Chapter Eighteen
(A foray into the mind of a very happy girl, part 2)
When he returns from the Owlery, Harry is all smiles.
"Longbottom's kept his word," he says.
It's a cold Tuesday afternoon. Students come and go, but everyone in the Slytherin common room knows the hearth is ours to monopolise. So they only side eye us, and this only because Daph's got her fingers wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate. She can't stand the cold. She's wretched every time winter rolls around. To cheer her up I got her a plate of cinnamon rolls and that steaming cup from the kitchens when Harry was gone.
I've also got myself herbal tea. No sweeteners for me. I've sworn off sugar for the foreseeable future.
The last cup sits next to the half-finished plate on the table between us. Coffee, two sugars. I pick it up and hand it to Harry.
"Tori's free then," I say.
"After we buy out the contract, yes." Daph blows at her cup. Her expression does not change but she is very pleased.
"When are you guys doing it?" I ask.
"Winter holidays." Harry grimaces. "I still think we ought to go to Gringotts right now, Daph."
"You've seen the circulars," Daph says. "No student is allowed to leave the school grounds without prior permission from the High Inquisitor. Umbridge's looking for a reason to expel you. Don't give her one."
Harry drains his cup.
"To hell with her. I don't care if she kicks me from Hogwarts."
"I know you don't," Daph says. "But I do."
They have a staredown.
"Ah, whatever." Harry sets down the cup. "If you think Winter hols' is best, then winter hols' it is."
Daph softens.
"Good," she says. "Let's try and keep you from being expelled for as long as we can. Hogwarts would not be the same without you in it."
There's such an undertone of tenderness and affection in her words that I almost drop my drink. I stare at Daph, wide eyed. Her tongue moistens her upper lip. The corners of her mouth have inched up into an unconscious smile.
Harry shrugs.
"Sheesh, thanks for the vote of confidence."
They share a laugh.
It is possible that four years of romantic pining has rotted my brain, so I say nothing. But I make a mental note of this behaviour. There have been jibes before, and they've been amicable in the past, but this is the first time Daph's words sound so loaded. So full of possibilities.
"Wait, that reminds me." Harry jolts up. He leaves us and runs to his dorm. Daph and I look at each other.
"What was that about?" She asks.
"Guess we'll find out."
We do. He returns five minutes later with two pouches.
"Now that the sword of Damocles no longer hangs over us, we need to split our winnings." He tosses me a pouch and passes Daph another.
They're really heavy.
"How much is this?" I ask, jingling the coins against my ear.
"Should be around one eighty five," Daph says.
We usually split the proceeds three ways, 50-25-25.
"Two fifty each," Harry says. "For all of us."
A chorus of displeased hisses.
"Keep your voices down." Harry looks over his shoulder. The common room is empty.
"This wasn't the agreement." Daph stands. She tries shoving the pouch back into Harry's hands.
He refuses to take it.
"I'd have gone out in the quarters if not for you and Trace." His jaw is set. He can be very stubborn when he wants to be, and when he's like this there's no winning an argument with him. "I'd have kept one fifty and given each of you three hundred if I thought you'd take it."
"You must be out of your mind if you think we'll take this," Daph growls. "You stood in that arena. You faced down some of the best duellists on the planet. You fought and won most rounds, not us. This is your money. Now that Tori's free I don't need your charity."
Daph has her pride. We'd all be a lot happier if she learnt how to let go of it.
I see the argument brewing. I end it before it begins.
"Thanks, Harry," I say cheerfully, tucking the pouch into my sleeve.
He can take it back from me if he ever needs it. It's not like I do anything with the money. I'll owl fifty galleons to the goblins and ask them to convert it into pounds, then mail that to my mum. The rest I'll leave at the bottom of my trunk, as I always do.
Daph deflates. She follows my lead and grumbles her thanks.
Wednesday. We are back in the little cove behind the drapery. Harry has brought along the two scrolls that Grimsditch sent him. He first unfurls the one for the shield and gives it a cursory skim, nodding as he goes along. Then he switches over to the other. He feeds it blood and reverently undoes the twine. From the quality of the yellowed pages and its crumbling appearance I estimate it is from the twelfth century. Maybe earlier, I dunno.
Harry stares. He stares some more. He pushes another drop of blood into it and the scroll turns into a sheaf of pages, some thirty or forty in number. He riffles through these with mounting frustration, till he throws up his hands and roars.
Daph and I side eye each other.
Ask him, her eyes say to me.
No you.
