Trigger Warnings: References to child abuse, codependency and obsessive attachment. If you're in a shitty mood and have jumped to this update in the hopes of a quick laugh, then I recommend leaving and returning when you're in a better state of mind. No humour to be found here.

Chapter 17

(Tracey Davis Pov; or, a foray into the mind of a very happy girl, part 1)

When someone says Dungeons, people immediately think of the Slytherin common room. Or the potions' classroom. But the dungeons are vast. And what's more, they hold centuries worth of secrets.

One such secret is a mouldy tapestry with a discoloured wall behind it. But that wall is an illusion. If you stick your hand— like so— it goes through the wall and sucks the rest of you in. And that gives entry into the little cove we use as headquarters whenever we wish to discuss important stuff. We found it in our third year, and in our dozen or so visits to it we've never been interrupted.

We're there now. We've painted the walls emerald. They gleam with miniature stars and palpitating galaxies that Daph's enchanted. I smile and wave at the milky way. I wink at it and it winks back sympathetically. I laugh and stick my tongue out— we are friends now, I decide.

Harry and Daph are arguing. I ignore them and float about, humming Whitney Houston's I will always love you. I spin slowly, swinging my arms as my humming reaches its crescendo. I pick up bits and pieces of what's being said.

"That was a mistake, Harry."

"It was your idea to have me fight him."

"Yes, fight him, not join him."

"Join him? What nonsense. I remain committed to staying out of the upcoming conflict."

Daph intertwines her fingers and places them on the table.

"You've sworn to train up an army to fight the dark lord," she says. "If you wished to pick no sides, then this was not the way to do it."

Her voice is low. Soothing. It's how she always speaks. You sorta have to strain to hear her. Except when she's angry. She's not angry now— she's scared.

She hides it well. Her self-control's great. A casual onlooker would see nothing except an arrogant mask. But I've known her for what feels like my entire life. I can read the signs. It's in how she breathes. Sharp and jagged her breathing jumps. Too erratic. Too predictable. You're transparent to me, Daph.

Harry though is chill. He's always laid back and relaxed. That mocking half smile is locked in place. Even a bomb blast would not rattle him.

"I thought you'd be happy with the money," he says.

"I am. I don't mean to sound ungrateful; you've done a lot for me. But this money is poison."

Harry spreads his arms.

"Yet we must drink it," he says. "There's no other choice."

"There is. Individual tutoring."

"And what if I can't find enough students for that? We're on a deadline, Daph. Eighteen months is nothing and five thousand galleons is a lot. It'd be cutting it too close for comfort. This was money in hand. It was right there, so I took it."

Daph steadies her breathing. She looks at me.

"What do you think, Tracey?"

"Yes, Trace, you've been quiet so far. I hope we're not boring you."

I stop humming. I drift over, dip and kiss Harry on the cheek. My heart flutters even as I do it. Laughs. Leaps in joy.

I take my seat next to him. It's where I belong.

"I think you're both being weird," I say. "Neville's a good guy, he's in the right here. It's an honour to work with him. It's no risk either, guys. He has Dumbledore. Till Dumbledore's on our side we shouldn't be scared."

They side eye each other. They have an entire mental conversation in that one glance.

Subtle shifts in both expressions.

Oh.

They're keeping things from me again.

I don't mind it, you know. I trust them unconditionally. I love them without restraint. And sometimes I don't have a filter.

"Yeah, you're right," Harry says, his tone light. "Daph's deliberately overlooked that. It's her dislike for Dumbledore acting up."

"He's a man worthy of my dislike," Daph snaps. "As is Longbottom. My sister keeps making doe eyes at him."

"What, hormonal teens? Falling in love? Perish the thought, Daph. What sort of sorcery is this?"

They quibble over that. They think they're being smooth with the change of topic.

I indulge them. It's an unwritten rule that my head's supposed to be in the clouds. I'm the quirky one. The same way Harry is witty. Or Daph withdrawn. People don't come to me for meaningful conversation— they want me to be lighthearted and sappy.

