Chapter Seven
There are times for valour. This is not one of them. My first instinct is to dive under the table. My second is to disillusion myself. My third is to blast a Harry-shaped hole in the wall and flee through it. My fourth is to transfigure Pettigrew into a wall and cower behind him. My fifth is to chew a cigar and mournfully strum at a guitar whilst steadfastly pretending to be Spanish. Hari Pottah? Qué? Lo siento, no hablo inglés.
Fortunately, good sense prevails. And by that, I mean Lockhart spots me before I can pull off any of the aforementioned tricks.
"Harry," he breathes. "Harry, Harry, Harry."
He flashes me a thousand-megawatt grin and marauds my way, dragging along the bimbo attached to his arm. His frilly turquoise robes flutter behind him.
"But this is fortuitous," he cries. "As I was saying to Emma here, you're just the lad I was hoping to see!"
My moment of fight or flight is gone. My head meets the table with a miserable thump.
"Daph," I groan, "if you've ever loved me, now's the time to slit my throat."
She does not respond. She's busy glaring at Lockhart. I am surprised by the loathing behind that glare. Lockhart spots it too, but mistakes her attempts to incinerate him for adoration.
"And here, Emma," he announces to the hanger on, "is another former student of mine. Miss, er, Ribbon Cutter, was it? Pruning shear? Lawn mower? No, dash it, that's not quite right." He squints at her with great intensity.
"Aha, Grassgrass!" he cries triumphantly. "Miss Hashish Grassgrass, is it not? Knew it had something to do with gardening."
Ignoring Daph's indignant sputtering, he turns to Emma.
"You see, darling? These penetrative eyes miss nothing; for behold, I am omniscient and have an eidetic memory!"
The woman coos, looking suitably starstruck.
"If you give me a bottle of manticore venom at this instant, I will kiss you on both cheeks then gladly guzzle it down," I mumble to Daph out of the corner of my mouth.
"Hang on," Pettigrew squeaks, "aren't you that Lockhart fellow?" His eyes gleam with hero worship. The spirit of James Potter, I can see, has quite clearly been exorcised.
"So I am," Lockhart beams, drawing himself to full height. He whips out a quill, pulls Pettigrew toward him, collar first, ignores the man's stuttering protestations, and dashes off a fashionable scrawl across his shirt front.
"For the wife and children," he says with a wink. "Now you can tell them you met me, and they'll have no trouble believing you." He lets go of Pettigrew, tucks his quill back, whips his wand out and summons two chairs across the room. He pulls one out for the woman, who titters and takes a seat; he himself sinks into the other.
"Get us your finest dishes, my man. Put it on my tab, money's no deterrent."
Pettigrew scurries off.
"Harry." Lockhart beams, turning to me. "Harry, Harry, Harry."
"What d'you want, Lockhart?"
"Why, to catch up with my second, of course. As I was just saying—"
"Your former second."
"Hair splitting." Lockhart makes finger guns at me. "But as I was saying to Emma, I always knew you'd make it to the big leagues. Why, I even said so to you, Harry, the last time we spoke."
"That's not how I remember it."
He ignores me.
"How could you not make it, when I've taught you everything you know? 'That lad was a sponge', I said to Emma here. 'Excellent work ethic, though obviously I held some things back and did not teach him everything I know.' Because what child could measure up to me? What man could? Not even Dumbledore could learn all the spells I've effortlessly mastered. I, Lockhart, as you well know—"
"Yeah, yeah. Order of Merlin third class, Honorary member of the Defence league, five-time witch weekly smile of the year—"
"It's seven now," Lockhart interrupts.
"Oh sod it all, it could be twenty-seven and it'd still be irrelevant. Lockhart, what in tarnation do you want?"
His smile fades.
"I don't care for your tone," he says slowly, wagging a finger in remonstration. "I would expect some gratitude—"
I clap my hands together and bow my head.
