Chapter Nine

I wake to the scent of disinfected floors and crisp linen. I blink blearily, then sit up and take my surroundings in. I am in a spherical room. The walls, the floor and the ceiling are all white. There's sunlight leaking in through the varnished windows. Daph is drowsing on the chair next to my bed.

She looks sickly. Her countenance is pale. There are dark circles under her eyes. Her honey blonde hair, which she leaves loose, and which she's always kept pristine, is a windswept mess.

Sympathy throbs through my heart.

"Hey," I whisper.

Daph's a light sleeper. She wakes immediately.

It takes her a second to clear the cobwebs from her eyes. When she sees me awake her expression condenses into a relieved smile.

"Took you long enough," she murmurs.

"Where's Trace?"

"In the room at the other end of the corridor. Her injuries were worse than yours."

My pulse quickens.

"Is she—?"

"No, she's all right. No scarring, nothing permanent. She's not woken yet, but the healers say she will be fine. They said her tournament is over, though. It'll take her a week to recover."

I sag.

"S'pose that's the best we could've asked for, given the circumstances."

Daph nods, then pulls her chair closer. The smile has disappeared, but relief still thrums through her. Her shoulders tense. Her arm twitches. She seems at war with herself. Then she sighs in defeat and extends a hand. She takes mine and grasps it in hers.

"I'm glad you're awake."

I let her stroke my palm.

"Sorry if I worried you."

"I don't want to go through that again. You don't know how helpless I feel . . ."

Daph radiates vulnerability. There's a long pause. Then:

"Let's go home, Harry."

"What, after getting all this way?" I laugh.

She chews at the inside of her cheek. Her eyes are haunted.

"I know I've been harsh to you about duelling," she begins. "I've discouraged you at every turn. But it's because I'm scared. It's torture for me to sit there, match after match, not knowing if I'll have to watch you die in front of me. It's not worth it anymore, not if this is how it's going to be every time."

"Not even for Tori?"

"We'll find some other way."

"There isn't one." I bring over my other hand and place it atop hers. I give it a pat. "Calm down, Daph. It's just two more matches. I got this."

She says nothing for a while. Chews on her lip and watches me glumly.

"May I—" she begins.

She hesitates.

Goes quiet.

"Yes?" I prod.

"May I have a hug?" Daph mumbles, staring at her feet.

If my mouth falls open at this, then what of it? Daphne has never asked me for a hug before. Holy hell, it must've wrecked her psyche to sit still and wait for one of us to reawaken.

"Do you even have to ask?" I hold out my arms.

The hug is a lot tighter than I expect it to be. She cinches me in her arms. I can feel her tremble. She clings on for an entire minute, as if ensuring I won't turn into vapour. Then she lets go.

Leans back.

No words are exchanged. We avoid eye contact. She continues stroking my hand.

"How long was I out for?" I ask the ceiling.

"Two days."

I inhale sharply.

"When's my semifinal?"

"It was supposed to be today."

"Today?" The rest of her words don't register. I throw off my blankets in blind panic. "Daph, where's my . . .?"

"Relax." She pushes me back down. "I said it was supposed to be, not that it is. Grimsditch got it postponed."

For the second time in five minutes I sag.

"I'm fighting Alex?" I ask.

"You are," a melodious voice from the doorway says. We both start and look up. Daph lets go of my hand as if burnt.

Standing in the doorway, decked in sable robes encrusted with diamonds and rubies— a bowler hat perched atop her curly hair, a box of sweets in one hand— is Alexandra Grimsditch.

She looks between the two of us, an eyebrow arched.

"Am I interrupting something?" She asks delicately. "If I am, I can come back later."

"Miss Grimsditch," I greet. "No, please, come in."

A second eyebrow joins the first.

"I just heard you call me Alex, Harry. So if it's all the same to you, drop the formality."

I groan and shake my head.

I suppose a little background is in order.

The United States of America, you see, does not have an entrenched nobility. They have twelve families, known as the original twelve, who volunteered to train as the first aurors for the then nascent MACUSA (Magical Congress of the United States of America). The descendants of these families are given a respect akin to the nobility in Britain, because over the centuries they have held pivotal posts within the American power structure. And since power and corruption go hand in hand, most of these families have found the means to enrich themselves.