She blinks first. She sighs and opens her mouth, but before she can make the query, Harry clears it up for us.
"This must be her idea of a practical joke."
It's rare to see Harry annoyed. But he is very annoyed right now. He jokes around with a lot of things but he's kinda obsessed when it comes to duelling and spell hogging. Any reminder of his own limitations puts him in a foul mood.
"What's the matter?" Daph asks.
"It's gibberish." Harry's words are clipped. "This is not in French, English or Latin."
His frustration makes sense. While there are translation charms for speech, there are none for writing. It has to be done the old-fashioned way, with quill and parchment.
"I don't think Madame Grimsditch would send you something bogus," Daph says.
"Oh, I'm sure it isn't." He's still annoyed. "But she can't possibly expect me to learn a new language for funsies, just to decode this spell. I already have too much on my plate."
I perk up.
"Can I see?" I ask, holding out my palm.
"Be my guest." He slides it across.
I am careful in my handling. I caress the edges. I smooth out the wrinkles. The bark is cool and dry. Vellum. The script that jumps out is unfamiliar, but I have seen bits and pieces of this before.
This seems to be in Aramaic.
See, I don't know this because I'm smart or something; I know this because I take runes, and the study of runes is more than just a study of magical symbols. It's also the study of languages. Ancient languages that have died out over the centuries but still find invocation for certain spells and theories. Runologists usually work as teachers, translators or curse breakers. So while this language isn't in the syllabus, I am aware of its existence, and there ought to be books on it in the Hogwarts library.
There's a problem tho'. As I continue to go through the pages there are also equations that catch my eye. These are not gibberish at first, because Emeric the Evil has overlaid some of the symbols with runes; but it is primarily a deep dive into arithmancy—for the wand movements, possibly, or the mechanics of the spell— so the overall picture they present is alien to me. There are also strikethroughs. Entire segments have been blotted out. All in all, it is a very messy document.
I am resolved to try and help though, so this is only a minor inconvenience.
I show Daph the equations. From her pinched look it is obvious that she'd need to do some research as well, mostly into the cluster of runes that complement arithmancy. Out of the thousands of runes from the dozens of subcultures we study, there are only a few that can do this, since Arithmancy studies the theory behind wanded magic, whereas runes are about subcultures that exist without wands. They are an alternative to wands, not a complement, and the only areas where these two fields intersect are warding and curse breaking. More curse breaking than warding, since the inclusion of runes in any modern ward scheme just destabilises the entire structure. The last people to successfully integrate runes into their wards were the ancient Egyptians.
Thus even for someone with no background, it should not take an ice age to brush up on the theory behind these specific runes.
"Lemme keep this till Christmas," I say to Harry.
Harry's face twists into disbelief.
"What, to translate it?"
"Yeah."
"You're going to learn a new language on top of all the other obligations we already have? It'd be at least three hundred hours of extra work, Trace."
"Less," I say. "I know what to look for."
"Bloody hell, it's a time sink anyway. Forget it. It's a spell I'll never use competitively."
"Don't discourage her," Daph says, in response to the stubborn jut of my chin and my glare. "Everyone needs a pet project."
"Uh huh." Harry stares at her blankly. "What's yours, then?"
Her sister, I want to say. I bite my tongue to stop myself from being rude.
"Keeping you alive," Daph replies.
There it is again, this time from Harry. His face eases into a dopey grin. He's supposed to be measured and sarcastic around Daph, not sappy.
And this is downright sappy.
"A valiant if wasted endeavour," Harry announces.
I'm starting to think something happened between them in Milan when I was out.
But it also feels like they're not even aware of what they're doing. There's no flirtatiousness in any of this and if you squint hard enough it could be passed off as banter. Certainly, as the two of them stare at each other, lost in their own world, I think they've convinced themselves it is nothing but lighthearted ribbing. But there's tension in the air, the sort I've always been good at picking up on. I don't know how else to describe it. It feels like their bond has deepened. Like I missed something significant, some secret milestone in their relationship.
Something I could use, if only I knew what it was.
"Do what you want, Trace," Harry says, breaking eye contact with Daph. "But there are so many other things you could do instead. Do you really want to spend all that time hunched over in the library, browsing through god knows how many books?"
"It's for you." I smile. "So it's no problem. Oh, and if Alex sent this as a practical joke, I'll be damned if I let her get one over my boyfriend."