"I'm grateful, boss. You've done a lot for me. There. Happy? Now, the two of us know each other well, so let's abandon this song and dance. You sought me out. Point me spell, most likely. Wished to make it seem accidental, and on someone not used to your tricks it might even have worked. But I'm not stupid and you're not stupid. This is not about catching up, I've not heard a word from you for eighteen months. So, I ask again: what do you want, Lockhart?"
My tone's risen through my monologue. My wrist is positioned so I can flick my wand into it if I wish. I don't expect him to attack me, but when it comes to Lockhart you can never be too safe.
His smile this time is decidedly frosty.
"You've seen the draw?" He demands.
We are interrupted by Pettigrew hustling in. He's levitated a varied assortment of foods, all of which waft delectable aromas. He places the trays on the table and shuffles back. Neither Lockhart nor I touch it. The big breasted brunette sitting next to Lockhart, however, dives in and cuts free a slice of pizza.
"Yes," I say.
He leans back.
"How much do you want?" Lockhart asks.
I'd expected this. See, the thing with Lockhart is that he's smart about picking and choosing his prey. Most duellists keep dossiers on opposition technique— Lockhart keeps the same on their financial circumstances. Duelling, despite its glamour, is a cutthroat business. Those at the top make a killing. Those at the bottom are left behind, and therefore only treat it as a hobby. But those in the middle are stuck between a rock and a hard place— good enough to turn pro but not good enough for a steady source of income. You have to make at least the quarters of any competition to see a single dime. You have to be really bloody good to be hired as someone's tutor during the off season. And very few full-time occupations allow you time off to participate in a bunch of tournaments.
Meanwhile, dragonhide robes are expensive (twenty galleons at the lower end), and they are in tatters by the end of four or five tourneys, even with constant charms' application. Healers, similarly, cost a pretty penny, and some duellists opt to forego them altogether. Add to that the cost of trips to St. Mungo's, in the event of serious injuries, and you can see why someone outside the top twenty might be tempted by the offers Lockhart makes. You might make twenty galleons for reaching the quarters of a national level tournament— Lockhart, on the other hand, will most likely offer you five times that amount to throw the bout, so he can make it to the quarters in your stead.
"Leave. Now."
Daph is on her feet. Her eyes are blazing. She has whipped out her wand. The tip is pointed between Lockhart's eyes.
"Harry's principles are not for sale!" She thunders.
I'm touched. She's simultaneously right and wrong. I may be morally flexible, but I draw the line when it comes to duelling. I'm a romantic about this— there are few things in the world that would compel me to throw a bout.
Sadly, Tori's current circumstances just so happen to be an exception to the norm.
"Sit down, Daph."
The look she shoots me is heartbreaking.
"Harry, don't."
"Sit down," I repeat.
She slumps back into her seat. Stows her wand away and refuses to look at me.
Lockhart grins.
"Knew you'd see reason." He reaches for a plate and a fork.
"How much are you offering?" I ask.
The brunette's eyes are the size of bludgers. I suspect she's his second, and I also suspect she wasn't informed about this particular tendency of his.
"Prize money for a quarter final appearance is one hundred galleons," Lockhart says. "I'll quintuple it. Say, five hundred?"
I laugh in his face.
"Six?" He tries.
I continue chucking.
"Seven hundred," he says, getting annoyed. "That's more than you'd make for losing the final."
"Five thousand," I say. "Not a knut less. Oh, and you'll deposit seventy five percent of that into my account before the duel. I don't trust you to keep your word afterwards."
"Harry, Harry. Come now, that's an outrageous sum, we both know no one will pay that. What's more, I know you'll take the money— they all do in the end. You were a charity case when I took you in, you remain a charity case now. Your entire vault contains less than this watch here cost me. I just don't want to knock you around, given how close we were. Save yourself the embarrassment. Consider it my mercy. So, how about a thousand? Final offer."
I stand. I smile.
"Lockhart," I say, "I'm going to enjoy every second of plastering your innards across that arena."
