Chapter 2
"What's moonstone used for, Daph?" I ask.
We have sequestered ourselves in a second-floor classroom. It is evening. The setting sun streams in through the window and leaves splashes of spun gold across the desks. Trace and I are in the midst of studying the recipe for calming draughts. Daph has a care of magical creatures text open in front of her and three parchments by her side. There's a fourth, half written parchment that she is furiously scribbling in. Broken quills are littered around her table— Daph has this bad habit of pressing down too hard on the nib anytime she gets frustrated. She has an equally bad habit of chewing on the feather tip anytime she finds herself too deep in thought.
She looks up from her assignment.
"Lunar substitute," Daph says.
"In english, please."
"Emulates certain phases of the moon cycle depending on time of day and quality of the rock."
I gape at her— this is what the first caveman to discover fire must've felt like.
"What's that got t' do with calming droughts, then?"
"When you mix it with boomslang skin, a moon stone of middling quality recreates the half-moon phase. This stablises the potion just before it comes to a simmer. You apply some arithmancy after that; to be more precise, the numbers three and seven, which offset each other: three turns counterclockwise after adding the moonstone, and seven minutes for it to come to a simmer, before you add in two drops of hellebore. Hellebore's a solvent which takes care of any chunks of moonstone that have not yet melted into the potion."
"And Snape doesn't teach us this, because…?"
"Because he's a git," Trace offers. Her brown eyes are sleep addled. The freckles on her face quiver and leap as she tries suppressing a yawn. She has her head in her palm— her hair spills all over her textbook.
Daph's lip twitches.
"Because there's like fifty different recipes for OWLs," she says, "and because to try and explain what each ingredient does in isolation for each potion is a fool's endeavour that would take thousands of hours. For example, if you follow the first two steps the text describes, then add two drops of hellebore before adding moonstone and then add the boomslang skin, you'd get the draught of living death, because Boomslang's more prominent there, and the skin evokes aspects of boomslang venom, even if there's not a single drop in the potion. That's just how Potions works— sometimes it's not about what the ingredient adds but what it evokes or stands in as a conceptual metonym for."
She sighs.
"I've lost the two of you, haven't I?"
We both nod fervently, our eyes glazed over. Trace yawns and scratches her bum. She can't seem to hit the right spot. I'd offer to scratch it for her, but I don't want a potions textbook flung at my head.
"Just cram the recipes," Daph mutters. "I could recommend some works covering thousands of unique potion ingredients and how they all interact with each other— I could also recommend some works covering how arithmancy dictates clockwise and counterclockwise stirs — but frankly speaking, neither of you has the time for it."
"Are you calling us stupid?" Trace demands.
Daph gasps.
"I'd never call you stupid, Tracey," she says, hand flying to her heart. "Him, on the other hand . . ."
I give her a languid smile.
"Brave words, when the toughest offensive spell you can cast is stupefy. Honestly, Daph, if you weren't a whiz at charms we'd mistake you for a squib. As it is, you have the survival instincts of a potions ingredient."
"Don't the two of you start again." Trace buries her head in her hands.
"We're just playing around, aren't we? No hard feelings, Daffy."
"I know where you sleep." She gives me the stink eye. "There's nothing preventing me from breaking into the boys' dorm at night."
"Break in, and do what? Beat down the wards around my bed with your bare fists? But why? You have such pretty hands, Daph, and I'd hate to see them bleed."
She flushes scarlet and makes a strangled sound; starts to reply, but Trace cuts her off.
"Mum, dad, could you not?" She says sweetly.
Daph melts. There's nothing she'd not give Trace when Trace sticks out her lip like that and takes that tone of voice. Trace knows this too and has never hesitated to shamelessly use it to her advantage.
"Oh, to hell with the two of you," Daph mumbles. "Don't distract me, I've an assignment to turn in tomorrow."
Trace and I exchange smirks.
"What's it about?" Trace asks.
"What's Grubbly Plank like?" I ask.
"Bowtruckles," Daph says, "and Grubbly Plank's fantastic. I hope that oaf Hagrid never returns. Worst teacher ever— and I've endured Binns and that Umbridge woman. You've no idea just how much safer the class is without him."
"I think I do," I say. "Malfoy's not lost a finger to a bowtruckle yet."
Trace giggles.
"Remember the hippogriff?" She asks.
"Oh, don't I just?" I grumble. "Git wouldn't shut up about it all through third year. You'd think the sodding bird defenestrated him or something."
"Nicked him," Daph says morosely. She chews her quill. "I liked Buckbeak. It was Malfoy's fault, of course it was, he got warned a hundred times not to be a worthless pile of hippogriff dung . . . but when's that ever mattered? His father went and got it executed. I dislike that Halfbreed oaf but it was gut wrenching to see him cry."
"Knew you had a heart somewhere in there," I say.
"Oh, she's a big softie," Trace gushes. "Every time I see her I want to smother her with hugs."
"I'm not soft!"
"She's not Trace," I intone solemnly. "Fear the dark lady. Breathes hoarfrost, haunts the dungeons. Turns people into popsicles when she glares at them."
Daph promptly glares at me.
"Gaah!" I shriek, covering my eyes. My voice is high pitched. Traumatised. "My family jewels! Ruined, all ruined! Defrost them, Daph, or the Potter line ends with me."
"Ruffians, the two of you," Daph complains, going back to her homework.
Trace and I exchange another smirk.
In the free period between muggle studies and double transfiguration, I run into Mrs. Norris. She puffs up and mewls when she sees me: her tail resembles a question mark.
"C'mere, kitty." I stretch out my arms. She takes a flying leap and settles into my chest. I caress her head with one hand and reach into my robe with the other.
"Now where've I put your treats?" I wonder. "There were some right here, I swear— ah, yes, here you go." I fish out a grimy packet. "Substandard, I know, but money's a bit tight at the moment . . ."