Thursday. I keep my ear to the ground. I like knowing what people think and I am always happy to hear about the joys in their lives. I commiserate with their sorrows whenever they trust me enough to share these. Words solve nothing, but the right words make people feel really good. Sadly I'm no wordsmith. So sometimes I don't have the right words. But there's a lot of affection pent up in my heart. A lot of goodness to give the world. So whenever a chance comes by to help people, I grab it with both hands.
Like now. In a corner of the common room I find two kids huddled together. Firsties, I think. A boy and a girl. They're tiny and they look miserable, so I go over to see if there's anything I can do.
They have that anemic tinge which hints at an iron deficiency. They're twig thin too. The boy has his head in the girl's lap and he's trying very hard to stifle his sobs.
They only notice me when I'm right next to them. They jump up and take a few steps back, but there's only stone behind them.
I crouch to eye level. I study their faces carefully. I think back to the sorting this year and two names immediately suggest themselves to me: Clarke and Rosaline Burton. Twins. Half-bloods, I think, but clearly muggle raised. It's in their dress sense— the lack of scarves, the shabbily knotted ties, the vague hints of spilt gravy clinging to their sleeves. Wizards prepare their children better for Hogwarts.
"Hullo!" I say brightly.
A whimper from the boy is the only answer. But the girl has spirit. She steps in front of her brother, head raised defiantly, and spreads her arms.
I giggle and boop her on the nose.
"You're so cute!" I gush. "May I call you Rose?"
"How do you know my name?" She cries, reddening.
"I'm a seer." I tap my forehead. "And a little birdie told me I'm needed here."
"Are you really a seer?" The boy asks shyly, peeking out from behind his sister.
"No, darling." I ruffle his hair. "But if you tell me what the problem is, I'd be happy to make it go away."
"We don't even know you." Rose glares at me, suspicion written all over her face.
"Name's Tracey Davis," I say. "You can call me Trace, if you want."
I grin at Rose.
"There you go. Now you know me. So my lovelies, why so sad?"
"Are you a prefect?" Clarke asks. He's got that slow, high pitched, delightful way of talking most kids have. He's let go of his earlier sadness. He's more trusting than his sister is.
"I'm whatever you want me to be."
"It's Parkison who's prefect, not her," Rose says darkly, crossing her arms. Her glare remains glued in place. "You're with that dark lord Potter."
I can't help it. I laugh. What a ridiculous name.
"Harry's only a dark lord when he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed," I confide.
And when they're still unconvinced:
"I promise, guys, he's perfectly harmless. Like a giant teddy bear."
I put my finger to my lips.
"Don't tell him I said that tho'. It'd destroy his self image."
Rose snorts. Like her brother she has hair the colour of sand. She reminds me of Daph. Despite the cynical exterior she's just a kid at heart.
"Our secret?" She demands.
"Our secret," I nod, my smile widening.
With the ice broken, it's easy to get the full story out of them. It's not as bad as I thought it would be. Their classmates treat them like we were treated in our first year, but without any of the physical abuse. They are called mean things. They are shunned and no one wants to be friends with them. They're not half-bloods, as I first thought— they're muggleborns. Their da's a plumber and their ma's a housewife. They're struggling to settle in— they miss home terribly. They hate that their robes are made fun of, when their da's worked so hard to find the money for it.
I can relate to all this. I sit with them for half an hour and listen.
Then I get up.
"Come," I say, "let's go find you some friends."
I take them with me to the Gobstones club. It's a spacious cuboidal room on the third floor and the club's always looking for new recruits. I myself am only a part time member, since most of my time goes into duelling. But the thirty or so people that participate are really friendly with each other. It's all people Harry and Daph haven't even heard of. Other than Padma Patil and Ernie Macmillan, there's also Kevin Entwhistle, Marcus Belby, Anthony Goldstein, Colin and Dennis Creevey, Morag Macdougal, Mandy Brocklehurst and other esteemed purebloods, half bloods and muggleborns. I don't know most of the kiddos; you know, the ones who are second year or under. But the rest of 'em I'm at least acquaintances with.
The club's open from morning to night. You can go in whenever you are free and play a couple of rounds with whoever's available. It's a happy refuge from school life. So it's no surprise, when we get there, to see Dennis Creevey playing with three Hufflepuff first years.
I make introductions. I explain the rules. Then I sit for hours and watch the kids play. They're shy at first, but slowly they blend in. They relax and start having fun. It warms my heart to see them clap and scream with the others whenever someone's sprayed or whenever someone takes a spectacular trick shot.
To keep myself busy I chat with whoever comes by. It's thus that I have an interesting conversation with Padma and Anthony, who come in at around four in the evening.