We walk out of P&P's Confectionaries right afterwards— there was no question whatsoever of breaking bread with Lockhart. We hunt around, and this time we find ourselves a spick and span Italian restaurant. Mercifully, the proprietor here does not speak a lick of English. We prefer it that way.
"What you did back there," Daph says, stirring her soup, "was the most pigheaded thing I've ever seen you do."
"What, turning him down?"
She glares at me.
"You know what I'm talking about."
I sigh. I remove my glasses and rub my eyes.
"Enlighten me, Daph. What's the first unwritten rule we follow in Slytherin?"
Her lip quirks.
"That there are no friendships, only alliances— and that your utility is only measured in the value you bring? I think our dynamic renders that one obsolete."
I laugh and slip my glasses back on.
"Yeah, not that stupid shit. I meant the other one."
She slips a spoon into the broth, brings it to her lips, blows, then takes a dainty sip.
"There's no harm in listening to any offer, even if it's from an adversary. That one?"
"Yep."
"And you swear to me, hand on heart, that you would've only listened? That you would have not sold out our bout to that fraud, no matter what?"
"Everything's for sale. It's only ever a question of the right incentive."
"There will never be an incentive. Not for this. Your pride and your self-worth are non-negotiable. I will not let you ruin yourself to get Tori out of a situation my parents got her into."
I give her a lopsided grin.
"Ah, but self-respect hardly seems worth the hassle when the people you care about are on the chopping block. Lockhart didn't have the gold though, so it's all moot. Besides, it would be deeply hypocritical of you to lecture me on this, after the chat about Astoria we had a couple of hours ago."
"She's my sister," Daph points out. "We're tied together by blood, so she is my responsibility. Whereas you and Tracey— you're her friends, yes; she reveres you, yes; but you have to draw the line somewhere. If you'd taken money from Lockhart, and if it were to get out at some point, then not only would you be banned from the circuit, but your reputation would be in tatters as well. You'd be unemployable. You can't stick a price tag on that, Harry. You just can't."
"Not every family is tied together by blood. It's my reputation on the line—if I wish to gamble it away, then that's my cross to bear."
"You've built your life around duelling," she breathes, amazed, unable to understand. "You've broken your back to not be considered a low life. Now, after all these years, you're so close to reaching that goal. And you'd just . . . give it up? Just like that?"
"What's duelling?" I shrug. "No, really. What is it? A lick of talent, a rush of blood, a few flicks of the wand. All good." I pat my heart. "But this here, Daph, it craves more. It craves the happiness of the few people who've stuck with me through thick and thin. For their sake? For their happiness? For Tori's happiness? You're damn right I'd give up duelling without losing a single night's sleep over it."
"You're insane," she declares.
"I prefer to think of it as single minded," I say wryly.
"A proper nutcase. You ought to be in a straitjacket."
"Maybe," I concede. "Say, if they put me away in a looney bin someday, will you come visit?"
"Come visit?" She raises an eyebrow. "I'd break you out, no questions asked. No one's keeping you or Tracey locked in anywhere while I'm still alive."
"How do you go from calling me mad to pledging undying loyalty, all in under ten seconds?"
"Mm." Her eyes gleam. "Maybe that dash of madness is what I like about you."
I am overcome with emotion.
"For that declaration of intent, Daph," I say solemnly, "I name you chief minion."
"What's Tracey, then?"
"The chiefest of chief minions."
She slips some food into her mouth, then tilts her head sideways and considers me. She waits till she's finished chewing.
"What's going on between the two of you?" She asks.
I hesitate.
"What did Trace say?"
"What makes you think she said anything?"
"You're not breathing fire anymore, and you're yet to rip my head off."
Daph crosses her arms.
"She said she'd handle it. And when I pressed her yesterday, she said she'd had a productive conversation with you."
"There you go, then. You ought to take her word for it."