Mrs. Norris bumps my hand affectionately. She purrs in satisfaction even as she accepts my backrubs.
"Mrs. Norris? Where are you, gir— oh, there she is." Argus Filch rounds the corner. We face each other like gunslingers from a third-rate Midwest movie. He limps up to me. His eyes are blazing and his lips are set in a thin line.
"Potter," he scowls.
"Mr. Filch."
"She's mine," he says grumpily.
"And mine as well," I counter. "She's the love of my life, and your attempts to separate us are quite frankly repugnant."
"I don't share," he growls. "Get your own cat, boy."
"I'll duel you to the death with a broken mop if I have to, but you're not taking my princess away from me," I cry. "Isn't that right, girl?"
Mrs. Norris meows in self-satisfaction. She's not used to two suitors fighting for her affections.
"Mrs. Norris." Filch looks grizzled and leonine and noble and sad all at once. "Why him, why not me? What does he have that I don't?"
"Magic," I say.
The effect on Filch is terrible. His face turns inhuman. He looks like he wants to beat me to death with his walking stick.
"You've won this time, Potter," he snarls. "But someday she'll see you for the dark wizard you are and come running back to me. Oh yes, oh yes! We'll see who's laughing then, eh?"
He limps away. His shoulders shake. The sounds he makes with his back turned to us are distressingly similar to grief.
Mrs. Norris gives me a reproachful look.
"What, you think I went too far?" I ask.
Mrs. Norris hisses, then jumps away and follows Filch.
"You remind me of Daph sometimes, you know," I call out after her. And then louder: "She's for the streets, Filch. Drop her while you still can."
With a week having gone by, and our preparations for Milan in full swing, I am accosted by Astoria outside the greenhouses. It is afternoon. She's accompanied by a wispy blonde with protuberant eyes and radish earrings. The blonde's stuck a wand behind her left ear; Tori, in solidarity, has stuck her wand behind her right.
"Ha— Harry," Tori pants. She has to walk slowly: any form of physical exertion exhausts her. "Come give us a hug, luv. It's been over seventy years."
"We spoke in the common room this morning," I say.
She shoves her schedule at me.
"Double DADA, double potions, history of magic, double herbology," she moans, stabbing at each slot with her index finger. "I left the common room a sweet summer child and I return to it as a skeleton."
"Fair enough," I concede. "Who's this?"
"You're Harry Potter," the girl responds dreamily.
"I am," I confirm. "Love the radish earrings, by the way. A wee bit out there, but it's a hell of a fashion statement. Goes well with your hair."
The girl looks taken aback. She scans my face for any signs of deception.
"Thank you," she says. "My mum made them for me. Is it true that you're Salazar Slytherin's Inferi wearing Charlus Potter's skin as a disguise?"
I turn to Astoria with a sigh.
"Dammit, Tori, don't give away my secrets so cheaply."
"I was offered a lifetime supply of Quibbler," Tori says demurely, avoiding eye contact.
"My dad's the editor," the girl explains. "We'd love to interview you after the dueling world championship. Daddy's working on the theory that the wards in each arena are reinforced by sacrificing the souls of pygmy puffs to Fudge."
"Sure," I shrug. "I'd love to do an interview with your magazine."
She beams. Her eyes are guileless. She has a pretty smile and it transforms her face.
"Wonderful," she says, clapping her hands. "See you tomorrow, Tori. I need to write daddy a letter."
She skips off towards the owlery.
Astoria and I watch her go, then start walking in the opposite direction. I take her books from her and stack them atop my own.
"So, who's the fruitcake?" I ask.
"Luna Lovegood. And don't call her that."
"It's true though, she's completely dotty."
"She is, but she's also the sweetest person there is. She's not had a good life, Harry, and people go around calling her Loony—"
"With good reason, I'm sure."
"— so I'd appreciate it if you were to stop insulting my best friend."
We're at an impasse. I'm the first to back down.
"Got it. I just . . . listen, I meant the thing about her earrings, all right?"
Tori's glare softens.
"She liked that, she was delighted, I could tell. She gets no compliments, and . . . I don't know if I should tell you this . . . aw, I'll say it anyway, I trust you. Her mum died in front of her when she was nine, and before she passed away she used to make these little trinkets for Luna. So the cork necklace and the radish earrings mean so much to her because they remind her of. . ."
Now I feel like a shitheel.
"I'll apologise to her when she interviews me," I offer.
"What for? You said nothing offensive in front of her."
"I didn't? Oh, thank Merlin. One of the few times I've not put my foot in my mouth, then."
"Miracles do happen," Tori avers.
"How did you bond anyway?" I ask. "I'm not doubting your social skills, but getting along with her seems to be— er— quite the unique experience."
"Places and creatures," Tori responds. "She shares my interest in archeological sites and I sympathise with her pursuit for exotic creatures, even the imaginary ones." She bestows me with a thin smile. "If I live past seventh year, and if I don't get sold off to that prat Malfoy, I'd really like to become a magizoologist. Luna and I can travel the world that way. But you know how it is with me, there's this . . . this curse—" her hands twist; she gestures at herself and looks wretched.
"You'll be okay, Tori," I say, because what else can I say?
"You don't get it," she mumbles. "It's not . . . I'm not scared, I've known all my life that this is how I live, this is how I'll likely die. But — I'd give anything to be able to run without a care in the world, without hacking up my lungs or breaking into a thousand pieces. I want to feel the wind in my hair, the sun against my skin. . . I want to laugh, I want to sing, I want to dance, I want to lose myself. I want to breathe, Harry— just for once I want it to not hurt when I breathe. And I want to be happy. Yeah, that's it, for one blissful moment I want to be . . . happy, without the cloud of what's to come hanging over my head."