And if I can't do that for these two, both of whom I love with all my heart, then what can I do? What's even there for me, if I can't be a ray of sunshine in their lives?

Nothing.

There's nothing for me at all.

This is not your home.

It's what my mum said to me when I was nine. I returned to our rented flat a little late one night, spattered with mud, drenched in the rain. I'd gotten into a scrape at the park because I was quick to take things to heart. I was a hellion back then. I'd throw down with boys twice my size because they called my mum a whore. They always went easy on me, even as I kicked and scratched. They laughed at me and their laughter and the futility of my struggle cut deeper than their fists ever did.

That night I returned to the usual stench of alcohol. Mum was swaying. She was very drunk. She called me a gutter rat. She told me she ought to have aborted me. She said I'd ruined her life. That I'd been nothing but a parasite and a disappointment. That I'd sucked out all her happiness, destroyed all her hopes and dreams. That I was an anchor, weighing her down. That if she could bring herself to poison me, she would.

Then she said the sentence that's been carved into my memory ever since: this is not your home.

We went about our business the next morning, pretending nothing had happened. I forgave her. I always did. And I always will. Because I love mum. Because my favourite memories of us are happy. Us making pizza together and me smearing dough on her face. Us watching my favourite action movies on weekends. Cartoons. Rom-coms. That parent-teacher meeting, where she told me it was fine for me to be dumb, because I was her daughter and she loved me. And my treasure, my happiest memory with mum— her rocking me to sleep when I had fever that one time. Whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

But I've jumped the gun.

My birthday is in March. I was born Tracey Olivia Davis. Olivia. That's my mum's name. I have no dad. Daph and Harry think he was a pureblood who strung my mum along. They insist he was a blood purist. But I don't think so. I think it could have been anyone, pureblood or half-blood or muggleborn. But I don't think it was a death eater. A death eater would've turned my mum into a twisted plaything when they stopped caring for her. Or killed her outright.

I stopped asking these questions many years ago tho'. Bringing up dad makes mum sad. I hate it when she gets sad. It's when she's at her worst— it's when she thunders and spits and calls me names.

It's always my fault. I know she loves me; I know it's my worst tendencies that bring out the beast in her. She's so stressed all the time. So depressed. I make it worse. If I wasn't such a bad daughter, such a fuck up, such a failure, she'd be happier. We would be happier.

My mum was an orphan, you see. She was a very bright student who wanted to go to Cambridge. She spent her entire life working towards a scholarship. She wanted to be a scientist. But she fell pregnant with me when she was seventeen. Right as she was on the cusp of achieving all her dreams. She had no one to lean on, no one else to turn to. She had to give up her education. And I made her already difficult life even worse by dragging her into poverty. From dreams of changing the world she went to working odd jobs— waitress, dish washer, house maid, receptionist and now secretary. She's right to resent me for it.

What else is there to say about my early life? At some point mum became an alcoholic, because that was the only thing that gave her comfort. She had a string of disappointments with men, so she gave up on dating. She had great expectations from me for a while, but even now I can't sit still for a minute. I have difficulties concentrating. I keep moving my legs every ten seconds. I never know what to do with my hands. Back then it was worse. So I barely passed my classes, no matter how hard I tried.

But I didn't try very hard, did I? It's the thing with being rubbish at studies. I avoided it whenever I could. I just wanted to play. I wanted to stay outdoors all the time. I did not have the head for concepts or numbers. Nor did I have the maturity to appreciate just how hard mum was working to keep a roof over our heads.

Twice, for very brief spells, we've been homeless. I make that sound worse than it is— we slept in our car, and each time it was only for a week. But that leaves its mark anyway.

It changed me. And what mum said to me that night changed me as well.

