Premonitions (II)

'What do you want?' demanded Tracey rudely, standing beside her mother and wearing a grumpy expression.

'Tracey!' Appalled, Amaryllis admonished her daughter with a soft clap on her shoulder, looking apologetic and embarrassed. 'I'm really sorry about this, Harry. It's just...' Her voice trailed off, and she looked around uncomfortably, casting her gaze on this machinery or that book, apparently hoping for help from the items of her household to explain the mindset of fifteen-year-old witches. 'Well, you know!' she said in a tone that clearly expected him to understand despite the rather meagre explanation. And he did – somewhat. 'Anyway, if you don't need anything, I suggest the both of you get going. I should've been at work ten minutes ago.'

'I'm sorry if my presence has caused you any inconvenience,' said Harry, inclining his head again ever so slightly.

'Oh, no! Don't be silly, Harry,' the woman returned, smiling warmly and waving her hand. 'Anyway, Tracey, I don't want to hear that you haven't been getting along with Harry. Do you hear me?'

'Yes, mum,' Tracey mumbled, nevertheless continuing to glare at Harry.

'Oh, for heaven's sake!' Kissing her daughter on her forehead and patting her on the back so that Tracey had to take a few stumbling steps towards Harry in order to regain her balance, Amaryllis Davis waved at the both of them once more. 'I'll be telling your father that you're at a friend's, should you choose to stay at Harry's for a while. It's good to have seen you, in any case, Harry.' Still fumbling with her jewellery with one hand, but managing to expertly don a chic grey mantle with the other, she waved one last time, beaming at the both of them.

Then, with a pop, she was gone, and silence began to stretch uncomfortably between the two Slytherins like a rubber band waiting to snap.

It took half a minute of tension for Tracey to finally click her tongue, collapsing into a seat by the fire. 'What do you want, Harry?' she asked again, though this time she seemed more resigned than angry.

'I need your help.'

'You need my help?' she repeated disbelievingly. 'Couldn't you have asked Daphne, Hermione, Leo or – I don't know – your precious Professor Rose?' Her mention of Aenor was not so much dripping as leaking acid, Harry noticed.

'No. But I can't discuss it with you here; the matter is a bit...sensitive.'

'Oho!' she exclaimed in false jubilation. 'Am I to learn how exactly you messed up, then? Sounds like an epic pile of dragon dung if you have to come begging for my help!'

Harry decided to forbear from giving the first reply that sprang to his mind. Tracey lacking enthusiasm wasn't exactly unexpected, and he really did need her help. Considering that the whole disaster was indisputably his fault, and that he was effectively holding the entirety of Britain as hostage – by accident, he continued to tell himself – he took a deep breath before, taking a leaf out of his grandfather's book, he answered calmly, 'Quite.'

Tracey's eyebrow twitched in annoyance, and she huffed at him, crossing her arms again. 'Will this take more than a few hours?' she demanded.

'If you manage to help me solve this mess by Yule, I'm prepared to address you as "Tracey the Great" for the rest of my life,' he promised gravely.

Despite herself, Tracey grunted a bit in amusement. 'Right, so I better pack a few things, huh?'

Harry nodded.

'Fine! Wait here, and don't you fiddle with the electronics!' she snapped at him like a mother might at her rugrat of a child, jumping up and rushing out of the room.

Harry rolled his eyes, leaning back in the seat, grabbing one of the magazines lying on the coffee table between the armchairs. As luck would have it, it was some Muggle magazine featuring a...person of incognisable gender with outrageous spiky hair and daring headlines such as 'The man who made Ecstasy!', 'Orgasm therapy' or 'Legal highs'¹.

Like a man hearing a ticking noise from within the envelope in his hand, Harry put the magazine carefully down again, deciding he'd suffered enough culture shock for the foreseeable future.

Tracey reappeared not long after that, dragging a black sports bag with the shadow image of a leaping cougar on it behind her. Seeing the wary look Harry gave the magazines on the table, she sniggered at him. 'Want to borrow some?'

'I'm good, thank you,' he replied hastily.

'Right, so where are we going again?'

'The mansion.'

'You're not going to ask me to work on my formal dancing, are you?' she asked suspiciously.

'No. I'm afraid dancing will be the least of our worries.'

'One upside already!'

With a sweeping gesture, Harry motioned for her to go first. 'Grandfather is receiving a foreign delegation. The study will be empty. After you,' he said politely.

'Right,' replied Tracey with a fearsome scoff. Still dragging her bag over the timber floorboards (and carelessly wrinkling a handwoven carpet in the process, making Harry wince a bit), she took a handful of Floo Powder from the polished bronze bowl and threw it into the fire with more gusto than strictly necessary. 'Wales, Black Mansion, master's study!'