They are hesitant. Anthony Goldstein had a crush on me last year and I had to let him down gently. Padma, however, has no such reservations, since we sit together in divination. So I'm surprised she hangs back for as long as she does, whispering, debating, shaking her head. But they come to me eventually. It's awkward with Anthony, but he's a nice guy and a good sport. There's no ill will between us.
"Tracey," Padma says, taking the seat next to me. Anthony stands. He nods but avoids eye contact.
"Davis," he greets.
"Goldstein," I reply. And then:
"What were you whispering 'bout?"
"It's about Potter." Padma's their spokesperson.
"Go on." I keep an eye on the kids. Rose has lost her seriousness. Her face is half covered in goop and she's giggling like the schoolgirl she is. It makes me laugh as well.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Padma fold her hands in her lap. She's nervous.
"Neville's been doing the rounds, convincing us to attend these classes you've planned," she says.
Ah, dear Neville. He's such a great guy.
I say as much.
"See, the thing is, even with his guarantees we're not sure we want to attend."
She fidgets as she says this.
"Why not?"
"Potter's a bellend," Anthony blurts out.
. . . I take it back. I don't think Anthony's a good sport, and I don't think I like him all that much anymore.
"Know him personally, d'you?" I ask.
"He's not wrong," Padma murmurs. And then, seeing my expression:
"Please don't be angry, Tracey! But it's true. Even you know Harry Potter's difficult to talk to."
"Not for me," I say angrily. "And I've never seen any of you try!"
"He's unapproachable," Anthony grumbles.
"What's your problem with him?" I demand. "Like, what's he even done to you, eh?"
"Nothing," Padma says. "To either of us. But, Tracey, he's rude to the professors, he's condescending all the time, he struts about like he's Merlin's gift to humanity, and my friends and I are really scared he'll use these classes as an excuse to humiliate us. He did it with Ron Weasley at Hogsmeade. You saw it too. He said to all our faces that we are beneath him."
I am surprised. My surprise must show, because Padma hastens to reassure me.
"We're not saying he's really like that. It's just how it feels from the outside. But could you promise us he won't be abusive? Because if that's what he's going to be like, then we'd rather not attend. We've got one Snape in our lives already. We don't need another."
"I promise he'll be nothing like Snape," I say curtly. "He'll be the best teacher ever."
We talk some more. I am cold and closed off. They pick up on the bad vibes and leave. Now that they've left I go from brusque to disturbed. They've given me a lot to think about. Harry is the sweetest person in the world but he's always been standoffish to strangers. Rough around the edges, I mean. He can seem stuck up if you don't know him the way Daph or I do.
I resolve to talk to him once I figure out how to go about doing it. I won't name names or mention this conversation, because I'm not a snitch, but I agree we must be kind to everyone. There's never enough kindness going around.
"Done," Rose gasps.
This shakes me out of my thoughts. The twins are both covered in murk, but I've never seen a pair of happier kids.
"Good," I say. I take my wand out and vanish the grime. We trudge back to the common room.
The hearth is as empty as it was when I left it, suggesting Daph's in the library or with Madam Pomfrey, and that Harry's gone off to practise his duelling or to do research on how to conduct his classes. They're so single minded in everything that I am often left alone and have a lot of free time.
"Wait here," I say to the children.
I go up to my dorm. I rummage through my trunk and get the pouch out. From this I take ten galleons. I transfer the amount to a smaller pouch then return and hand it to Rose.
"For both of you," I say. "Get new robes."
Rose stammers out a stream of denials. Clarke's more blunt.
"We can't pay you back, Miss Tracey," he says, staring at the pouch with longing.
"You don't have to, sweetheart." I ruffle his hair, then crouch and busy myself with undoing their ties and re-knotting them properly. They're blushing, the adorable dorks.
"When you're all grown up," I say softly, "just remember this and pass on the goodness to someone who needs it. Because a lot of people need someone to look out for them, but no one ever comes. Promise me you'll be that person for someone in need, a'right?"
"Promise," they both chime.
They run off to the owlery, all excited.
There's so much sadness in this world, I think, as I watch them go. If I can make just one person's life a little better, then my time here has not been in vain.
Harry and Daphne have big dreams, you see: greatest duellist ever, best enchantress ever. Mine are simple. If I can cobble together some money, I want to fund orphanages, food banks and homeless shelters. I had so many days as a kid where anyone showing me a little kindness kept me smiling for days. Kept me afloat. That pastor who let me into the choir. That teacher who bought me lunch once. That nice old lady who told me I was pretty, even when everyone else kept calling me mean things. And the others. The people who mean everything to me.