By the time I was aboard the Hogwarts Express, the spirit had been knocked out of me. There's only so many times you can hear children, adults, and even your own mum call you things before you give up. Before you learn how to retreat into your own head. Before you make your peace with failure and consider it your best friend. Go to a happy place, you know, where they can't get to you. Where they can't hurt you.

Stepping into this new world, I had hoped things would be different. But when I saw just how posh these kids were, I knew that everything would be the same. Everyone had new robes. New books. Scales and cauldrons and telescopes in mint condition. And then there was me, rail thin and ratty looking. Tattered clothing. Broken scales and worn cauldrons that had seen years of abuse. Nervous tics'. Hyperactive tendencies that survived even my mum's worst attempts at correction. The only thing I could really boast about was my wand. Mum sold off her jewellery to buy that. She loved those earrings, that necklace. But she loved me more. She truly believed I could be a better student in the magical world than I was in the muggle world.

She was wrong. I was useless. Every class it just felt like I was so far behind. No one wanted to be friends either, because who'd befriend such a mess of a human being? Sure, that spectacled boy who sat two rows in front kept giving me sympathetic looks. But it didn't mean anything.

It never did.

So when Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson and Malfoy got after me, I felt like I deserved it. I retreated into that corner of my mind, even as they burnt my robes— the only set I had. As a prank, you know. They made me stand in my underwear while they mocked me. Made fun of how scrawny I was. Called me mudblood and other sorts of mean things. But it did not matter. They could never get to me, never hurt me, because what could they say that I'd not said to myself a thousand times before?

And that's when he came flying around the corner, eyes blazing. He went straight for Malfoy, knocked him over, and rained down so many punches that Malfoy's face turned into red paste. Even when Crabbe and Goyle pulled him back, even when Parkison screamed bloody murder, he twisted this way and that till he broke free, then got straight to it again.

Eventually they ran off to avoid this crazy person.

I just stood there, frozen. I wondered if he'd make fun of me as well.

He didn't.

He gave me his cloak.

He was gentle. He spoke to me like I was a wounded animal. He introduced himself as Harry Potter, then said the kindest things I'd heard in a long time. He told me he'd take care of me. He asked me if I wanted to be friends. He offered to buy me new robes.

And though I did not know it yet, that was the start of my love affair.

Because how could I not want him for myself after that?

My relationship with Daph was difficult. Even now, despite being exposed to some of the world's cruelties, Harry is too trusting. Especially when it comes to the people he loves.

It was so with Daph for the first three months. Harry sat her down and gave her a big speech about acceptance. He made it clear that we were friends now and that Daph was to embrace me the same way Harry had. Daph nodded along.

But the minute Harry's back was turned, she got to work on me.

She was unpleasant. She knew what buttons to push. She did not raise her voice nor stoop so low as to call me names. But she played heavily on my insecurities. Whenever we were alone she wondered what Harry saw in filth like me. She said he'd recognise I had nothing to offer and throw me away, as he already ought to have. She said I was trouble, and I agreed with her, because every word she said was nothing but the truth.

If it had only been this, I wouldn't have minded.

But I did not trust Daph. I could see what Harry could not— this girl was an opportunist who was only with us because she was socially awkward and a pariah. That in her heart of hearts she believed she was slumming it out in our company. That she'd trade us for pureblooded friends in an instant if they'd have her. Not Malfoy and his cronies, since she seemed to hate them as much as we did, but the likes of Bones or Abbott or Smith.

Which is why it was a surprise to see her change. She came to care for Harry, because even back then he had this way of making it clear that if you won his trust he'd die for you. When she dived in the way of that spell intended for him, all my doubts were set to rest. She had become one of us.

But my relationship with her continued to be cold. She saw me as a mudblood. I saw her as a stuck-up bitch.

It changed when we returned from winter hols'. Sharing the same dorm meant we sometimes got to see each other change. So when Daph returned late to our room, hoping everyone was asleep, I guessed what it was that she was trying to hide. As she removed her robes in the dark I lit my wand— I saw the marks.