Harry sighed, running his hand through his hair. Then, with one last revolted look at the magazines on the table, he followed the angry witch before she could come up with some idea about how to cause trouble for him.

Stepping out of the fireplace, Harry's heart tightened painfully as he beheld Tracey squealing and laughing, excitedly hugging Minnie, who seemed equally ecstatic to welcome and serve her, though it was somewhat hard to tell with Minnie being spun around like one might see parents do their children, the elf feebly stammering her protests all the while.

'W-will Mistress be staying with us?' asked Minnie eventually, looking flushed but happy.

'We'll see,' replied Tracey with a grin. 'Come on, help me get situated. There's bound to be a few dozen rooms empty, right?'

Minnie nodded happily, dragging Tracey along and towards the guest wing.

'Why don't y-' started Harry, only to be interrupted by the door nearly slamming into his face. 'Right,' he muttered to himself. 'Pleasure to be of assistance.'

~BLVoD~

'Please take a seat,' said Harry, gesturing towards the two leather armchairs that stood in the perfect centre of the otherwise empty chamber, an antique, cherry wood pedestal table with beautifully intricate carvings between them.

Tracey sat down with a derisive snort aimed at the furniture. 'Did you conjure those? They're not normally here, are they? And what are we doing in the duelling chamber, Harry? Do you want me to kick your ass?' she asked hopefully, fingering her wand.

'Er, no,' said Harry, trying to appease her by showing his empty hands. 'And my proficiency with Transfiguration is, as a matter of fact, just as advanced as McGonagall would have it.'

'Really?' she asked, looking at him sceptically.

'Really. Anyway, I need to...tell you a story.'

'You're joking,' she said, deadpan.

'I wish I were.'

And then, after serving both of them tea, Harry recounted the story of his last Yule break, mostly sticking to the truth, though he decided to gloss over some of the more...precarious talks he'd shared with Aenor. '...well, and that was when the ball started. You were there early, I seem to recall. Aenor left the very next day,' Harry concluded, taking a sip, but refusing to look at the witch next to him.

'Let me get this straight; you spent your entire last Yule break in this very chamber, scuffling with the teacher you totally have the hots for, enjoying romantic talks in her sole company in the fire-lit study by night? Oh, and you were totally alone the entire time?' she asked, aghast.

'I do not have the hots for her! Other than that, well, that's not how I would've phrased it, but more or less, yes,' said Harry, rubbing his eyes. He was getting a headache already.

But Tracey only snorted derisively again. 'Right,' she drawled, stretching the word as long as her breath could take it. 'And, I can't believe I'm saying this, you actually had the brilliant idea of using some untested, lethal spell on a sparring partner because you didn't want to lose?'

'If you put it like that, I guess it does sound a little...silly,' admitted Harry, his gaze riveted to his teacup.

'Silly,' repeated Tracey drily. 'That's not exactly the word I was looking for, but yes; you're Britain's biggest dumbass – congratulations! So? I suppose you didn't just want to brag about your conquest, did you?'

'What conquest?!' barked Harry, finally losing his cool. 'I told you everything that happened!' Taking his head in his hand again, he sighed. 'Look, I didn't invite you over to fight, alright? I really need your help.'

'Well, with what?' Tracey demanded. 'So far, the only constructive thing to come of you dragging me here is that I got to see Minnie in private!'

'Yes, I apologise but it's all rather complicated.' Seeing no better way to proceed, he stood up. 'Have a look at this.'

'What?' she asked, slowly getting up and eyeing him suspiciously.

Harry gestured for her to follow, walking towards the pillar in the corner of the room.

'What happened to the marble?' asked Tracey when they were near, noting all the cracks that were the result of Harry's pent-up frustration.

'Nevermind the marble, but...well...that,' he said, pointing towards his folly.

'Runes,' said Tracey, frowning as she hunkered down to have a closer look. 'And that's your handwriting,' she stated, not even asking. Carefully, her hands swept across the script before she retracted them with a hiss. 'They're still active. Submission, Foe – I can't make out the others thanks to your terrible scrawl. Is this some kind of...curse or something?'

'Close – it's a contract,' explained Harry, observing her closely.

'A contract,' she murmured. 'Well, I'm not an expert, but it looks to me you set it for all eternity. So what's the problem?'

Harry closed his eyes, trying to ignore the wound Tracey's casual words had ripped open. 'It's...not supposed to stay for all eternity.'

'Why?' she asked, narrowing her eyes again.

'It's, well, it's part of the spell I used to sic Lethifolds on Aenor during our first spar, as a matter of fact,' he said blandly, this time yielding to return eye contact.