Daph.
Tori.
Harry.
Especially Harry.
I want to be that person for someone else. I want to give sufferers a reason to smile. I want to help them get back on their feet after life has beaten them down. Because life once beat me down and any help back then was like the warm embrace of a guardian angel.
I don't do this to be praised. I don't want anyone to know that I'm the giver— I want it to be the kindness of a stranger, not the generosity of Tracey Davis.
I couldn't do that here, but it's my motto. It has to seem like magic, you know. Help is always appreciated the most through the lens of anonymity. So what if I fade away, forgotten? The kindness will multiply. It will live on beyond me. And that's all I want.
Friday. Transfiguration class. We've turned in our homework assignments. Half the class has gone by and Harry is nowhere to be seen. Daph and I are backbenchers and we are sharing a table. We're supposed to transfigure a block of wood into a wooden chimaera. Just shape shifting, you know, but without altering the material or adding in an animation charm. Basic stuff.
Half the students have managed to make some progress while the other half are having serious difficulties.
I've finished the task. I stifle a yawn. My chimaera sits in front of me, maw open, tail swishing. I've added the charm for the extra grade. McGonagall comes by and gives me an approving nod.
"Well done, Ms. Davis. Take ten points for Slytherin."
She nods again and leaves.
Minerva Mcgonagall is a very nice lady. She never discriminates against me. Nor against anyone else. Harry dislikes her, but then Harry dislikes everyone except me and Daph. Sometimes I ask myself if this is just his excuse to not socialise. But even if it is, I'm not complaining. If I could take up all his time I would, because there's no greater happiness in my life than being in his company.
Being with Daph is a close second, though.
Speaking of Daph . . .
"You stupid fucking piece of shit," Daph snarls, smacking her block of wood with her wand repeatedly. Her eyes are wild and desperate and her hair is askew. Soot stains her cheeks. She's set her block on fire thrice. She's going for a record fourth.
"Change," she growls under her breath. " Change!"
The block does not change. It glares back in sullen defiance.
Daph is a prim and proper lady, you know. It's so damn cool. I've always been a little jealous of how she shimmies about with this air of total effortlessness. Like— like a posh aristocrat! Why can't I be that way? Is a common complaint of mine.
Except in Transfiguration. I'd never want to be like her in Transfiguration. She's a mess. The ladylike behaviour just goes poof. She swears like a sailor. Now she fully embraces her derangement and cackles ominously. She has a Texas staredown with a block of wood.
She raises her wand above her head like the hammer of Thor.
"Take this!" she shouts, rotating her wand and bringing it down at warp speed.
And, in conjunction with this belligerent battle cry, she absolutely clatters the block.
It remains unaltered.
"D'you want me to do it for you?" I ask kindly.
"Don't you dare," she hisses, baring her teeth at me. Sparks fly from the tip of her wand. Daph is frightening when provoked and she is ready to murder me if I interfere.
I leave Daph to it. You could give her the entire year and she would not make much progress. She's pants at this. It's how it's always been.
There's the sound of pounding footsteps, then a knock at the door. Harry comes into the frame. He struggles to steady his breathing.
"Sorry I'm late."
The Hufflepuffs nearest the door sneer at him. He gives them a wave, a wink and a charming smile. This stays in place even as McGonagall floats to the front of the class.
Her nostrils flare as she approaches him.
"What's your excuse today, Mister Potter?"
"I respect you too much to make an excuse, professor," Harry replies, his hand flying to his heart. He's the very picture of sincerity.
"Homework," McGonagall says, holding out her palm.
Yeah. About that. He's not done his homework. I reminded him thrice this week, but he was too busy going through Auror training manuals and trying to figure out how to best teach Neville and his gang. If there's one thing to be said for Harry, it's that he never does anything in half measures. He's a perfectionist to the extreme. Neurotic, in fact. His obsession for the few things he cares about is way worse than mine. When I left him last night in the library he was buried under a pile of books, trying to figure out the most efficient way to cram five years' worth of advanced magical education into an eight-month time span.
But yeah.
He's not done his homework.
Harry's smile is radiant.
"Uh, dementor ate my transfiguration homework?" He tries. "I'd put too much soul into it?"
The class holds its collective breath. She'll deny it to the end of her days, but I swear McGonagall's lips tremble. A hint of a smile. For that moment— and just that moment— it's like she's in the past, looking at Harry's father, not him. Then the moment fades. The light dies. The lips droop downwards. She goes from happy to sad then regains control and becomes stern again.