She'd been beaten raw.

It took me two days and a lot of sharing my own stories to get the truth out of her. She had a similar relationship with her dad as I did with my mum. He was a drunkard and a drug addict who often returned home in a towering rage. He had buried a decade's worth of resentments and inadequacies in his heart. Sometimes he took it out on his family. He never hurt Tori, because she was sick, and because Daph would have found a way to murder him if he had. But she herself had no such protection.

Yet she adored him. She remembered what he once was, how kind he used to be when they were rich and when he hadn't lost all his money. He had been sweet then, she said, and not a gambler and a layabout. Not the monster he had become. Tori, she said, was like her father, whereas Daph herself resembled her mum, both in appearance and attitude. Maybe that's why her father was so cruel to her— she reminded him of the woman he hated.

We grew close after that.

The first thing we agreed on was to never tell Harry any of this. He already knew about our circumstances in general terms, but as someone who had a loving childhood he would not understand the specifics. We knew he'd take it badly. We knew he'd get it into his head to save us, and go to the ends of the world to make it a reality.

Whereas we did not need saving. We loved our parents. We felt a disagreement over this would pull us apart.

As the years have gone by, Daph's attitude has changed. She still hasn't told Harry about the physical abuse, but she's told him everything else. I have watched her love for her father turn into loathing. And sometime in her third year her contempt with him grew so much that she put a stop to the physical abuse at wand point. Her father hasn't touched her in two years.

But though she's told Harry about herself, she has respected my wishes. She's kept my secrets.

That, then, is the bedrock of our friendship. And it would later serve as the foundation for her infatuation.

It was gradual. It started in our second year. Her guilt over how she had treated me was so intense that she attached herself to me throughout the Chamber of Secrets fiasco, acting as sentinel, as silent protector. Harry was with Lockhart all the time, so it was just the two of us. Whenever I roamed the hallways or went to the library, Daph would find an excuse to join me, believing her blood status would offer us both protection. Thus she kept putting herself between me and whatever it was that she thought was hunting me down.

It did not stop there. When Harry started training me in our third year, I was hopeless. I had a love for the art form and an even greater love for him. I was terrified of letting him down. But I had no technique. I didn't even know where to start.

It was Daph who helped me. It's a bit of a running gag that Daph is a terrible duellist. But this is only partly true. Her reflexes are poor and she has no talent for offense. But her defence is almost as good as his. Her expertise with shield charms is second to none, even if she panics in the heat of the moment and always picks the wrong shield to use. The temperament isn't there. But the quality is, as is the technical understanding.

So throughout year three, whenever Harry was on his own, at a tournament or with Lockhart, Daph trained my defence. She had other engagements, her duties to her sister and her backbreaking workload as a healer amongst them, but she always set time aside for me. And as we trained together, I watched that guilt from the first year coalesce into love. It was a sort of burning, pining, furtive need. Daph does not like being touched, yet she'd keep finding reasons to touch me. Link arms with me, you know. Lean into me. Stroke my hair. Press herself against my neck. In my presence she'd always have a dusting of red on her pale face. I don't know how she thought she was fooling anyone, because her affection for me was more transparent than mine for Harry.

I would have returned it tenfold.

I knew, from the time I was twelve, that my ultimate dream was for us all to be together forever. There wasn't anything physical about it— it was just a sense of belonging, of rightness, of companionship. I love them both with an intensity that frightens me sometimes, because underneath the adoration there is a lurking darkness. An obsessive attachment. A refusal to let go. I remember standing outside a redolent bakery once, half-starved in the cold and the rain; I remember looking inside, at the finest pastry I've ever seen in my life, and thinking to myself: I want that.

What I feel for them is the same but magnified a thousand times. All I can ever give these two, for what they've done, for the kindness they've shown me, is myself, heart and soul. I have nothing else. No skills, no money, no value. I have nothing to give but my trust, my affection, my reverence and my life. They're the family I've always wanted; it is impossible for me to be with anyone else. I don't want either of them to have other partners either. It has to be us— the three of us against the world, as it always has been, as it always will be. Always, always. No one else can be allowed to encroach on what we have.