"I don't. Four years of sharing a dorm with her has taught me just how happy go lucky that girl pretends to be. You could stomp on her heart, hand her back the fragments, and she'd still be all smiles the next day, hiding away the sorrow behind that cheerful front."
"Merlin, Daph, I adore that girl. Do you think I'd stomp on her heart?"
"You've done a stellar job at it for four years."
I wince.
"Yeah, a'right, I walked into that one."
Her expression does not lighten. This feels like an auror interrogation.
"So?" She demands.
"So, what?"
"What did the two of you talk about?"
"Oh, a little bit of this and that."
Her expression hardens.
"Have you agreed to return her affections?"
"No. So if this is about your little crush—"
"Why not?"
"Why— what?"
She leans back in her chair. Her countenance is carved out of stone.
"We've known each other for almost five years, Harry. I'd like it if you told me the truth."
"You first," I retaliate. "Go on, then."
She wipes her mouth and sets down the napkin.
"About what?" She asks.
"Daph," I huff, "I'd need to be deaf, dumb, blind and touched in the head to not notice how you light up around Trace. So drop the pretense. I'll trade you a truth for a truth, but only if you go first."
She chews on her nails and stares at the ceiling. Through the redolent fragrances floating through the room, there wafts to my nose the scent of her perfume: a self-created blend of laurel, crushed violets, olive oil and acacia.
I'd expected her to stammer, blush, bluster, deflect or deny it; but despite the roseate flush, her expression remains contemplative. Nails sufficiently chewed on; she strokes her chin whilst staring at the ceiling. Then she looks at me, blinks owlishly, and nods.
"That's fair," she says. "All right, I'll start. What you're thinking . . . it can't happen. It just cannot. I— I'm fond of Tracey, I admit, more so than I ought to be . . . and it is for that reason I'd never willingly let her sully her name. The stigma she faces now— take it and multiply it tenfold, and you'd have some idea of what she'd face if . . . if she returned my . . . "
Daph looks away. Her fingers drum out a nervous staccato against the table.
"Huh." I scratch my neck. The note of surprise in my tone is genuine. "Not what I expected. Surprisingly noble, even if completely deluded."
"You're one to talk about delusions," she snaps back.
"Touché."
"What's your reason?" She asks.
"I'm a contrarian and a masochist."
"Harry."
I cross my arms. There's a stubborn set to my jaw.
"Tell me this tho', why are you so insistent on pushing us together?" I demand, bewildered. "Do you have a fetish for being humiliated or something? Kill the competition, girl, don't cheer it on. If you can't have her, then no one else ought to either."
Her nostrils flare.
"Stop joking around, you insensitive prick. I want what's best for you. Tracey worships the ground you walk on, and you'd die for her if you had to. It can't be me, I've made my peace with that, so . . . well, I think the two of you would be very happy together. And as long as she's with you, and as long as the three of us are close, I'm okay with that. But it has to be you, it can't be anyone else— I refuse to extend my social circle."
I grab a jug and pour milk into my cup. I add a generous dollop of sugar and coffee powder.
"I'm a contrivance to facilitate your reclusion, then," I say, stirring vigorously.
"Yes," Daph informs me, sipping her tea.
"And here I thought this was about the noblesse of uniting two star crossed lovers. Daphne Greengrass, you break my heart."
"You'll live," she says. "But you did not answer my question. A truth for a truth, remember?"
I deflate.
"Will you swear to never bring it up again if I answer this?"
She nods.
"Fine. I think you know the answer. You touched upon it yourself three nights ago."
She squints at me. Her brow scrunches.
"Surely you jest. Because she's a good friend— that is your answer?"
"Because I've been in three relationships— well, two; Turpin was one date, and I left such an impression on her that she stormed off crying and hasn't spoken to me since. But three, let's say, and none of them have ended well. So relationships, quite clearly, are not for me— they ruin everything. Now tell me, why would I want to expose the most important person in my life to that weaponised, radioactive toxicity?"
"You mean—"
"I adore Tracey. But much like you, I'd never act on that impulse."