Tracey just stared back, her warm, golden eyes completely unmoving. 'Let me take back what I said, Harry. You're the biggest dumbass history has ever seen.'

'Well,' said Harry, scratching his neck awkwardly. 'I can't say you're entirely wrong.'

'No, you can't. But why the bloody hell did you use permanent ink then?'

'I didn't intend to! I...was otherwise preoccupied; my knee was nearly chopped off, and there were a good dozen curses flying over my head!'

'Oh, I see! That must be what they call tough love! So those are your Lethifolds devouring every living thing in the Forbidden Forest?'

'Yes.'

'And they're – what – still trying to off Rose?'

'Yes.'

'Brilliant!' shouted Tracey, looking, for the first time since his appearance in her living room, extremely pleased. 'Let them!'

'Er, even if I were prepared to accept that – let's say I do, just for the sake of the argument – then what?'

Tracey stood up, sighing wistfully. 'I see your point. The possible decimation of the entirety of Scotland might be a tad too high a price to pay for getting rid of Rose.'

'I say!' exclaimed Harry, looking slightly concerned at Tracey's vitriol.

'Shame, really a damn shame. So you want me to help you get rid of your runes?'

'Well, that would be a good start, yes! The spell was never supposed to last this long, I don't know what went wrong! They should've vanished again as soon as the spell ran its course, so I hope they'll disappear again when we get rid of this.'

'I suppose it's worth a try. Where did you get that spell, anyway? That's not something I would like in any hands, to be honest.'

'I found it in-' began Harry.

'-the library!' finished Tracey exasperatedly. 'Figures! This is how the world will end, you mark my words; some bookish kid with bright ideas will see the world burn just because he thought the spell looked pretty and wanted to give it a try...'

~BLVoD~

'So, do you have any ideas yet?' asked Harry neutrally, doing his best to keep the hopefulness from his voice.

'No, I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you used the magical equivalent of an atomic bomb on Rose during a friendly training duel...'

'Well, she did launch a barrage of semi-lethal spells at me,' mumbled Harry in his own defence, though the words felt a bit hollow – even to him.

But that was, apparently, not what had been on Tracey's mind. '...and the vile wench still lives! What more does it take?!' she raged, glaring at Harry as if it had been his fault that he didn't manage to finish her off.

Harry sighed, shoving the confit de canard away.

'Is Master Harry wishing for something different?' asked Minnie, immediately taking a step forward and looking worried. 'Is the food not to Master's liking?'

'No,' said Harry softly. 'I just don't feel like eating. The duck is great, Minnie.'

'You really don't want her dead, do you?' asked Tracey, looking rather serious all of a sudden.

'No.'

'Did you hook up with her, then?' Harry was about to make a joke of it, when Tracey unexpectedly jumped up, her chair hitting the floor behind her. 'Don't you dare do this to me, Harry! I might not have the luxury of leaving you to this mess, but you can damn well expect my "motivation" to take a serious hit if you treat me the same you do everyone else! Oh, you and Arcturus are well beyond lying – no doubt. But do you honestly think I'm stupid?! Do you think I don't realise when you try to steer the conversation, make light of a subject or leave some bits out?! I'm not Hermione, and I'm damn well not Daphne!' she yelled angrily, flinging her napkin to the floor.

Harry wiped his mouth with his own napkin, his expression conscientiously blank.

'That's my condition!' continued Tracey in a raspy voice, scant of breath from her tirade. 'You're either completely open with me, or you can rescue the stupid world all by yourself – your pick!'

At a leisurely pace, Harry poured himself another cup of tea. 'Alright,' he said eventually, not looking up. 'But I think you're being unreasonable, digging into my pers-'

'Did something happen between you and Rose?!' Tracey demanded stone cold.

'No.'

'But you were flirting with her?!'

Harry didn't answer, instead choosing to stir his tea.

'Right,' snorted Tracey with a leer. 'How long since you've been more comfortable with women?'

'Again, I don't see how this is relevant, but a few weeks into last summer break.'

Reluctantly, Tracey picked up the chair and sat down again. 'Sorry,' she grunted without sounding sorry at all. 'But I had to be sure you were being serious for once.'

Meeting her eyes, Harry couldn't resist replying, 'That's rich, coming from you.'

Tracey did have the grace to look a bit abashed at that, but Harry didn't feel like continuing anyway; he wasn't sure how long his temper would hold under these circumstances. It didn't help that Aenor was a bit of an awkward topic for him – doubly so with Tracey. In all honesty, Harry had suspected Tracey's hate for their teacher to be part of her public persona, mostly because it would've been a reasonable trait to project, especially with Daphne around. Seeing her genuine hatred at display, Harry couldn't help but wonder if he was missing something. He needed time to think, and – more importantly – to not lose his cool with the only help he'd ever get.