Yet year four came along and destroyed all my dreams. Daph would not confess. And I always got the vibe that if I told her any of this, she'd throw herself off the highest tower in Hogwarts. So I let her go about with her routine of a martyred heroine, and I watched from afar as Harry fell for Fleur Delacour. It was over— it had fallen to pieces. Fleur was ethereal and no one in the world could compete with her. Besides, Harry felt nothing for me. Harry and Daph felt nothing for each other. And Daph, despite her feelings, would not say a word to me about them.

I respected their wishes. I tried moving on. For three weeks I dated Theo Nott, right around the Yule Ball. It was horrible. My mind was elsewhere and I was obsessed with putting things right. That's when I realised there was no moving on— I was too damaged to just get over my obsessions, which tormented me day and night. So I ended things— Theo was a gentleman and it was the least he deserved, even if he does not speak to me anymore.

Then a stroke of good fortune. Harry broke up with Fleur. Two months of wild hope, then Bones. But Bones did not worry me, because I could see from the start that she'd shoot herself in the foot. She accused me of trying to sabotage her relationship. But I did not. I did nothing. I feel terribly guilty about how possessive I am, but I would never interfere with Harry or Daph's choices, even though I love them so much. No, Bones sabotaged herself, because she picked up on my love for Harry and never had enough faith in her ability to overcome that. Or in his ability to stay loyal, which is funny, because Harry is the most loyal person I know.

Then Milan. Hogsmeade. And now this. The present moment. My mind is at peace. I have Harry. Now that I have him, I'm never letting go. I won't muck this up, not even if it kills me, because I am so close to achieving perfection. So close to having everything I once only dreamt of.

So close to finding a home.

All that's left is to convince these two brilliant people of everything they're too blind to see, but everything I've known all along— that we need each other. That we cannot survive otherwise. That there's no one else out there for any of us, because it is destiny that tied us together and now not even death can do us apart.

Endnotes

This is one of the few chapters where I briefly suspend the narrative to examine a character. It re-treads earlier themes, but through a fresh set of eyes.

The need for this is obvious. Other than complications surrounding the threeway, Tracey has received the least character development out of the trio (and the most romantic development). It was impossible to solve this issue through Harry's eyes, since Tracey represses the worst of her trauma to fit into the almost caricatural role Harry has assigned her, i.e, of moral compass, guiding light and childish companion, perfect in her innocence. Tracey subconsciously picks up on what Harry wants her to be, and since she's obsessively devoted to him, anything that could interfere with his perfect image of her is trimmed out, pruned or sidelined. She plays up her own caricaturization, in the hope that it will appeal to his tastes.

This is a response to her deepest fears and her own terror of abandonment. And since Harry himself is quite chill and laid back and— despite his best qualities— just a fifteen year old, he doesn't fully appreciate the metaphoric scar tissue or the evidence of trauma. It gets glossed over.

If you re-read the work, it is rife with evidence of this. None of this contradicts what has been written before about Tracey, since the reader has never seen her through anything but Harry's eyes. She is a sweet girl for the most part, very loyal to her friends, and so on. So all this pov does is that it defines her more sharply and adds flooring to her character, so to speak.

Now, that aside, you want the threeway to work, you'll have to sit through two more chapters of her Pov. The next one, and the one after that. But those two also move the plot, since they cover about six weeks of in universe time, DA included. You'll also get to see a lot of Harry and Daphne, since Tracey interacts with them frequently. The shift of pov just shows you things following Harry about would not have.

Obviously, in doing so, I've broken my own rule from the intro about no Pov shifts. But trust me, if I could think of any other way to get these ideas across, I would not be doing this. So two more chapters of Tracey, then we go back to Harry for the next 100k words.