She looks at me through the fringes of her lashes and flashes me a rueful grin.
"Don't tell Daph I said that."
"She wouldn't believe me if I told her."
"What, because I'm dumb? Because I've never had a single poignant thought rattling around in this skull of mine?" She laughs. It turns into a hoarse choking cough. She mumbles an apology, then reaches into her robes and brings out a silk handkerchief which she presses to her mouth.
The corners turn red.
A distraction, if you please. She's never scored well in her classes, this wilful obstinate child. She barely passes most of them, except Care of Magical creatures, where she's never scored below an O. She's rubbish with a wand and has never mounted a broom. But every time there's a quidditch match at school she's the first to take her place in the stands. She cooks, she knits, she draws; she's irritable but she's got this lilting laugh that hides it: and the thing with her is that she's so full of life; she's vibrant, passionate, fervent, magnificent . . .
Forgive me, I cannot do this, I cannot stand here and watch her like this, cannot talk about her without feeling my heart come apart at the seams. So I shall pretend there's nothing wrong with this fragile ethereal creature, this lovely little sister of mine in all but blood.
"You're wrong, though." Tori wipes her mouth, then tucks the kerchief back. Her face is chalk white but her expression turns contemplative. "Daph would believe you, and that's the sad part. Then she'll desperately try making my fantasies a reality while giving up on all her dreams: she'd sacrifice every last piece of herself, in the hope that I can be a normal person for one day. She'd set herself on fire to keep me warm, that's the sort of person she is. I don't want that for sis, Harry— I want her to discard me and be happy."
"Bugger that, no one's tossing you aside," I rasp, trying to hide the crack in my voice. "Not me, not Daph, not Trace . . ." I feel a ghost of a smile touch my lips. " . . . not Longbottom . . ."
Astoria colours and looks away.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she says resolutely.
"Why, only this— we'll be there to celebrate when you become the best magizoologist the world's ever seen . . . and if in the meantime a boy catches your fancy, then of course it's our job to keep tabs on him and break his noggin' if he gets unruly."
I free an arm from the books and ruffle her hair. Unlike the other Greengrass sister, this one is not allergic to affection. She sighs and leans in.
"Stop sounding like a stereotypical big bro, it doesn't suit you," she groans. "And I'm betrothed to Malfoy, in case you've forgotten. We're to be wed when I come of age."
"Three years is an ice age. Anything could happen to him."
Tori blinks. Perhaps she has taken note of my demented expression.
"Blimey, don't kill him or somethin', a'right? He's a ponce, but he's never once mouthed off to me."
"Really?" I frown.
"Yeah, the couple of times we've talked he's been super stuffy— stick up his arse, real distant, real formal, talkin' 'bout his wealth and all— but he's never threatened me. He looks almost as uncomfortable as I feel."
"He hates us," I say slowly. "He hates Daph. He'd never pass up an opportunity to humiliate her, to rub it in. Then why . . .? When did you speak with him, Tori?"
"Once at the end of last year, when the betrothal was brought up and you were all in Geneva; and once two days ago, when he sort of blundered into me in the hallway and blabbered about keeping his distance."
"And you didn't think of telling us?"
She shrugs.
"Didn't seem important. And I know you lot have it out for him, so I'd rather not . . ."
She touches my sleeve.
"Look, I'm just saying, he's kept his issues with you out of our chit-chats, and while he's not my favourite person I'd also not like to see him get hurt on my behalf."
"You're a saint, Tori. I'd use Malfoy as a carpet to walk on if it were up to me."
We reach the entrance to the common room. "Asp", I say, and the portrait swings open.
I hand her back her books.
Don't tell Daph, Tori mouths to me again as we go our separate ways.
I won't. I'm the sort to keep my promises.
It is well past midnight. There's an array of brass telescopes spaced out equidistantly in the Astronomy tower. I slide into the seat next to Trace and adjust mine. Her eyes are drooping but that's nothing new: she usually goes to bed early, and our recent dueling sessions have run her ragged. I can feel the exhaustion radiating off her in waves. She immediately uses my shoulder as support and makes a diligent attempt at grabbing some shut eye.
"Make it less obvious if you can," I whisper.
"Shuddup," she mumbles, "so tired . . . so comfy . . . mmmm . . ."
We get away with it for ten minutes. Then Professor Sinistra approaches us. I shrug Trace awake. She scrambles to adjust her own telescope but by the time Sinistra is upon us it's still pointing the wrong way.
Sinistra raises an eyebrow at Trace, who blushes and bows her head.
"Where's Miss Greengrass?" The professor asks.
"With Madam Pomfrey," I say. "She interns thrice a week in the hospital wing."
Professor Sinistra is aghast.
"What, at one in the morning?" She demands.
"From seven to two," I say. "Madam Pomfrey teaches her for two hours, and she spends the rest of her time either studying or looking after any patients who might come in late."
"She's still missing class, Mr. Potter."
"You can take it up with the headmaster if you want, ma'am. He signed off on it." I shrug. "But I would request you not to— Daphne runs herself into the ground due to her sister's circumstances."
"Which are?"
"Blood curse," I say.
Professor Sinistra gives me a sympathetic look.
"Please ask Ms. Greengrass to come see me if she needs any notes for this class. And if my class corresponds with her off days, tell her she may sleep in. She needn't attend unless she wants to."
"Thank you, ma'am. She'll be thrilled to hear that, I'm sure."
The professor nods and moves on. Trace goes back to dozing on my shoulder. I let her stay like that for ten more minutes. Then I shrug her awake again.
"Trace," I begin, "I need your help with something."
"Huh? Wozzat?" She wipes the drool from her mouth and looks around. Her telescope is still facing the wrong way.
"Tori told me a few things . . . and on the basis of that there are some questions I'd like to ask Malfoy." I nod in Draco's direction. He's having an animated conversation with Parkinson.