'I suggest we go our separate ways for the rest of the day,' he proposed, neatly setting down his tea again. 'Tempers are running a bit too hot right now.'

Tracey didn't answer, poking around with her food, her head averted. He was already at the door when her voice reached out to him once more. 'What really happened between Prewett and Lucretia?'

Harry's hand gave an involuntary twitch, and he missed the door handle by an inch.

'Weren't they a love match?'

Slowly, regretfully, Harry looked over his shoulder. He nodded.

'So, he didn't really kill her, did he?'

He felt trapped by those big, golden eyes that shone through the blackness like floodlights. 'He did...'

His mouth felt as if he'd taken a bite out of the Sahara, but those eyes, those damnable angry golden eyes were still accusingly directed back at him, demanding nothing but plain truth at last. He felt strangely disarmed by the witch he'd come to think of as his direct antithesis. He, Harry, was someone whose first instinct was to use others, by deception or otherwise, and on a daily basis, even those he held dear. Wasn't Daphne the perfect example of that? And she, Tracey, was someone who hated doing what she was forced to do.

'...in self-defence...'

Tracey sat unnaturally still, like a doe listening intently, making a decision. Remembering who he was talking to, Harry desisted, letting one last sigh escape his lips as he turned the handle.

'...because Grandfather had commanded her to strike back at Prewett in retaliation for Regulus.'

'His own daughter?' she whispered, her voice quivering a bit, one hand raised in front of her mouth.

Harry took a step outside of the room, nodding to the darkness in front of him.

Back in the small dining chamber, surrounded by chandeliers and their wavering light, he could hear Tracey snarling, 'And you made me...You and your family make me sick, Black!'

~BLVoD~

Harry couldn't find any trace of his unwilling helper for the following two days. As it was, the mansion felt lonelier and more desolate than ever, its ancient galleries and halls uncomfortably wide and gaping with Cranky his only – albeit very occasional – company. Even the busy noises from down below that heralded the upcoming ball only served to make Harry feel more detached from the rest of the world. The notion that something as trivial as a ball could still exist seemed surreal to Harry, and the images of an evening of light-hearted frivolity turned his stomach.

He spent most of his time in the duelling chamber, to a point that slightly worried his elf. So what if he'd chosen to spend the night there!

Blankly, Harry stared at the script on the floor. It was so familiar to him by now that he could recall even the tiniest part of its texture flawlessly within his mind. The downside of this was that the runes now appeared more and more often during his nightmares. In a strange twist, Harry was glad for his erratic sleeping schedule. He had noticed that he still sometimes felt disproportionately sleepy, so forcing himself to stay awake had the added benefit of not suffering nightly torture at least.

The alchemical approach had been a road to nowhere, he finally had to admit, seeing as no potion he could procure nor simple aqua regia had proven to be of any help. He wasn't a potioneer by any stretch, though, so maybe he was overlooking something? There had to be a way to remove them physically...

A cold draft made Harry shiver, and he drew the cloak he was currently misusing as a blanket tightly around him.

Maybe I should try melting it off? thought Harry with chattering teeth. Damnable winter! Alchemical fire, perhaps? At least I'll have it warmer then.

For the third time this morning, Harry muttered the familiar spell to heat his clothes. He could, of course, at any time go and fetch some garment that had the charms weaved into its fabric, even the Muggle outfit he'd procured last autumn had them, but somehow, he couldn't tear himself away – somehow, he had the feeling that if he quit now, even for a second, the breakthrough would elude him forever.

Yawning, he continued to stare at the runes, and at the books, and the pages, the words, the letters, the ink...until sleep finally claimed its fugitive and prize.

'You're a moron, Harry.'

Two lights were dancing above him. Numbly, Harry reached out to catch them.

'Ow, stop that! Wake up already!'

A bit of clarity finally flooded his consciousness, and Harry awkwardly sat up. His back hurt like hell, almost as if...he'd slept on cold marble or something. Opening his eyes for real this time, he noticed some sort of blanket in his lap.

Quizzically, he looked up at Tracey, who stood next to him. 'Blanket?' he mumbled, slow-witted.

'I don't suppose my mum will be very impressed with me should you freeze to death,' Tracey returned, rolling her eyes. 'Anyways, get up! I found something.'

'You have? Where?! I've been here the entire time, and I haven't seen you!'

'Well, why would you?' snapped Tracey irritably. 'You were here, and I wasn't in the mood to see – nevermind speak with – you. So I spent my time doing a bit of research in your library for a change, which is where I found this.' She held high an aged, yellowish booklet called Le Goût de la Rune.

