Chapter 15

It is 6:55 when I step out of the dungeons. The fading sunlight is my only companion as I make my journey. I ascend three stairways, then slip through a narrow niche that performs a miracle of space-time: from the second floor I go to the fourth in a matter of ten steps, as if through a portal. From there I make a beeline for the east wing, turn right twice, take another ascending stairway and find myself where I ought to be. The temptation to be late for this detention was overwhelming, but good sense prevailed. And by that I mean, Daph bullied me into being on time.

I knock.

"Come in!" Is the shrill response.

I turn the knob.

The door opens to a universe of pink. Candy floss pink swallows me up. It is an avalanche, an ocean, an unending void. I look about for respite but am met with nothing but the photos of animated kittens.

Satan's dominion. Umbridge sits at the centre. Her robes are pink, as is her desk.

"Very nice," I say.

It is over, I think miserably. This abominable sight is the recompense for my sins. Take my eyes, ye gods. Take my soul. Anything to get away from this. Anything, anything. My entire kingdom for a hearse.

"You are a minute late, so you'll stay on for an extra hour," Umbridge says.

I do not let this insult to Daph's timekeeping abilities go unchallenged.

"What d'you mean, a minute late?"

I flick my wand.

"Tempus!"

6:59, the shadowy figures read.

"I'm a minute early, ma'am, not a minute late."

"Ten points from Slytherin for arguing with a teacher," she replies, smug. "You're about to learn your place tonight, Potter. The rules are what I say they are. I warned you on the first day, didn't I? I warned you that you do not want me for an enemy . . ."

I tune her out as she dives into her well-rehearsed villain monologue. This is the most canned, constipated nonsense I've ever had the misfortune of enduring. As she prattles on, I imagine Dolores Umbridge with a moustache and a monocle— this image rattles me more than her speech does. Her galaxy brained master plan apparently involves luring in a fifteen-year-old, taking ten points from his house, then making him write lines, all in an attempt to establish dominance.

That last part sounds important, so I tune back in.

"Lines?" I enquire politely. "Did you say lines, professor?"

Her smile threatens to split her face at the seams.

"Lines," she gloats. "Come, sit."

I take the seat opposite, then conjure an inkwell, a quill and a sheet with a casual wave of my wand.

"Not that quill," she says. "Use mine."

This one feels different. Heavier, I mean. More officious looking too. Perhaps her plan is to give me wrist cramps with the extra weight.

"What d'you want me to write?"

She points to a scrap of paper. It has the line: I must respect my betters emblazoned on it.

"These betters," I say. "Are they in the room with us, professor?"

Her expression sours.

"Just write," she snaps.

"How many times do you want me to write it?" I ask.

The saccharine smile is back. I tell you; she wants to stake me to a cross and sacrifice me to her lord god Fudge.

This woman might be evil, you know.

"Till it sinks in."

Because that's not ominous at all, I think, as I get to work.

There's a spurt of red as I scribble the I. The back of my palm stings.

I pause.

Umbridge's smile widens. I throw in the must, just to confirm what I'm feeling, and the twinge tells me all I need to know.

My wand cuts through the air so fast she doesn't even see it. Umbridge slumps back, unconscious.

I push away the parchment. I examine the quill. So this is the instrument Umbridge has been using to terrorise the entire student population.

I have revised my opinion on Dolores Umbridge. She has fallen in my estimation. I thought her to be a vindictive psychopath, but I also ascribed to her a modicum of intellect.

Clearly, I was mistaken.

See, the issue is not that she tried using this medieval torture device. This is perfectly acceptable psycho behaviour and I applaud her for staying true to her roots. No, the issue is that she tried using it on me. And she tried this despite having read everything the Prophet had to say, and after witnessing on its front page the winching whirlwind that was Protego Diabolica.

She's fortunate I am not the dark wizard they say I am, else they'd find neither hide nor hair of this bitch after the stunt she just pulled.

All this sorted out, I consider my options. To get into the correct mindset I conjure myself a tweed coat, a scarf, a pipe and a Sherlock Holmes hat. I'd shop around for a Watson, but Watsons are always in short supply, and my preferred choice is currently in the infirmary, interning under Madam Pomfrey. So I'll have to make do with the dilapidated husk of Dolores Umbridge. Certainly, her contributions will be about as relevant as John Watson's tend to be.