Trace blinks.
"Sure," she says. "We'll corner him tomorrow, once Daph's with us."
"No." I shake my head emphatically. "Not tomorrow— tonight. I don't want Daph to be there for this."
"Why?"
"Call it a gut feeling. She's prone to losing her temper when Tori's involved, and if Malfoy's planning something then I'd rather not ship him back to his daddy with his head sawn off."
It is a testament to the faith Trace has in me that she does not once question what I've heard from Tori or what I have in mind.
"If you think that's wise," she says hesitantly. "It's only our house up here at this hour, and the walk from the tower back to the dungeons is quite long. Yes, I see how it could work . . . but . . . are you sure about this, Harry? I don't like keeping things from Daph."
"We might not have to, depending on what he tells us."
"How do you mean to corner him?"
"Imperius," I say immediately.
"Are you completely barmy?" Trace hisses. "We'd be in enough trouble already if we get caught. Are you trying to land us both in Azkaban as well?"
"No one will know, Trace," I say. "I'll cast it— we'll separate him from his cronies— have him say he's headed to the prefects' bathroom or something. It's easier than the alternative."
"Which is?"
"Confundus charm."
"Oh." Her face sours. "And we're both rubbish at charms."
"Coin flip on whether or not it works," I agree. "Do you really want to risk the prat throwing himself off the Astronomy tower if I get it wrong?"
"I can't believe you're somehow making an unforgivable sound like the better choice," she complains.
"Different mechanisms," I say. "Intent based versus— well, whatever the hell makes charms work."
"We really ought to involve Daph." Trace drops her head on the desk. She covers her face with her arms and lets out a muffled groan.
"Hey, it's not all bad," I console. "This way if we get caught she can still smuggle us treacle tart in Azkaban."
"Hysterical. No really, you're killing me with your jokes."
Her voice sounds dead.
"I try," I say modestly. "But you don't have to get involved, Trace. You can—"
"Oh sod that, I'm coming with you," she snaps. "If this backfires, as it likely will, we can share the same cell. Merlin, to think I might lose my first kiss to a bloody dementor—"
"I'll kiss you before the dementor does, I promise."
"Not. Bloody. Funny. Harry," she hisses, giving me the stink eye.
I beam.
Class continues. We exchange few words. Tracey is wide awake. Exhaustion has given way to nervous tension. It is not the first time we're breaking the law but we've never gone this far before. She fidgets and bites her bottom lip; twice she opens her mouth to speak and twice I thwart her by slipping my hand in hers and squeezing gently. She keeps her thoughts to herself but sighs and intertwines her fingers with mine. She needs reassurance, but even without it she'd follow me through the jaws of Hell if I asked her to.
The bell chimes. Class is dismissed. I spring out from my seat and signal to her to stay back. She has instructions to distract the professor— a minute will suffice.
I follow Draco and his cronies down the spiraling steps, and much to my delight he's decided to let Crabbe and Goyle walk in front of him. Zabini, Bulstrode and Parkison flank him while Nott brings up the rear. It is a simple thing to take aim at the heart of this scattered formation, simple indeed to wait till they go past the first row of flaming torches. There are no portraits in our vicinity and it is twenty steps to the next row. Shadows engulf us.
"Imperio," I whisper.
I cannot see his face but I notice how his stride falters. He trips on a stair— Parkinson and Zabini prevent him from falling over.
Hold your head, then tell them you had a bout of dizziness.
I see him in profile; I see his face slacken. His hand shoots up to his forehead, and I know I have him.
There's nothing in the world you want more than a bath right now. It's hot, you're sweating, your head's spinning, your robes are sticking to your skin. Tell your friends you need to go to the Prefects' bathroom because your head hurts and you're sweating like a hog. Tell them the humidity in the tower did not agree with you. Give Pansy your cloak— wrap it around her like a bridal wreath and tell her not to follow. Tell them you'll return to the dorm in an hour.
I hear footsteps behind me.
"Did it work?" Trace whispers.
I watch his mouth move; I hear the sounds of discontent his friends make. But Draco is insistent. He is convincing. He is, dare I say it, eloquent. He tucks his cloak around Pansy's shoulders with tenderness, and it is enough to quell her objections. The group separates from him and shuffles away.
Keep walking, then wait at the bottom.
Trace and I follow him. We pass Draco at the bottom of the stairs. His face is placid and he is staring at the roof contemplatively. I do not spare him a second glance.
"Yes," I say to Trace.
Fifth floor, third classroom. The one next to the suit of armour. Be there in five minutes.
Trace is pacing up and down restlessly whilst we wait. I, on the other hand, have taken a seat and am whistling a jaunty tune.
"Will you hurt him?" She asks abruptly.
She does not look at me.
"Only if I have to," I confess.
She stops pacing.
"Don't. For my sake, if nothing else."
It galls me that she's pleading for Malfoy.
I open my mouth to reply, but the sound of approaching footfalls interrupts us. Our wait is at an end. Malfoy walks in. He looks just as vapid now on the outside as he must be on the inside.
"Lock the door," I say.
He pulls out his wand and flicks it shut. A gentle click resonates across the room.
"Pass me your wand."
He throws it to me underarm. I catch it and place it on the desk in front of me.
"Far corner of the room. Now."
With the same vacant expression he passes Trace and picks the top right corner. I gesture to Trace. She comes and stands next to me.
"Incarcerous."
Ropes bind his feet and wrists. He does not struggle.
"Silencio."
Having thus silenced him— and after weaving a set of complex wards to secure the room against all intrusion as well as to dampen all sound— I lift the Imperius.
At first he looks befuddled. He tugs at his wrists, which are bound, then tries opening his mouth, only to realise it's been glued shut. Then he looks up and sees us.