'What's it say?' asked Harry, his voice rough and coarse.

'Are you sure you'll be able to understand my explanation yet?' she asked, raising her eyebrow at his squinted eyes.

'Yes,' he returned briskly.

Tracey shrugged. 'Well, the author proposes a method to overcome runic wards, still his work should be applicable here. His contemporary colleagues dismissed his ideas, going so far as ridiculing him publicly because serious wards could have as many arrays as your next novel, making it virtually impossible to cancel them out all at once. But that, luckily, won't be a problem here.'

'So?' asked Harry impatiently, rubbing his eyes.

'To make a long story short, you can negate each rune by writing their direct semantic counterpart on top of it. Trouble is, if you start or finish one layer of runes early or late, the whole thing might either blow up or change the array in some unpredictable way. Monsieur Gribouillis died when his house blew up a few months after publishing this, so we probably should be a bit careful.'

'But I wrote four lines!' protested Harry. 'How could I possibly write four lines of runes all at once and at the same speed?!'

'Well, firstly, you have me,' Tracey reminded him coldly. 'And then,' she held up both of her hands, 'we both have two hands, don't we?'

Harry stared at her, transfixed. 'You're joking!'

~BLVoD~

But as it turned out, Tracey hadn't been joking. Identifying which runes had to be written over Harry's contract was done quickly and efficiently, even with Harry's insistence on double and triple checking everything.

The real problem, it soon became clear, was something entirely different.

'Your left hand is lagging behind again, Harry!'

Harry clicked his tongue in annoyance, but refrained from snapping back.

'You're still behind!' Tracey reminded him with more than a hint of impatience.

'Well, I'm ever so sorry!' spat Harry heatedly, flinging his paintbrush away. 'I've never written with my left in my entire life! Not everyone is ambidextrous.'

Tracey cleared her throat awkwardly. 'Yes, well, sorry. Come on, let's try again!'

This had to have been the strangest sort of training Harry had ever had to endure – and that was saying something. For two days, he'd done nothing but draw the four runes Tracey had looked up, familiarising his left hand with the movements, and despite how easy that sounded, it was hell for Harry; while calligraphy wasn't at all necessary for writing runes, any obvious error you made with the symbols could result in spectacular and often dire consequences.

And now, since yesterday, they had started to practise writing all four runes in synchronisation.

It wasn't easy.

Their first few tries had ended in a highly embarrassing mess of tangled limbs when either Harry had lost balance or Tracey had outpaced him so much their arms had crossed. Even now, one day later, Tracey was still having trouble adjusting to Harry's speed, and Harry was doing all he could to just draw the runes without some error that could later result in what the Prophet would undoubtedly call the 'Cataclysm of Caerphilly'.

Harry closed his eyes and drew a few calming breaths. 'Okay.'

Tracey just nodded, entirely focused on the bit of parchment between them that was a perfect mimicry of the real runes a few feet away, thankfully without any magic involved.

His right hand started writing the familiar rune corresponding to 'resistance' almost at once and without thought, but still, Harry had to pay close attention to his left, doing his best not to mess up the rune for 'feud' like he'd done the last few rounds.

Tracey had volunteered to write the inner circles, and it would fall to her to adjust the speed of her writing to Harry (as she would otherwise finish too soon).

Half-way through, when their arms nearly crossed once more, Harry was – just for a second – distracted by the graceful and meticulous movements of Tracey's slender arms. Cautiously looking up, he saw her whole face calm, maybe even serene, as if she were one with the writing that flowed so effortlessly from her hands. She looked so at odds with her usual self – either usual self, Harry corrected himself – that he couldn't help marvelling at the scene.

Then, quite abruptly to Harry, Tracey looked up. 'Well, that could've gone better, but at least we managed to finish for the first time.'

'Er, what?' Harry asked, blinking.

'The runes?' said Tracey slowly, looking at him suspiciously. 'You know, the very runes we've been at for two days now?'

'Oh, er, yes, of course.'

'Then let's take a break. I wouldn't want to get in the way of your frolicsome family lessons with Bellatrix,' she said, her tranquil expression finally breaking into the sneer she'd shown Harry so often these past days.

'Listen, you don't need to-'

'Nope, I'm gonna stop you right there. I'll help you, and that'll be it.'

Harry sighed, getting up and stretching a bit. Tracey had turned around so that he couldn't see her face. Deciding that there was nothing he could do, Harry took a step towards the door.

But then one thought that had gone on a rampage within his mind finally managed to find his way to his lips. 'Why do you help me at all?' he asked, turning around to peek at the still kneeling Tracey. 'I know you detest being here.'