I slip on the tweed coat. Adjust the hat, drape the scarf and stick the pipe in my mouth. With my intellectual capacity thus enhanced, I sit down for a think.

First alternative: I could revive Umbridge and write the lines. This does not appeal to me. If I wanted to donate a pint of blood, I'd head to the nearest blood bank or find a starving vampire. Bleeding all over a piece of parchment is not my idea of charity.

Second, I could report her to the Ministry. I don't have the foggiest about wizarding law, but the use of blood quills on minors strikes me as illegal. Umbridge in fetters— Umbridge thrown into Azkaban, kicking and screaming— this premise does have its appeal. It is the course I'd take if I had any faith at all in the judicial system. But I don't. Magical Britain has little interest in the truth. Justice means nothing; righteousness was prostituted for profit centuries ago. Umbridge has been handpicked by the Prime Minister himself to rule this school with an iron fist. In doing so, he's tied his career to hers. It would be in his best interests to suppress anything that shows her in a negative light. To this effect he'd pressurise the press, the school board, even the DMLE, and it would go nowhere.

Third, I could leave her unconscious, wait out the three hours of my detention, confund her at the end, then pretend I've written my lines. The confundus charm will be difficult, and I run the risk of addling her forever; but this is not an issue, since I do not care about the wellbeing of this woman.

I reject this too, though the reasons for this one are personal. It strikes me as too passive, and while I'm hardly a nice guy, my stomach turns at the idea of exposing first or second years to the quill. If Umbridge believes she's shut me up, she'd have no incentive to stop. She might grow progressively draconian. Others would suffer as a consequence, and the unnecessary suffering of others is of little value to anyone. Least of all to me. No, a message must be sent.

Fourth, I could use the Imperius curse. This one I dismiss outright. She's a ministry employee, has a direct line to Fudge, interacts with various ministry officials on a weekly basis (whenever she goes in to make her reports), and if someone were to note something amiss, the resident dark lord at Hogwarts would be the first suspect. Besides, the Imperius takes up a certain amount of the caster's attention. It is a persistent itch at the back of the brain. Not an issue in short bursts, but to hold someone under it for an entire year is just a colossal waste of effort. I do not wish to jeopardise my daily affairs for this woman's sake.

Fifth, I could murder her. Notwithstanding my own queasiness at the prospect of taking a life, it also runs into the same legal issues mentioned prior. If she were to disappear, I'd be the primary suspect. Even if I made it look like an accident or a suicide, the resulting investigation would be rigorous. They'd find a way to pin it on me. I can feel it in my bones. It's just how the wizarding world works— they associate dark magic with raving homicidal lunatics. Whereas I'm nothing more than a harmless garden variety lunatic. But when has anyone ever taken me at my word?

Sixth, a slightly different spin on the aforementioned idea: I could cause her grievous harm and make it look like an accident. A tripping jinx to send her tumbling down four floors ought to do it. She does not strike me as courageous— breaking her spine should be enough to prompt her resignation. They'd chalk it up to the curse on the DADA post. A promising alternative, but I reject this as well after some thought: better the devil you know than the one you don't. The Ministry might replace her with someone equally malicious, some faceless stooge who is more competent than Umbridge. That would spell disaster. Umbridge I can control— a corrupt auror would be harder to deal with.

So seventh, then. Seventh is the solution I settle for. It occurs to me as I stroke the blood quill, and it is so elegant in its simplicity that I can't help but chuckle intellectually.

"Elementary, dear Dolores," I murmur, taking a long slow drag from my pipe.

The unconscious woman— as is characteristic of unconscious women everywhere— does not respond. I swear I would have hit the ceiling in fright if she had.

I set down the pipe, roll up my sleeves, and get to work.

It takes me almost an hour, since it delves into my weakest fields, and I end up making a pig's breakfast of everything more than once. But eventually, with a generous use of the repairing charm, and with the sweat dripping down my brow, I stare at my work in satisfaction.