It is glorious watching comprehension dawn on that pale pointed elven face of his. It is glorious watching the sheer fucking panic in his eyes. He wets himself, I'm sure. He thrashes around, he tries to scream. I can pinpoint the moment his spirit breaks. He thinks we're going to kill him— he sinks to his knees and sobs like a little girl.
"Are you quite done?" I ask. Draco continues to rock back and forth as he weeps. I wait patiently for his panic attack to pass. It takes a while. Eventually he looks up. There's not a hint of defiance left in him. With his eyes he begs me to let him go.
"Will you keep quiet and listen to what I have to say if I remove the gag?"
He nods frantically.
I flick my wand.
"Potter." He sounds like a dying fish. "Potter, please . . ."
I laugh.
"I'm not going to kill you, you moron. But feel free to call my friend that word again, just to see if—"
"This is not about me, Harry," Trace reminds me. "Enough. You're scaring him."
Correctly sensing Tracey's influence over my choices, Draco directs his attention at her.
"I'll never— I swear it— on my life, Davis, on my honour, I'll never call you—"
"Stop," I say. His mouth clicks shut immediately. His teeth chatter. There are tears streaming down his cheeks. His current complexion would make an albino look florid. This would be utterly hysterical if it weren't sad. This is the worthless pissant who poisoned every second of our schooling, and I remember a time when I was equally frightened of what his influence could do to my friends.
No more.
"I just want to ask a few questions. If you answer them truthfully, we can forget this ever happened and go our separate ways."
Terror blooms behind his eyelids.
"If it's about the dark lord—"
"It's about Astoria," Tracey says kindly. Something about her tone of voice pisses me off. It's the tone one takes when talking to sick children, not to bigoted bullies who go out of their way to destroy someone's life, just because they can. But I keep my anger to myself— I keep a lid on my frustrations.
"Astoria? Greengrass?" Draco sounds uncertain.
"You're betrothed to her," I inform him. "Your memory regarding that was peachy when you stormed into our compartment last week."
He looks away but does not respond.
"Well?" I urge. "You wanted to speak to her in private, didn't you? What did you want to tell her?"
"It's not—" he mumbles, "—I don't see how it concerns. . ."
"Do you think he'd last thirty seconds under Cruciatus?" I ask Tracey conversationally.
"All right, all right! I wanted to tell her to stay away. I wanted to say—" There's a sudden spark of defiance in his eyes, "— I don't want her, I won't marry her!"
This proclamation is greeted with a minute's silence.
"What?" I ask blankly. "Malfoy, are you touched in the head?"
"I won't!" He shrieks. He's catatonic— hysteria tints the whites of his eyes. "I won't, I won't! Go ahead and kill me if you want to, but not her, not that Greengrass, never, never!"
"What's your problem with Tori?" Tracey demands. She sounds as stunned as I look.
"I want to be with Pansy." He glares at us, as if daring us to laugh. We're too busy staring at him with our mouths open. "Nothing can come between us, you hear me? Nothing! Not you, not my parents, not Astoria fucking Greengrass. Give me death or give me Pansy."
"You'd pass up on Astoria for Pansy?" I ask incredulously. "Do you have the combined wits of Crabbe and Goyle?"
He screams at me. Spittle flies from his maw. His words degenerate into drivel. I look around, uncertain. He has thrown me for a loop. Trace gives me a helpless shrug, then gestures vaguely in his direction.
"Malfoy," I begin, holding out my palms to placate him, "go nail Parkinson if you want, mate, it's not my place to tell you otherwise. But if you want Pansy then why in Morgana's name do you have a betrothal agreement with the Greengrasses?"
He goes quiet. He looks miserable. The fight's deserted him.
"My father won't let me," he mumbles. "I begged, I pleaded, but Pansy's only distantly related to the Parkinson mainline. Her father's dead, her mother works in Knockturn. It's not a match fit for a Malfoy, let alone an heir of House Black."
"Never took you for a romantic," I whistle. This conversation has taken on a surrealistic blend. I wave my wand and undo his bindings. He stays prone— he's accepted death.
"Is there some way to break the contract?" Trace asks. I look at her sharply. She flushes and looks away but continues speaking:
"I mean, I don't know much about magical contracts . . . there are penalties and break clauses though, from what I've heard."
Draco stares at her. He looks defeated.
"Break clause is five thousand galleons."
"Five th—" I inhale sharply. "Are you mad? The Minister of Magic makes three hundred a year, you git."
"My pocket money's hundred a year," he tells the air. He's about to burst into tears again. "I can't buy it out, it's done, I'm stuck with Greengrass. Pansy, my sweet Pansy . . ."
I try my utmost to avoid retching. I am only partially successful.
"Can anyone who has the money buy it out if they wish?" I demand.
"Any Greengrass," he corrects mechanically. "Or any Malfoy . . . but that's not happening."
"Is there a deadline?" Trace chips in.
"5th of June, '97. It's when I come of age. Contract's locked in after that."
"A year and a half," I hum. "Difficult. Penalties if we were to just take her and disappear?"
"Loss of magic," he mutters, rubbing his wrists, "for whichever party violates the agreement first without paying the break clause. Standard stuff in wizarding betrothals."
"Your culture frightens me with its sadism," I confess. "But say we break it. What's to stop her parents from just making another one with you?"
"My father's ego," he murmurs. "He's not one to forgive such a slight. Something like this . . . she'd be untouchable in our community— worse than a mudblood— at least if you still wish to do business with the Malfoys. The Greengrasses would not be able to get another marital contract for either of their two daughters. It would ruin them."
"Lovely," I say.
He sits up.
"Haven't you disgraced me enough?" He spits. "Are you going to throw this in my face every time you see me?"