Tracey didn't move or speak. It was only when Harry, with one last sigh of regret, had already turned around that he heard her soft whispering, almost as if she didn't want him to hear, 'Because I feel like I need to...'

~BLVoD~

Harry kneeled down, his breathing ragged, weird and colourful lights dancing in front of his eyes.

'The spells can be a bit taxing, but your performance is just pathetic, Harry,' noted Bellatrix, who stood a few feet behind him in palpable disappointment. 'Get up and try again! Maybe you don't have enough power to kill them yet, but you should have enough control to cast the torture curse at the very least! Your spells might well be tickling hexes!

'You need to want it!' she hissed. 'You need to really, really mean it. Let it fill you, eat you, overcome you. Petty envy, greed, hatred, or fear – they're all equally good. Imagine something that ignites you with the passion to hurt, the desire to destroy. Potter Manor or anything else will do! Didn't you loathe those pathetic maids? Didn't you hate how they told you what to do day in and day out? Didn't you abhor their iron determination to bend you, to break you, to forge you into their tool? Immerse yourself in your rage, revel in the burning desire to inflict pain! I know you have it,' she said softly. 'We all have!

'And then, when the hate, the fear, the anger is too much to take, when you want nothing more than to wallow in their screams,' she whispered, eyes wide and pointing her wand. 'You simply let loose. Crucio!'

Suddenly, without any visual warning, the last remaining pup let out a gut-wrenching yelp, its legs twitching wildly, its head shaking. It clawed at its own body, blood flowing from its muzzle until Bellatrix eventually decided she'd made her point. With an almost bored expression, she fired a blue spell at the whining doggie. 'Filthy cur, stop biting your tongue,' she snarled angrily. Only one moment later, when she turned towards him, her face was as neutral and intense as it was any other day, her anger and frustration already a thing of the past. 'Your turn!'

Harry lifted his wand, his eyes on the whining puppy that clawed at the back of the cage with bloody paws. He stared hard, aware of the beat of his heart, until his thoughts eventually cleared up, until his immediate feelings were nothing more to him than a useless appendage to be discarded at his convenience. Then, closing his eyes, he thought back, remembering the hate he'd felt back then. The frustration, the fear, the wrath, the confusion...and the spiteful, dastardly thoughts he'd nurtured in the innermost part of himself to defy his captors, to feel the satisfaction of striking back. It had started as thoughts of revenge back then, revenge for his parents, revenge for his incarceration, revenge for being treated like a shiny jewel to be shown around, to inflict the same amount of confusion, fear and frustration upon those who misused his name, his parents, his life – but that had only been when the truly vile dreams had started...

With a cold look, Harry aimed his wand. 'Crucio!'

A red beam raced through the room, hitting the puppy on the back. It yowled timorously, but then it continued to claw at the iron cage with renewed vigour.

Bellatrix gave a shrug. 'Maybe you're just not cut out for it. Better stick to making Portkeys.'

'What do you expect from me,' spat Harry, gesticulating wildly, his mind still seething with indomitable rage. 'That I just brandish my wand and cry Imperio!?'

'That certainly would be a start,' retorted his aunt coolly. 'I suggest we lay off the Unforgivables for now and return to something you can actually manage...'

Cussing, Harry whirled around, kicking the door open and marching towards the stairs with a furious stride. Bellatrix, shrugging dispassionately, followed her nephew.

...and in the dark, the whelp, calmly resting on all fours, continued to stare expectantly at the arch both humans had just vanished through.

~BLVoD~

Harry's lessons with Bellatrix came to a halt after that. While his aunt tried to shame him into resuming his training, Harry – for once – put his foot down and told her he needed a break until summer vacation. His tutor wasn't happy, but facing her resolute and angry nephew, she decided to let it go for now.

Currently, Harry was pacing through the duelling chamber, waiting for Tracey, who was presumably being waited upon by Minnie. He circled around the chamber restlessly, his mind still boiling, his fingers twitching, his mind screaming, demanding for him t-

Control, Harry thought forcibly, coming to a halt in the middle of the room. Power of emotion is nothing without control. Emotions shall empower me, not direct me. Emotions shall yield to me, not dictate me. The essence of power is clarity. The power of clarity is mastery over myself. Power of emotion is nothing...

He kneeled, making a conscious effort to breathe deeply, falling back towards the very first lessons Arcturus and Regulus had ever given him. Steadily, he felt his respiration and his thoughts calming down, but Harry pushed deeper still. He let go of his flashing thoughts, let go of it all – even his concentration and focus on his breathing. His limbs felt heavy, cumbersome, his skin felt ticklish – just from the soft breeze of the winter wind that reached him through the open window. He felt it on his skin, could smell the snow in the air, hear the elves busying themselves down below, even the smooth silk of his robes on his skin...