The Grimsditches happen to be one such family. Their lineage has produced four duelling champions, four presidents of the ICW, two headmasters of Ilvermorny and three presidents of MACUSA.

Alexandra Grimsditch is the youngest daughter of this vaunted bloodline.

She's also the black sheep of her family. She's a celebrity, which is the antithesis of what a Grimsditch is supposed to be (as hinted above, they love going into politics). There isn't a day when her name is not in the papers. Depending on whom you ask, Alexandra Grimsditch is either a trailblazer and the greatest witch of our time, or an upjumped strumpet with an insatiable carnal appetite (one of her flings was with a centaur). Her defenders call her a goddess; her detractors, a pretentious whore. What they all agree on is her beauty— it is either deified or weaponised, depending on which side of the divide you fall on.

I shall try to be the voice of reason here, even though I must preface this by saying my fondness for Alex bars me from offering an unbiased opinion. But I shall try, regardless.

Where do we start? With her age, I guess. Alexandra Grimsditch is twenty-seven. What I would like to emphasise first are her best qualities: she's gregarious, companionable and loves to teach. And that's what I like the most about her: she's a teacher at heart, and you can see how her face lights up when you reference some arcane piece of magic. She has a deep-rooted admiration for everything esoteric. She has dedicated her life to a pursuit of the sublime.

But yet again, I am putting the cart before the horse.

So let's go back to the basics: Alexandra Grimsditch— tall, white, wealthy, sociable, aristocratically attractive. Dark hair, dark eyes. Honours' student from Ilvermorny. Visiting professor for Charms and Transfiguration at the same school. Best enchantress in the world, second best duellist on the planet. This is a woman who is so freakishly talented that she was putting out peer reviewed charms' papers at the age of fourteen. By sixteen she was doing the same for transfiguration. By eighteen she had multiple theorems in arithmancy under her name. By twenty one, even the most cynical of her critics could not deny her era defining talents in her chosen fields. At that point she'd already won and retained the U.S. national duelling championship twice. The following year she would break into the top five and reach the finals for her first world championship match, which she lost 5-0 to Lacroix. Over the last five years, she's made the finals two more times. She lost both matches 4-1, both times to the same opponent: Antoine Maximillian Lacroix.

At this point, you might wonder if all the criticism she receives springs from a place of envy or malice. This is true to an extent, but not in its entirety.

American Wizarding society is relatively lax about certain practices, at least when compared to the conservatism of their British counterparts. But Grimsditch is too flamboyant, even by their standards.

Despite her talents, riches, and the considerable stipend she receives from her parents, she lives pay cheque to pay cheque. She has a tendency to get into heavy debt to refurbish her lavish wardrobe, or to get herself a bigger mansion, which she inevitably abandons six months in, when the craze has died down and the cold eye of reason reasserts itself.

Ilvermorny won't hire her full time, due to the can of worms her tendencies would open up. Alex is a hedonist and a druggie. She comes off as abrasive in her interviews. She's unapologetically promiscuous: sees the male sex as second rate, treats men like scraps of toilet roll. When the whim takes her, she also goes through women. These flings are equally doomed.

She gets bored very easily. In fact, except for teaching and magic, it is fair to say that nothing holds her attention. Even duelling is only an excuse to demonstrate her grasp over the arcane. This is why Lacroix has always been such a horrible matchup for her: Grimsditch's style, with its ballerina grace, does not stack up well against his brutal efficiency. And for Grimsditch, duelling has never been a question of anything but style. She'd rather lose artistically than win ugly.

If all this conveys an impression of arrogance, then you would be mistaken in that assessment. That's how she is to strangers (and to unfortunate bedfellows). She is amicable to devotees and acquaintances.

I'm an acquaintance. The reason I get along so well with Alex is because I neither censure her for her behaviour, nor bow and scrape before her, as admirers, devotees and even students tend to. I am that mythical creature— an intellectual equal who has zero interest in anything other than her intellect. Her private life is her own business; I just have a profound respect for her talents with a wand. It is the only thing we discuss. Considering her stratospheric level of skill, our discussions are productive.

Daph, on the other hand, is something of a devotee. And she's currently starstruck that the best enchantress on the planet is breathing the same air as we are.

"Miss Grimsditch," she stutters. "Ma'am, it is a privilege . . ."