"You would deserve it. But no, this has worked out in your favour, actually. I'll try and come up the money— I'll leave no stone unturned to spare Tori the fate of being stuck with such a pathetic excuse of a wizard."
Draco gazes at the wand on my table. He then looks at the door with undisguised longing.
"Can I leave?" He asks.
I throw his wand at him. I unlock the door.
"Not yet," I say. "One more question."
"Be quick with it," he snarls.
He's recovered his confidence, now that he has his wand in his hands again.
"What did Lord Voldemort say about me?"
Draco squeaks and drops the wand. His hands are shaking.
"I can't . . . I mean, I don't . . ."
"Draco, Draco," I tut, "come now, do you take me for a fool? After I broke your leg, the first thing you did was to write your father a letter. You asked him to take up my sins with Lord Voldemort— you asked him to handle me. It's been a week now; you must've got a response. But given the fact that you avoid me, and given the fact that you're not strutting around whilst questioning my continued existence, I can only imagine that the response you received was . . . inadequate. So, what did he say?"
Malfoy is trembling. His wand lies forgotten on the floor. He remains silent for so long that I think he's not about to answer, then abruptly a hoarse rasp issues from his throat.
"The dark lord . . ." He whispers, "the dark lord told me . . . he wrote to me personally to say . . . stay away."
"Stay away?" My forehead scrunches.
"He's interested in you, Potter. He's told his inner circle you're not to be harmed. He— I don't know what he wants from you— but if the rumours about your father are true . . ."
"He wants to recruit me."
Malfoy jerks his head twice in confirmation.
"All right, Malfoy," I say pleasantly. "Enlightening chat. Now bugger off."
He doesn't need to be told twice. The door rattles in its hinges long after he's scurried out.
"If he—" Trace begins carefully, "— would you . . . ?"
"Would I join Lord Voldemort?"
She nods.
"Would you want me to?" I ask.
"I don't—" She wrings her hands. "— I despise everything he stands for, Harry!"
"I could protect you and your mum," I offer.
"It's not— it has nothing to do with — gods, it's not about me! It's about everyone else. The dark lord's a genocidal bigot who makes Malfoy look like a unicorn. He's vile. How could you possibly . . ."
"Relax, Trace," I grin. "I'm just pulling your leg. He destroyed my family. No way I'd think about joining him."
She heaves a sigh of relief.
But even as we leave the room I wonder if I've been quite honest with her. After all, there's very little I'd not do to keep the people in my life safe.
If you exit the great hall and take three right turns along the winding corridor, then cross the courtyard and step into the ground floor of the west wing, you come across a room that's seen little use over the last five hundred years. This is the dueling room: it is sixty meters in length and thirty in breadth; it houses no impediments and has a great many enchanted blue lines running along its marbled floor. Runes are carved into the ceiling, wards overlay the walls; there are silk cushions scattered about, and in one corner there is a conservative bookshelf that houses tomes on dueling technique, curses, counter curses and wand movements. On the far side are stationary targets layered with enchantments for self repair and animation. And at the centre, drawn as if with a white chalk, is the forty yard platform which is standard use for all under eighteen duels: of course, the platform for professional duels is over a hundred yards lengthwise and sixty breadthwise, and this is a difficult adjustment to make when one goes from amateur to pro; but the platform here was meant to cater to students, and, as the saying goes, beggars can't be choosers.
It is past curfew and well past sunset. From far above there issues the rumble of thunder: raindrops the size of sickles pelt the burnished window panes. Trace is opposite me— she's red faced and panting; Daph, on the other hand, lounges languidly on a cushion and thumbs through a healing tome. My attention is split between the two: I am talking to Daph while training Trace for the upcoming tournament.
"Five thousand galleons?" Daph asks. Her bottom hand tightens around the tome's spine.
"Yes." I sidestep the initial volley of spells, then swat back Tracey's Bombarda Maxima at her; she throws up a golden dome and there is a resounding boom. The spell fizzles— her shield holds. The lines along the floor thrum and absorb the excess energy.
"Where am I supposed to find that sort of money from?" She snaps the book shut and looks at me.
"We'll find a way, Daph. We always do. The prize money for this tourney is a thousand galleons and second place gets five hundred. Even third and fourth make two fifty each. If we—"
Trace tries another spell chain. The bone breaker, the blood boiler, the eye gouger, the entrail expeller, all ending in the vicious downward stab of a confringo. She is quick, she is silent: I have to identify each spell from the wand movements.
I twist my wand and a mammoth metal maw crystalizes in front of me, its structure resembling the skull of a T-rex, its glistening teeth interlocked in a mocking leer. The spells go out against it in a shower of multicoloured sparks. Then I flick my wand, and the jaws explode outwards, snapping.
Trace throws up her dome again and dives to the right.
The dome punctures like egg yolk. There is no boom this time— it simply dissolves into a million motes of light. She brings her wand up underarm in a whip like motion, and the violet wave she produces perforates my construct. Shafts of molten metal careen around the room. Trace and Daph shield— I flick my wand idly and the melting metal spokes reverse direction midair. They are an assemblage, an army, a corona of death that with another casual flick are all sent flying towards Tracey. Her shield shatters; she shrieks and covers her head; she is a fraction of a second away from being turned into a human porcupine.
The metal vanishes.
I lower my wand in disappointment. Through all this I was more focused on Daph than on Trace: I could've killed the latter in three different ways when she dived to avoid my conjuration.
"Situational awareness, Trace," I call out. "You took your eyes off me there."
She is awash with adrenaline. She falls onto her haunches and tucks her chin against her chest. Her wand, slick with sweat around the handle, slips from between nerveless fingers. With a soft clatter it rolls away from her.
"Get back on your feet," I urge.
"Give her a second, you slavedriver," Daph grouses. "You've been going at it for three hours."
Her wand is out. A silver shield thrums in front of her.