I have adjusted the clocks. I've reset them to seven. And the charm I wove in makes it so that the clocks count fifty-five seconds as a minute, so that over the course of the next ten or so hours it will naturally readjust to the actual time. At which point the charm will fade.

I also had to extensively test my idea of retribution, since I do not want to maim Umbridge by accident. This required me to first layer the blood quill with the requisite charms, then conjure an arm to test the effects of what I have in mind. I then had to establish a causal link between the quill and the arm. My first three attempts had the conjured limb explode in a shower of gore whenever I put quill to parchment, and I am grateful that I decided to test this first; because holy shit, that'd have been awkward. But now I have it down.

I vanish the coat, the pipe and the scarf. I clean up the chaos caused by my experimentation.

I take up the quill.

I revive Umbridge.

She awakes with a shake of her head, then glares at me suspiciously. She looks at the clock, which still says seven.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it!" she snaps.

I dip my head with the utmost respect.

"Your wish is my command, professor."

And then I write.

I must respect my betters; I scribble with great gusto. I must respect my betters. I must respect my betters. I must respect my betters. I must respect—

Umbridge screams.

It is a terrible, drawn out, plaintive cry that encompasses the entirety of humanity's grief, from Adam to Napoleon and further beyond.

The reason is simple, you see. Her sleeve is turning crimson. The words I'm writing are not tearing into my palm at all— they're getting etched into her arm instead. Consequently, that arm's being carved up like a Christmas turkey.

"What have you done?" Umbridge howls.

I do not respond. I dare say you would not find a single craftsman on the planet who is more dedicated to their job than I am.

I must respect my betters. I must respect my betters. I must—

"Stop!" She cries, thumping the table with her other arm. When I do not, she leaps across the table in desperation and wrestles with me for the quill.

We wrestle for a minute. I quote scripture at her in the meantime:

Do all things without grumbling or questioning, that you may be blameless and innocent;

And when this does not work, I appeal to her sense of professional pride over a job well done;

And when even this does not work, I descend into the very pits of degradation. The words step on me, mommy, may or may not have left my mouth.

But no dice. She is as resolute as I am. I lose the quill. She settles atop the table on all fours, gasping, and snaps the blood quill in half. Tears leak down her beady eyes, foam dribbles from her protruding tongue.

I shake my head with great regret.

"I was hours away from being disciplined into a well-bred gentleman," I lament. "Now I am condemned to stay a godless reprobate forevermore."

"Get out!" Umbridge shrieks, clutching her forearm. Blood seeps through her fingers. Spittle sprays with every word. "Get out, get out, get out!"

I allow myself a moment of satisfaction after I step out of her office and shut the door.

Somehow I don't think Dolores Umbridge will be bothering me anymore.

"Right after you left, Umbridge could've floo'd straight to the Auror office and reported you," Daph says.

We are having breakfast in the Great Hall. The cacophony of conversation surrounds us.

"I took a risk." I get out the butter knife and spread marmalade on my toast. "Calculated, though. Umbridge loves the sound of her voice. She'd have threatened me first or headed straight for the floo."

"And if she had?" Daph prods.

I shrug.

"I'd have wiped her memories, then pretended I'd written the lines. Perhaps arranged a little accident afterwards."

"Chill, Daph, you worry a lot," Trace chimes in. She's been listening attentively. "Umbridge won't report Harry."

"What makes you say that?"

"Gut feeling," Trace replies. "She'd be telling on herself if she showed the aurors those injuries. They'd know that quill did it. And if they investigated, everyone she's given detention would testify 'gainst her."

"She's stupid but not suicidal," I agree. "It would be career suicide if it comes out she's been torturing students."

Further conversation is suspended due to the flurry of wings. The hall is taken over by a parliament of descending owls. A regal owl the colour of smoke lands in front of me. There's a letter tied to its foot. Attached to the other leg are two bulky scrolls.

I untie the letter, take the scrolls, then trace the owl's flight as it takes off with a hoot.

"Who is it from?" Daph asks.

I don't even have to check the sender's address. I recognise the owl.

"Grimsditch."

I insert a fingernail and slit the flap open. I pull out the letter.

"Lemme see," Trace says.