Later, much later, Harry finally opened his eyes, bemoaning the loss that came with the awakening.

With a jolt, he noticed Tracey, who sat on her haunches, huddled in the cold, a few yards in front of him, her large eyes gazing into his. 'I didn't want to disturb you,' she mumbled, looking away.

'I apologise,' said Harry, still revelling in the afterglow, and thoroughly enjoying his newfound balance.

'Rough lesson?' asked Tracey, standing up and patting some dirt off her clothes.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Harry nodded slowly.

Tracey was, by the looks of it, about to give another snarky response, but her lips moved without any words forming until, with a look of surprise, she said, 'Oh! Do you want to take the rest of the day off?'

'No, I'm better now, thank you,' he replied, standing up once he felt his legs again. 'Let's have another go.'

~BLVoD~

Over the next couple of days, their rendition (or dance of fingers, as he'd jokingly called it once to Tracey's annoyance) steadily improved, with Harry making it a conscious effort to be as relaxed as possible, both while drawing the runes and with Tracey's occasional snappy comment. To his surprise, both seemed equally effective, as he learned that drawing with his left now went rather smoothly when he focused on emptying his mind and that Tracey seemed a bit flabbergasted whenever he'd made it a point to be polite and open towards her. Astonishingly, as long as he allowed Tracey to take the lead, she seemed quite capable to adjust herself to his pace, too.

'So, you prepared to call me Tracey the Great yet?' quipped Tracey, wiping her brow.

They had finally managed to both start and finish in sync two dozen times in a row, which had been their agreed upon goal before they'd dare to attempt the real thing.

'I'm prepared to keep my word, though I feel like that might take some explaining with Daphne.' To his complete and utter wonderment, Tracey gave an actual, bright, and – most astonishingly of all – genuine laugh.

'Wanna take a break and get something to eat? We should probably also let your grandfather know that this wing of the mansion might suddenly blow up, you know,' she said.

'Why though?' he said with a mischievous smirk. 'We've done it more than twenty times in a row; what's one last time?'

Tracey grinned approvingly. But when they stood up and walked over to the real and still very much active runes, Harry couldn't help but tense a bit, wiping a few strands of hair out of his eyes. Then, he kneeled, grabbing the brushes they'd prepared beforehand.

Tracey was looking back at him in question. After one last grim nod of determination as their cue, Harry and Tracey both lowered their brushes at exactly the same time.

It hadn't exactly been a joke, his earlier comment about the dance, reflected Harry as he winced a bit as all four writing utensils hit the runes, soaked in permanent ink of their own, and the dim light of the runes immediately flashed in an angry red. The patient, soft, yet daring strokes of his brushes, totally mirroring the movements of the witch opposite him in speed, really did feel like a dance, where precision, awareness, and trust were all necessary in equal measure to achieve any sort of successful performance.

As Harry and Tracey dipped their brushes for the first time in their four inkwells, the runes began to hum menacingly. Harry felt his throat go dry, but did not stop the movements that had become almost second nature by now.

Tracey was sweating, he noticed, but her graceful hands moved sure and steady nevertheless, her expression peaceful and calm, her breathing even and relaxed.

Not even half-way through, Harry's and Tracey's hands suddenly brushed against one another, but, strangely, their dance continued unimpeded. Harry, finally calming himself a bit, breathed deeply and relaxed as he gave in to their performance, releasing control at last...

...and only a few strokes after that, or so it seemed to Harry, it was all over.

'Well, that was easy,' said Tracey with an insufferably arrogant simper.

But Harry just chuckled, the brushes falling from both of his hands like swords after a long-fought battle. With a groan, he let himself fall back, closing his eyes. 'How long again until the runes should cancel each other out? They will cancel themselves out, won't they?' he asked urgently.

'They should! We didn't blow up, so that's good news already! Not sure, the text said something about a few hours at most.'

'Oh. Well, that's alright then.'

'Harry?'

'Hmm?' he replied, still enjoying the cool marble, eyes closed.

'I need to go home to fetch a few things. I didn't really expect to stay this long. Can we go over right now? It's still early so my dad won't be back yet.'

'But the floor is so nice and cold...' he mumbled drowsily.

'You can have a bit of ice-cream from the freezer,' moaned Tracey in a way that suggested she was making a heavy concession. After a bit of silence, she added, 'But I, you know, don't feel very...comfortable in Arcturus' study...'

Harry's eyes suddenly sprang open, and he felt wide awake. Tracey was busying herself with the brushes, conscientiously packing both them and the ink into the box Aunt Narcissa had given him last year.