"Oh, not you too," Alex groans. "I get 'enuff of that from everyone else. I'd like this meeting to stay informal, Miss— er— it's Greengrass, isn't it?" She offers an apologetic shrug, even as she glides into the room. "Sorry, I meet too many people . . ."

"Daphne Greengrass. I've read every single one of your papers, ma'am." Daph drops into a deep curtsy.

I roll my eyes.

"Oh, ok, wow, really?" Grimsditch seems suitably impressed. "I mean, even I don't read half the shit I write these days; I just get high and scribble away. . ."

She catches sight of Daph's betrayed glare and hastily amends this statement.

"What I mean is, I put my heart and soul into my efforts."

Daph's glare does not decrease in its intensity.

Grimsditch deflates.

"Alright, I promised mom I'd take my fans more seriously. So I'll start right now. Which papers do you mean, barbie doll? Because if it's the arithmancy ones, I've not touched that subject in seven years. I just hash things out of memory when the bills get unbearable and my publisher's beating down my door."

She flicks her wand and conjures herself a chair. Takes a seat and dedicates her attention to Daph.

"Charms." Daph's reply is clipped. She's taken on the attitude of an affronted lover.

Grimsditch strokes her chin thoughtfully.

"Hmm, lemme see, lemme see," she hums; "theory of relative harmony between conjured and vanished objects? No, that's transfiguration, darn it . . ."

"Why are you here, Alex?" I interrupt. I fear that Daph will surrender to her baser instincts and bash Grimsditch's skull in with a water pitcher if this conversation continues.

"Oh." She brightens. "Brought you sweets, darlin'. Licorice wands." She shakes the box and holds it out to me. "Get well soon present."

"When's our match?" I ask her, accepting the box and passing it to Daph.

"Tomorrow. Was a pain in the ass to get it postponed, y'know? The Association wanted to give me a walkover if you weren't ready in time."

"And you didn't take it?"

"Who do you think I am?" She cries, incensed. "Accept a walkover against my favourite opponent? Go through to the finals unchallenged, to face one of those awful bores, Gregorovich or Lacroix? 'Course I didn't take it!"

"There's something seriously wrong with you, Alex," I say idly.

"It's called having a sense of aesthetics," she sniffs, wiggling her fingers. "We're kindred spirits in that regard, aren't we? Oh, don't give me that look." She leans forward. "Listen, it's what I'm here for. A request. Promise me you'll entertain me tomorrow, Harry."

"As in?"

"Transfiguration only. Or shucks, anything esoteric. Show me something special. In return, I'll restrict myself to charms and conjuration. Capeesh?"

I have mentioned that in my earlier matches against the top ten, there was one opponent who always let me use transfiguration if I so pleased, even when I was too slow for it. That opponent is Grimsditch. I have no reason to doubt her words.

"That plays to your strengths tho'," I say wryly.

She chortles.

"Please. You know I don't care about all that tactical slop. Just gimme a fun match, not the yawn fest your bout against Chang was. Trite dark magic, blood all over. Yuck. Ugly, ugly!"

She smirks and steeples her fingers.

"Ooooor, you could do what you want. I won't stop you. But do you really think the trick you pulled on Chang would work against me?"

No.

"Chang," I say, nodding. "Chang. What exactly are they saying about that knockout?"

"Barbaric," Grimsditch yawns, shuddering theatrically.

"It's split," Daph contradicts. She glares at Grimsditch, who gives her a wink.

Daph turns to me.

"The press was against you on the first day," she explains. "They wanted you kicked from the tournament for what you did. But that sentiment has changed over the last twenty-four hours. A lot of duellists have come out in your defence."

"Who?" I ask.

"Lacroix," Daph says.

"Chang," Grimsditch huffs.

"Chang?" I am stupified. "Really?"

My last memory of the man is his skull spattered against concrete.

"He's covered our hospital bill," Daph informs me. She goes through her pockets and brings out a note. "He came to see you yesterday, but you were still unconscious, so he told me to give you this."

I take it from her tentatively. I unfold it.

You hits hard. Floor hits harder. Next time Chang hits hardest. Till then, enjoy win boyo.

"What a man," I say to no one in particular.

