little kisses across her fluttering eyelids. I peck the bridge of her nose. I moisten the corners of her mouth.
Then I press my lips to hers.
We stay locked like that for a minute, flicking, nibbling, probing, wrestling. A string of saliva connects our tongues when we separate.
Her smile has the sweetness of Elysium.
I caress her hair. I press my face against the hollow of her throat. Drape my arms around her waist. Grasp her hips. Draw her in. Our legs intertwine. A thin layer of fabric is all that separates us.
It stays in place. We fall asleep like that.
Reason returns with the light of day. We untangle ourselves with undue haste.
We write it off as a mistake. We thank mother magic we did not compound it by rutting. We're mature about it— there are no raised voices or hurled objects. There's no aloofness either. There's awkwardness, but we quickly get over it. We acknowledge that we both felt something; we similarly acknowledge that it was just a moment of madness, brought about by grief and fatigue. Weakness of the flesh. Pubertal lust.
In another life, there might have been much delight in indulging that dumbly delirious sensation. In another life, that instant of weary repose might have been the start of something significant.
In another life, not this one.
My love for Trace endures. As does my wellspring of loyalty towards Daph. It's a dynamic we're all content with.
So in that mid-morning chill, nothing of value is lost; nothing but that little spark we mutually agree to stamp out— a spark that if left unchecked might yet have turned everything to ashes.
Endnotes:
The ice cream reference at the start is a nod to this heartwarming Haphne one-shot called 'Ice Cream'. It's rather popular. If you haven't read it yet, then I cannot recommend it highly enough.
If you have ten minutes to spare, please leave a review. A detailed one would be fantastic.
Cheers, and see you next time.