"Protego Maxima wouldn't have saved you, Daph." I point at her shield, which she snuffs out with a huff. "It's a decent defense against magical discharges but has the flaw of only giving one-eighty-degree coverage. It also has a patchy track record against conjurations."
"Aegis Maxima fared no better," Trace sighs. She lifts her head up and looks at me— her eyes are bloodshot but there's a spark of defiance in them. She gathers her wand and gets back on her feet. Her legs are trembling. "And he's right, Daph, I can't crumble like that, I can't sit and stew and let my loss get into my head. Time's running out . . . I'll let the two of you down in Milan if it goes on like this."
"You'll let no one down," Daph insists. "You're his second— it's not your fault if he loses, and it's not your job to do his fighting for him."
"The relationship between a duelist and their second is sacred," Trace says, dusting off her robes. "It's built on trust. You trust your second to be able to step in for you, you trust them to take the heat off you for a round or two if you need a break. I—" she jerks her finger at herself, and it is a gesture which simultaneously conveys self-mockery and self-loathing, "—all I've ever done is freeloaded off his goodwill. I can't give Harry thirty seconds of respite against an elite duelist, yet he keeps diligently paying me after every tournament, as if I've done something, as if I'm good for something. You heal him, Daph, you fix him up, you have a role, you perform it brilliantly . . . I'm just a parasite who mooches off him."
Both Daph and I are vehement in our objections.
"Tracey Davis, how could you even—"
"Don't ever call yourself a parasite, Trace, you're my best friend, what the—"
She puts up an arm. We swallow our words.
"Again," she bites out. "Again and again and again, till I break or till I get better. Till I'm not so worthless. I won't be a handicap for you at the world championship, Harry, I swear it. Now get back into position. Let's get cracking."
We go at it again, and a minute afterwards she's blown off the platform. Again, and she ends up hogtied and body bound. Again, and she's stunned and stuck to the wall. Again, and she's hung upside down from the rafters. Again, and she's crushed in the coils of a transfigured serpent. Again, and the ground swallows her up. Again, and the backlash from her broken shield sends her skidding twenty feet, face first. Again, and she's back on her knees. Her wand arcs in the air— it spins and curves then dips gracefully into my outstretched palm.
Tracey screams and drives her fist into the floor. She does this over and over, till there's an audible crack. She doesn't let that deter her, however; Daph has to body bind her to stop her from doing more damage to herself.
"Stop behaving like an insolent child," Daph says, her eyes cold. She gets off her cushion and glides over to Trace, then starts healing her hand. "Punishing yourself won't make you any better at dueling."
"Give it a rest, Daph," I groan. "And Trace, despite her tone, you know she means well. You're fighting angry, you're making stupid mistakes. You and I both know you can do a lot better. Calm yourself, reorient yourself, give yourself five minutes, then we go again."
I undo the body bind.
Trace blows at her sweaty bangs and stares at the ceiling sightlessly. Her eyes are glassy. There are tears crowding the edges of her vision.
"I'm never going to be good enough, am I?"
It's less a question and more a strangled sob.
To my surprise it is Daph who kneels next to her and gathers her into a hug.
"Not with that attitude," she says softly.
Trace snorts. It is a bitter thing. She furiously scrubs at her eyes with her sleeve.
"Attitude? It's not— I'm just not—" She deflates and buries her face in Daph's shoulder. "I don't want to be the reason we miss out on the prize money," she admits. "Not when we could do so much for Tori with it."
Daph turns to me.
"May I suggest something?"
"I'm all ears, Daph."
"You're going about this the wrong way, Harry."
"What d'you mean?" I ask.
"You're teaching her to fight the way you would fight."
"Yeah, and?"
"You're training her to win a round. She cannot, from what we've seen, and what's more, she does not need to." Daph looks me in the eye. She tucks a stray lock behind her ears. Her lips curve into a slow smile. "You should be training her to bleed the clock instead."
"You mean—"
"If she has to step in, the round's lost anyway. But each round is five minutes, and what she can do is outlast the clock. Bunker down— soak up pressure— survive. Survive, till that buzzer sounds. Then you have your rest, you're fresh and the two of you can switch. That way you'd only have to fight four rounds, not five. You'd just need to make sure you win at least three."
"It'd need a different strategy altogether." I stroke my chin. "I've never seen anyone try it . . . sounds almost heretical to not throw a single spell in attack."
"It's not about Tracey," Daph reminds me. "It's about you, Harry. The way your duels have gone, your attention span is shot by round three, the fatigue from moving around so much is starting to set in, and since you don't trust your second—" she raises a hand to stave off my feeble objections; "—let's not sugarcoat it, you don't trust your second; and since that's the case, you're going all or nothing in the first two rounds. As the fight goes on your decision making deteriorates, you get hurt, you take insane gambles; and by the time it's round five you are suffering from fatigue, disorientation and blood loss while your opponent is still relatively fresh, all because they trust their second to hold a round or two and you don't. Every time your fights have gone the distance, you lose the last two rounds. So switch it up. Fight the first two conservatively, give Tracey round three, then return fresh for four and five after I've patched you up."
"It can work, right?" The hope in Tracey's voice kills me. "She's right, if . . . if I can help you stay fresh . . ."
"You're better at defense than attack," I concede. "Without the distraction of trying to attack or counterattack, you should be free to move around and shield. You can conjure and transfigure stuff too if it gets iffy— just sorta buckle down and try not to die. And that should indeed give me some time to rest and recover. All right, Daph, you've won me over. Let's try your idea."