I hand her the folded parchment. I examine the scrolls. Thick-corded twines are twisted around them. There are miniature octagons between the ropes. Draws blood, I'd wager. An effective way to seal things and password protect them in our world.

Trace skims the letter. She folds it and hands it back to me. I give her a blank stare.

"I thought you were going to read it out loud."

"Meh, it's boring," she replies, yawning. "I was hoping for steamy stuff, you know. Love confessions or somethin'."

"Tracey Davis, cast in the role of jilted heroine," Daph murmurs.

"You two have been reading too much Skeeter," I complain. I unfold the letter.

Harry,

Sorry for not getting in touch sooner. I have very little free time now, since my publicist has forced me to do a world tour. I've just finished giving a demonstration in Cairo. All I can think, every time I face these crowds, is that it should have been you doing this, not me.

Anyway, I'm not getting in touch to discuss my sorrows. I promised you the workings of that arcane shield in exchange for Protego Diabolica, and I have sent it. But I also found something else in my library. Something both ancient and highly destructive, matching Protego Diabolica in its uniqueness. This too has only been seen once before in wizarding history. It is fabled to have been used by Emeric the Evil. They say it stopped an entire army dead in its tracks. I've had little success with it, so I am sending it to you. Consider it a gift, from one connoisseur to another. If you are able to harness it, then do send me the memory.

Keep in touch, if it isn't an inconvenience. I have many devotees but few friends.

Affectionately yours,

Alex.

I fold the letter. I decide to preserve it for posterity, since it is one of the few letters I've received. Shock and horror, I know. Not many people write to me.

I finger the scrolls. I am on the verge of breaking open the seals, but Daph nudges me.

"Not here," she warns.

She inclines her head towards the rest of the table. I have once more become the source of entertainment for my housemates.

"What are you all looking at?" I demand. "Never seen a bloke receive a letter before?"

This breaks the spell. They sheepishly go back to their respective meals.

I tuck the scrolls away. I'll take a look after Hogsmeade, I decide. After all, there's still a date to plan.

You'd expect a day dedicated to romance to be all flutes, lyres and resplendent sun; but Saturday dawns muggy, damp and overcast. There's a chill in the air, there are sporadic showers, and by nine there's a thunderstorm outside.

There are serious concerns Hogsmeade weekend might be cancelled.

Love endures, though. Love wins out. And when I say that I mean Dumbledore stands all twinkly eyed and announces that it would be a crying shame to deprive students of good cheer on such a fine day.

So we all troop to the entrance to drown in the floods. And there's Filch, examining us for permission slips and whatnot.

"You," he snarls, pointing an accusatory digit at me when my turn comes up.

"I spent the night petting Mrs. Norris, old man," I fire back, like the trash talking high school windbag from a B rate flick.

He makes such sounds of passionate anguish as no one ought to make, then demands to see my permission slip.

"Never needed one. Orphan, remember?"

"Ha! You can't go then." His eyes gleam in triumph. "New rules. Educational decree number—"

But the rest of his rant is interrupted when Dumbledore drops in to inquire about the holdup.

Filch tattles on me. He tells Dumbledore I have no form, no signatures, and therefore I ought to be held back. He makes such a superlative case against me, that had I been on jury duty I swear to God I would have convicted myself. This Harry Potter chap sounds like a total scumbag and a blackheart. Off with his head, I say.

Therefore imagine my surprise when Dumbledore conjures a quill and a form and signs the form on the spot.

"Headmaster's permission," he says serenely. "Enjoy your weekend, Mister Potter."

He favours me with a kind nod.

It is ten by the time we reach Hogsmeade. We have a couple of hours before we meet Longbottom at Hog's Head. So as Daph makes herself scarce, I take Trace by the hand and guide her to the activity I have planned.

We are not having a Hogsmeade date.

This is not a conscious failing on my part. Daph and I brainstormed throughout Thursday, trying to hash out some sort of strategy, but the go-to for Hogsmeade dates is Madam Puddifoot's, and I know Trace would despise that.

So I've made alternative arrangements.

These arrangements require a little context.