Did she really just say that?

'Yeah, alright,' he answered casually, still staring at her back.

'Okay, then,' she returned lightly.

Harry eventually got up, helping Tracey pack the rest of the mess they'd strewn all across the room this last week. They made a bit of light talk on their way to the guest wing, though Harry still kept a very close eye on her. But Tracey seemed just the same as ever.

With amusement, he noticed that Tracey had chosen the principal guest wing, which offered, in addition to all the other accommodations of luxury, three very generous bedrooms (though you had to open at least five doors to find the first). They usually reserved it for visiting dignitaries.

'Aiming high, are we?' he said with a bit of a grin.

'I'll grow into it, you know!' returned his petite companion, sticking out her tongue and vanishing behind the door, where the noises of very hectic packing could soon be heard.

It took her only a few minutes, though by the sounds of it she made a mess of at least four rooms in the meantime, but Tracey soon emerged with her gym bag slung over her shoulder.

'Ready!' she declared proudly.

The study was – unsurprisingly – empty, but now that Harry was paying careful attention, he noticed Tracey still looked rather relieved about that. Through the fire they went, arriving once again at the point where their collaboration had so unharmoniously started, just one week ago. For some reason, it felt a bit different to Harry this time around.

Shoving Harry in the general direction of the sofa, Tracey vanished through the door.

Once more, Harry's gaze fell on the magazines on the table.

'The house is, you know, warded against the Ministry's Underage Charm, isn't it?' he called in a loud voice.

'Of course, it is!' yelled Tracey from somewhere down the corridor. 'Mum did it when I was two, though Dad still doesn't have a clue. Why?'

Harry, with a wicked grin, whipped out his wand and levitated the magazines into the fireplace, where – mysteriously – a spontaneous fire consumed the whole stack in a blaze of purging glory.

'Nothing!' he shouted back in an innocent voice, smiling smugly at the pristinely clear and much improved table.

One moment later, Tracey arrived with two huge pints of Muggle ice-cream. With a wide grin, she tossed one at Harry from across half the room. He managed to catch it with both hands (it was huge!), though the same – sadly – couldn't be said about the spoon that hit him two seconds later.

Tracey laughed, jumping onto the couch and immediately tearing at the lid with an impatient, almost tormented look until the first spoon vanished in her mouth and she visibly slumped down, purring happily.

Harry still stared at the small bucket full of sugar in his hand.

'If you don't want it, I'll take it!' Tracey chipped in from the side in between two mouthfuls.

Hesitantly, Harry opened the pint and had a taste of the strange sweet that seemed to have some kind of cookies mixed in. Despite his misgivings, it really was rather good.

Tracey, in Harry's eyes finally revealing the true source of her demonic dexterity, offhandedly turned on the TV with her left, her right hand still shovelling industrial quantities of ice-cream into her mouth.

Is there such a thing as sugar poisoning?

Without really looking, Tracey flipped through the channels.

'Stop!' shouted Harry urgently, slowly putting down his spoon.

'Wha?!' Tracey managed to ask with anything but ladylike dignity. He hoped she knew better during the ball, at least.

'Isn't that London?' he said out loud, his eyes again glued to the scene on the screen.

It was London. A panicked, female reporter stood in front of a bank building, her long, glossy brown hair blowing worryingly horizontally in the wind and heavy snow drifts. All sorts of rubbish could be seen flying through the air behind the terrified woman, including a pram and a rather large, metallic trash can.

'I repeat, some kind of unforeseen storm has hit London city! Despite the locals enjoying a rather sunny day in the snow not one hour ago, we are currently detecting wind speeds of more than fifty miles per hour with a tendency to rise! We cannot say why th- AHH!' The woman gave a fearful shriek as a bicycle soared over her head, only to crash into the building behind her a moment later, glass falling like hail.

'Get the hell outta here!' someone yelled in the background.

The picture grew hectic, unsteady, until two pairs of running feet were all that could be seen.

Then, a blindingly bright flash of purple light, instantaneously followed by deep, abyssal rumbling. One last shriek – a spray of red snow – and the channel turned to static.

Harry jerked his head around to look towards his left, where Tracey's eyes were so wide they were in danger of falling out. In the silence, the sound of a spoon hitting the floor was all that could be heard.

¹ The provided titles were the genuine headlines and hooks of a magazine popular in the UK, December issue 1994, just in case you're wondering if people back then read the same drivel they do today. Yes, they did.

AN, Alternative title: Oops (II)

AN2: In case you haven't noticed; VoD actually stands for 'Vhy you really shouldn't mess with Dark Magic when you've got no clue what you're messing with'.