This time when we go at it again, Tracey's first response is to conjure a shroud of smoke. As I clear the smoke she freezes the floor and charms her feet to let her skate. Once I start bombarding her with spells she commits to dodging over shielding. It is only when I finally pin her down that she switches over to Aegis Maxima, and each time she fires it up she is determined to dive, roll, and glide again before the shield shatters. I am forced to melt the ice with an inferno to counter this, at which point she surprises me by snapping off a couple of stunners at me in quick succession. I bat them away, but the point of this maneuver was to divert my attention for the fraction of a second it takes her to jab her wand upwards and cast solarum, which bathes the room in piercing bright light. Daph shrieks and covers her eyes; I, on the other hand, close mine and instinctively drop and roll to present a smaller target. But there are no spells forthcoming. In the ten seconds it takes for the flare to clear she has disillusioned herself.
I conjure snow. It descends in sheets at the speed of a hailstorm. Soon bits of snow stick to her and give her position away. This time I conjure four gigantic golems around her whilst peppering her with spells through the gaps in their formation. She throws up Aegis, blasts a golem, then dives through the space it creates. Once more she takes off; this time she removes the friction from her feet.
I make a complex figure eight with my wand, and vines the size of my arms burst from the ground. They are everywhere, there is no end to them. She cuts through some but the rest shunt her around, cluttering the arena, reducing space, taking away her capacity to move, to breathe. Finally a creeper trips her from behind. She gives up on movement and comes to rest in a crouch— her eyes are wild and defiant; she has decided to make a final stand.
I show no mercy. I am a different person once I step into that arena—when I am in the zone I would crush a child's skull with my bare hands if I had to. But despite the avalanche of hexes and curses I rain down on her, she grits her teeth and throws up shield after shield: silver, blue, green, gold, magenta; and when that fails she conjures rocks, conjures mud walls, bares her teeth and shrieks and keeps going even when the spells start to break through. It takes three more minutes for me to finally disarm her.
"Seven minutes," Daph breathes in awe, gesturing to her stopwatch. She's still clutching her eyes.
The sheer jubilation on Tracey's face will be a memory for my patronus someday, I'm sure. She whoops like the weight of the world's come off her shoulders, then launches herself at me. I accept the hug and we whirl around theatrically, laughing. I am tempted to kiss her— I resist the urge. There are places to which my thoughts must not go.
I set her back on her feet. She's tired but she's glowing: this is the happiest I've ever seen her. She whoops again with one arm upraised and throws the other around my shoulder for support.
A knock on the door interrupts our happiness. Trace opens her mouth but both Daph and I shush her. The knock resounds again, this time louder. I'm tempted to ward the door, making it impossible to open for anyone but Dumbledore or the professors, but at the last instant I decide against it. There's no point. Sprout's office is right across. They'd just go get her.
There are hushed whispers on the other side, then a pause. Then the latch clicks open. The door swings inwards.
The first thing to greet my sight is a head of bushy hair.
The second is Longbottom.
Both of them have Prefect badges pinned to their lapels.
"Curfew was at nine," Granger says. She taps at her wrist: there's a silver watch gleaming on it. "It's eleven now."
Longbottom slouches behind her with rangy ease and gives us a grin and a half apologetic shrug.
"Hiya, Tracey," he greets. "Potter, Greengrass." He nods to me and Daph.
Granger rounds on him, hands on her hips.
"Neville, don't be all friendly with them, they're breaking the rules!"
"We're not," Daph counters. "We have permission from Dumbledore to use this room for practice sessions."
"After curfew?" Granger asks skeptically, raising an eyebrow. "You don't mind showing me the permission slip for that then, do you?"
Daph crosses her arms and looks away. As easy-going as Dumbledore is, he's not the sort to allow students to break rules with such impunity. Curfew applies to us just as much as it does to everyone else.
"What are you doing here?" Longbottom asks. He has a mellow voice. He looks around the room with interest.
"Studying," Daph blusters.
"Finishing our preparations for a Satanic ritual to summon Cthulhu," I confess.
"Practicing dueling," Trace admits.
We all look at each other. You can hear our one collective braincell ping pong from head to head.
Granger's second eyebrow joins her first.
"You're muggle-raised," she says to me in amazement.
"I don't broadcast it," I admit. I offer her a charming smile. "But really, we were not up to anything sinister, I promise. There's this tournament in Milan—"
"Oh yeah, the world championship," Longbottom nods. We all stare at him. He fidgets self-consciously.
"How do you know that, Nev?' Granger asks.
"Ah, Kingsley, remember?"
"You're friends with Shacklebolt?" I question.
"In a way, yeah." Longbottom rubs the back of his neck and slouches further.
"Anyway, we're participating in it, so we have to squeeze out every minute of practice we can—"
"That's not our problem though, is it?" Granger tells me. "I mean, we sympathise, but we're prefects and what you're doing is against the school rules. I think five points from each and a note to professor Snape's the way to go, right, Neville?"
Longbottom stares at each of us in turn for ten seconds.
"Right, well, we didn't see you here," he decides.
"Neville! We can't just—"
"Hermione." His tone brooks no argument. "There was no one here, and that's how it'll be for the next three weeks. Now let's go patrol the corridors."
I must confess that all three of us are currently sharing Granger's disbelief.
"Why are you doing this?" I demand.
"You're working on something that quite clearly means a lot to you." He shrugs and waves a hand. "To all three of you. It's not our place to derail it. Good luck with your tournament."
His face hardens.
"Also, I don't care if you believe me, but I know what's out there. Some things go beyond school rules or house loyalties. The more training— the more wands— the better. Maybe it'll save your life one day."
Granger's glare softens. She seems mollified. She opens her mouth to speak, but I beat her to it.
"We believe you, Longbottom. We believe Lord Voldemort's out there. We believe that he killed Cedric Diggory."
I don't know why I do this— perhaps it is repaying a favour, or perhaps it is because what he says and the way he says it resonates with me— but I do it regardless.
The sheer relief and gratitude in Longbottom's expression stays with me long after the two of them have left.