One of the advantages of being a pro duellist is that you get networking opportunities. When I served under Lockhart, I met the owner of the Falmouth Falcons. It was at a charity dinner, so we chatted a little, toasted each other, then went our separate ways. I ran into him again this April. Pleasant bloke. Turns out his son is a duelling nut, and for some godforsaken reason yours truly is his favourite duellist on the circuit. I can only imagine my capacity for taking one heck of a beating is somehow admirable. But anyway, the owner requested my autograph and I obliged. This time there was warmth in the words we exchanged.

So obviously, given the dearth of romantic locations in Hogsmeade, I remembered my acquaintance. I looked up the Quidditch calendar. Falmouth play away from home tonight. This leaves their stadium unoccupied. So I got in touch and asked the owner if he could please allow me and a friend of mine access to the playing field for a couple of hours? He went a step further: he promised to rent us professional brooms, in exchange for a photograph with his son at a future tournament.

I agreed.

All this was hastily sorted out over a few letters. So it is to Falcon Arena Trace and I apparate.

Her eyes go wide. This is her first time setting foot in a quidditch stadium.

There's background to this as well.

When Trace says she's never been as good as me or Daph at anything, then even setting aside runes, this isn't quite true. We discovered during our first year that she's naturally talented on a broom. So in our second, Daph and I convinced her to audition for seeker. We even went to the house quidditch trials to support her.

She outflew Malfoy's Nimbus 2001 on a school broom that was falling apart. Flint rejected her though, both due to her blood status and because Malfoy had bought brooms for the entire Slytherin team. She wasn't even offered a place as a substitute. Others would've broken down in tears; others would've spat and raged and cussed at their fate— Trace merely tossed away her broom as if it were a piece of wood and vowed never to fly again. She even helped Daph restrain me as I did the spitting and cursing in her stead. In doing so, she saved Marcus Flint from a shiner and me from a night in the infirmary.

In the years that have followed, Daph and I have touched upon the idea of flying recreationally. We remember what Trace used to look like when she flew; we remember her love for the skies, the way she would light up as her broom dipped and swerved. But Trace has always rejected it. She has sworn to us that she feels nothing whatsoever for flying.

I've brought her here today to test that resolution.

Evil, I know, but sometimes it is important to put people back in touch with the parts of themselves that they've cut off.

Trace huffs out a laugh.

"I should've guessed."

She slips her hand in mine and we walk into the stadium.

"I take it you'll fly today?" I ask.

"Is it part of the date?"

"Only if you want it to be."

We step onto the turf. The empty seats are Ravenclaw blue. Lightning flashes in the skies above. This is accompanied by the rumble of thunder. Rain slashes our faces. The home team's dugout is to the left, and true to his word the owner has left two brooms on the seats.

Firebolts.

He's also left a case with a snitch, as asked. I open the case and grab the ball. I enjoy the energetic flutter of its wings.

When I turn back to Trace she is watching me with such adoration that it stops all conscious thought. I've never been looked at like that. She looks at me like the world revolves around me. Like the turf, the thunderstorm, the brooms and even the beating snitch are all meaningless. Like there's just the two of us in this desolate world. No. More than that. She looks at me like I'm all that exists in the world.

In her world.

Lightning fulminates the roseate flush on her cheeks. Rain flecks her dark hair. Each drop bejewels it, a tiara. Her tender lashes tremble and whisper shut at the next peal of thunder And in that moment I feel such a rush of fierce protectiveness that I want nothing more than to cup her like a little fledgling and never let go.

"If you want me to fly, I'll fly," Trace says, eyes closed, lips curving into a smile. "Anything for you, Harry."

My head's gone after that. My heart palpitates against my ribs. I amble towards her. I draw her into a languid embrace and press light little pecks against her glistening eyelids. Then I let go and hold out a broom.

"Come. It's just us here. Remember the game we used to play?"

"Best of five?" She asks, taking the broom, handle-first. Giggles accompany the question. "You'd win that too, you berk. You were always better than me, even on a broom."

"I'd bet every galleon I have on the result being different this time."

"Oh?" Trace wiggles an eyebrow. "Going to throw the match to impress me?"

"Hardly." I mount my broom. "My faith in you is unshakable."

I release the snitch.

And we wing the thunderstorm.