There settles over us a troubled silence. I look around aimlessly— miniature fairies float in carved open pumpkin heads, rendering the room fulgent. At the counter set to my right, the proprietor lurks, polishing a glass. He reaches out with one hand and steadies an array of trays delicately poised atop a triskelion.
"You're making the biggest mistake of your life," Daph decides. "But if this is what you want . . ." She sighs. "I suppose I have no choice but to respect your decision."
It's my turn to blink.
"Didn't think you'd be that easily persuaded."
"I'm not. And if this starts to affect the two of your friendship—"
"It won't." I put my foot down immediately. "You know me, you know her; there's nothing that could drive a wedge between us—"
"Except courtship, apparently."
I rub the back of my head.
"Yeah . . ."
She knots her fingers together and leans in.
"May I counsel you?"
I am taken aback. There's something needlessly clipped and formal about her tone.
"Go ahead."
"You have this idyllic picture in your mind, of the two of you retaining your current dynamic well into the distant future, regardless of the presence of other people in your life. Harry, it does not work that way. If she finds someone— and she will; and if you find someone— and you will; then what you have for each other will die out. Your partners would not be understanding of this unusual relationship you share. Not in our community, at least."
"I had that with Bones," I admit.
"You'll have it with everyone. Or just about everyone. Listen— things will change with time. They always do, whether you want it or not. So your best chance, to preserve what you have, is to take a risk. Open your heart to her, accept hers in return, and . . . treasure each other for every moment you spend together, regardless of how it ends, because that. . . that is what I would've done."
In the fading sunlight, seeping in through the semicircular window she's facing, Daph looks melancholic. A wan smile plays around her lips. She reaches out and pats my hand.
"Don't waste what you have," she murmurs.
A heavy sigh escapes me.
"I can't promise anything, but I'll give it some thought after this tournament, all right?"
"Mm. Take your time. Just take into consideration what I said— and I promise I won't heckle you, no matter your final choice. Just be at peace with yourself."
"Right."
A minute's silence.
"Hey, Daph?"
"Hm?"
"If you change your mind on the entire Tracey confession thing, I'd be happy to help."
"Don't worry," she laughs. "I won't change my mind."
Endnotes:
1) I am assuming wizarding attitudes towards same sex relationships to be in line with the Victorian era. My reasoning, plot contrivance aside (and I admit it, this is a shameless plot contrivance), is that it these pureblood heirs and heiresses would be under massive pressure to produce offspring, if only to carry forward their already dying lineages. You can fill in the rest. That said, I imagine there are still such activities carried out in secret, even amongst couples who were forced together by their families.
If the afore mentioned change causes any sort of offence, my sincere apologies. It was not meant to give any. It's just that I've read the books multiple times and gone through bits and pieces of Pottermore (I avoid anything Rowling has to say as a matter of principle, since she flips flops about her own work whenever she feels like it), and LGBTQ issues are something that have been left open ended. We know, for instance, that the wizarding community doesn't discriminate based on skin colour, so it is quite possible that the attitude toward same sex relationships could be equally lax. But, as mentioned above, if you apply some logic to it, then this is unlikely to be the case, at least in pureblood circles.
2) I can't write eight thousand (or more) word chapters without reviews, ngl. They take thirty hours on average, sometimes closer to forty, and it's just soul destroying to see I've received 2-3 reviews for it. I'd not mind if I were getting only forty to fifty views per chapter, but the last one had almost seven hundred. Hence the shorter chapter. Unless it is practically impossible for me to split a chapter, these will be the norm from now: three thousand to six thousand words, not more. It's a length I'm more comfortable with, too.
3) I did not foresee just how long this arc would be. I thought I'd be done by this point. But as it stands, I'm halfway through it. I'm never writing a tournament again, even if it is developing the relationships between characters that's dragging down my plot.
Once again, if you have five minutes to spare, please leave a review. It is much appreciated.