Grimsditch leaves after extracting vague stylistic reassurances. I am inclined after that to make a beeline for Tracey's room. But Daph scuppers this idea. She insists on breakfast first. So we get a couple of trays from the hospital cafeteria.

"How do you feel?" She asks me, as we chew through toasted bread with peanut butter and marmalade.

"Fine." I rotate my left arm. "Not a hundred percent, but they've done a good job."

"For the thirty galleons they're charging, I would expect them to," she says.

"Healing's a rip off, man. If not for Chang, that would have put quite the dent in our finances."

"He's an honourable man."

"Agreed. Now I feel a teensie bit bad about bashing his head in."

"But not bad enough?"

"After what he did to Trace?" I cluck my tongue. "Nah."

Silence descends over us like a pall. The statement inspires me to relive my sentiments from the fight. The adrenaline rush, the sickness, the fear, the heartache, the immensity of emotion I felt for Trace in that moment. Love. It was love. You would expect it to fade, now that the danger has passed, but somehow it persists. It blossoms. It spreads through my chest. It is a conflagration in my heart— it demands expression.

It is this that inspires my next words.

"Daph," I say carefully.

"Hm?"

"After we return to Hogwarts . . ."

I trail off. I swallow. My throat is dry. Sandpaper rough. This should not be so hard to put into words.

"Go on," she says, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

I gather courage. I find the right note.

"I've decided to ask Tracey out on a date to Hogsmeade," I say.

Emotions flit through her face too quickly for me to analyse. The expression she settles on, however, is serene.

"I'm happy for you," she says.

My own emotions are a jumbled mess. I want this. I want it so badly. I want it viscerally. But at the same time I want no acrimony with Daph either. She's my first friend. One of the two most important people in my life. The same way as I want to be happy, I want her to be happy as well. And when you weigh the scales, her happiness supersedes mine in every regard, at least for me.

I hate myself for what I'm about to offer.

I do it anyway.

"Look, listen." I fiddle with the saltshaker. I avoid eye contact. "If you want to go out with Trace— romantically, I mean— now's your last chance. Just say the word and I'll set aside what I feel, Daph. I'll convince her—"

"Stop."

I fall silent.

"Look at me."

I gulp. I raise my eyes with great difficulty.

There's a sardonic smile playing around her lips.

"You're an idiot," she says.

I exhale a great puff of air through my mouth.

"I was just . . ."

"You were offering to sacrifice yourself. Again."

"You do it all the time," I say sullenly.

"I've done a lot for my sister but nothing for you. Do you have the slightest inkling how much you have done for me?"

"What, gotten you in trouble with Malfoy from day one?"

"No, taken me in." Her eyes are blazing. "Given me a home . . ."

She looks away. Her jaw is working. Her lashes are agleam with unshed tears. She swipes at a speck in her eyes with a jerky motion.

"When I'm with the two of you, I feel like I belong," she says slowly. "No one's ever done that for me. Not my parents, not even my sister. I've always been alone. But for you, Harry, my seven years of schooling would've gone the same way."

She's still not looking at me. She chokes out a huff that is half laugh, half abortive cry.

"I might not have survived that. The loneliness. It crushes you. Eats you alive on the inside, no matter how much you pretend . . ."

She takes a deep breath. Her voice quakes.

"But that wasn't my life, was it? And you know why? Because you didn't give up on me. Not Tracey, not Astoria— you, Harry."

"Daph—"

"And now you have the audacity to tell me," she continues, ignoring me, "that you'd set aside something so wonderful, so sacred, so special to you, for me. For my sake. For my happiness."

I don't have any words.

"Tracey wants you," Daph breathes. "She deserves you. And you are what she will get."

This time there's no conflict in the beatific smile she gives me. She reaches out and grasps my hand. Something has shifted between us.

"I'm happy for you," Daph says again, squeezing my hand, taking care to enunciate each word. "For both of you. And regardless of how your relationship changes things, we will remain friends forever. I promise you that, Harry."

Endnotes:

Felt like a decent endpoint.

The stuff about MACUSA is from Pottermore. The Original Twelve are indeed a thing, as is the name 'Grimsditch'. Everything else I made up.

As always, reviews are much appreciated. Detailed reviews, even more so. They help me grow as a writer. They also motivate me to keep writing.

Cheers, and see you next time!