Four years of rust permeates the upward curve. The broom is weightless and receptive to the smallest twitches. But I am no longer as good as I used to be. Trace is in the same boat. We skirt the arena's rim tentatively before we stabilise and gain confidence. We can't hear each other over the cascading rain. She's an outline, circling the hoops at the opposite end. We skim the skies; we float, we dip.

A burst of lightninig.

We dive. To the accompaniment of howling wind and orchestral thunder we accelerate towards the turf, chasing after that elusive flash of gold we've both seen.

She beats me to it by half an inch with a gravity defying pirouette. Her laughter as she holds the snitch up, eyes shining, is the most beautiful sound in the world.

And even in defeat my heart knows a sentiment alien to me.

Happiness.

By the time we stop, the storm has abated. We are windswept and mud-spattered; our clothes are soggy and we've both taken more than one tumble. But we're children again. The purple clouds, suspended in the aether like nectarine goblets, have shared with us their secrets, their primitive wonders; so we are lightheaded, giddy, mesmerised . . .

"I missed this," Trace moans, dismounting. "You were right, it's so freeing. We should fly sometimes."

I land next to her.

"You should," I agree. I wave my wand and the dirt disappears. The grime sluices off our robes.

"We," she corrects, emphasising the word. "It only means so much because you were here with me, Harry."

I have dabbled in lust before, but this is new. My neck grows hot. I do not know what to say.

"Walk with me?" she invites, extending a hand.

Grass crunches underfoot as we loiter through the foliage. Trace still wears that ruddy flush. Her freckles are prominent in the peeping sunlight. They leap and dance in tandem with her radiant grin. She curls and uncurls her fingers in mine, twining, letting go, twining again; she tickles gently, she traces a heart on my palm.

Mellow laughter follows.

"I won't be sappy, sorry."

"Don't apologise. It's who you are."

"I'm who you want me to be," she replies.

A minute's silence.

"I used to dream of this, you know," she says. "Flying. Being a bird, really."

And to make her point she flaps her arms and coos. Proper cuckoo behaviour, if you ask me, but I can't bring myself to care.

"What, when you were a kid?"

"I must've been— oh, five or six."

"Terror of the neighbourhood too, I'd imagine."

"You have no idea." A half smile. "They used to call me gutter rat."

"I'm sorry, gutter rat?"

"Brown hair, see?" She grabs a wet clump and shows me. "Alright, darkish brown. But the image's colourful, so the name stuck."

"You were a child. Who calls children such filth?"

"Other children." She raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes adults too. But that was, eh, less frequent."

"And your mum didn't punch them in the mouth for it?"

"Why would she?" Trace asks. "They were my friends. Everyone's a friend. But some friends are more special than the others, like you and Daph."

She shoots me a grin. Cups her hands into a heart.

I do not respond in kind.

"Friends? You call the people who called you such vile things friends?" I demand.

"Yeah. Some people just have so much pain on the inside, Harry. Sometimes they just need someone to take it out on. So what if it's me? If calling me names makes someone happy, then I've done my part."

"Even if it hurts you?"

"I decide what hurts me. This doesn't."

She grabs my hand to stop my rant. A wise choice, since words cannot describe how appalled I am at this mentality.

"Let's not argue today," Trace cajoles. "You booked this stadium, no?"

"I did."

"For us?"

"Yeah."

"Truly? I mean so much to you?"

"You mean everything to me, Trace."

She squeezes my hand.

"No one's ever done this for me. No one's made me the centre of their life, even for a day. Thank you— thank you!"

There's that smile again.

She steps close. Nervously twists a stray lock behind her ear. Tucks her hands into the lapels of my robes and looks me in the eye. At that moment we're both thinking back to the same thing: that night in Milan, where I rejected this gesture. This time I pull her close.

Our lips meet.

There's no passionate heat, just sugary sweetness. I am not inflamed— I melt. We are two halves of one soul, separated by mishap but conjoined now. Intertwined forever. And in these arms of hers there's comfort. Safety. A kinship that gives me meaning, nourishment and purpose. She's the home I can return to. She knows my heart better than I do.

We separate. We stare at each other in wonder, twin witnesses to a miracle.

"I love you, Harry," she whispers.

My soul thrums. I respond with the only truth I've ever known.

"Love you too, Trace."