'Course, I don't think anyone notices this, not even Harry; but it's all there. It's the slight shifts, the sort of stuff I'm good at intuitively picking up on.
McGonagall sighs.
"Get in, Potter." She does not look at him. "Try not to be late next time."
"I would never, ma'am," Harry swears, standing to attention and saluting.
This resolution will not last twenty-four hours.
Daph's not even looked up. She's too busy playing whack-a-mole with her block. Harry sees me, waves, and heads in our direction. He slides his wand into his hand as he reaches us.
A casual flick.
Daph's block morphs into a snapping metal chimaera, eyes, teeth and tail encrusted with precious stones, ensemble complete with a ribbon wrapped around the neck.
It wags its tail at Daph and lolls its tongue out.
Daphne Greengrass, prim and proper lady, lets out a strangled scream and drives her fist into the table. I cling to her to stop her from leaping across and throttling Harry.
"Lemme at him!" she cries, gnashing her teeth and struggling vainly against my grip.
Harry takes the seat behind us. He's got that who, me? sort of innocent surprise etched into his expression.
"What?" He asks Daph. "You were beating that block of wood like it owed you money. I just decided to put it out of its misery."
"Calm down," I say to Daph, who has renewed her attempts to rip Harry's heart out and stuff it down his throat. And then to Harry:
"Stop being mean, you berk."
"Just trying to help," Harry says. But the mischievous glint in his eyes tells its own story.
Daph goes limp in my arms.
"I'm failing this paper," she sighs. Even Harry can't mistake the utter dejection in her voice.
He might mock her, but when it comes to comforting the people he loves, there's just no one better at it than Harry.
"No you aren't," Harry replies, patting her head. "Chin up, Daph, we'll find a way to get you passing grades. I'll never understand why you're arsed about Transfiguration in the first place tho'. It's a rubbish subject."
"Does it not appall you when you're bad at something?" Daph asks in that same lifeless tone.
Harry shrugs.
"I'm bad at many things," he says. "It doesn't matter as long as you're good at something. And you, Daphne Greengrass, are amazing at everything else you do."
Daph shakes her head, pushes away Harry's hand, pushes away the chimaera in front of her, then goes to get herself another block.
"I love her never say die attitude," I tell Harry.
"Look, there's no one who admires Daph more than I do." Harry taps his head. "She's strong up here. Mentally she's the toughest person I know, what with her circumstances and her determination to fight the gods for her sister's life if she has to. But sometimes you have to know when to cut your losses."
I think back to all the tournaments where Harry has received a hiding at the hands of his opponents but stayed in the arena.
"You're a hypocrite," I say.
He laughs.
"Never said otherwise."
Daph returns and gets to work again. She's muted. Her head's down and her focus is fully on the block in front of her.
"Oh yeah," I say, "Neville told me he's found a room."
"What, this morning?" Harry asks.
I nod.
"He said it in Runes class. Seventh floor, he said. Behind that portrait of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls ballet."
"Huh." Harry is contemplative. "I'll go take a look after class."
"He said you've got to walk past the tapestry three times and think of what you want the room to become."
"Solid." Harry scratches his chin. "And nonsensical. But there are no limits to magic, I suppose. What's that, Daph, some sort of space time warping charm?"
I could kiss him, you know. He slips it in all casual and curious, like he's genuinely interested in the theory behind the charm. Daph perks up. Her eyes shine. Her block is forgotten.
Harry and I listen as she launches into obscure theoretical jargon that we cannot make any sense of. Harry even leans forward at times, tapping his foot, nodding along, punctuating her explanation with 'mmm-hmms' and 'that makes sense, yeah', even though none of it does. Daph is so smitten with her own ideas that she gets out her notebook and starts scribbling in equations, showing us what she's doing, talking to us as she does so. Arithmancy. Madness. I don't even know what any of it means and from the way Harry winks at me when Daph's not looking, neither does he. But we listen in, and when the bell rings it's a much happier Daph that leaves the room, her failure in this class forgotten.
"I've got to meet Pomfrey," she says. "See you around. And Harry, if you have an hour to spare today, I'd like to pick your brain on how to make that transfiguration work."
"Take the entire day if you want, Daph," Harry replies. "I've got nothing but time for you."
She smiles— that special smile she used to reserve for me alone— then waves and trots off. We watch her winter cloak and her long skirt flutter in the breeze as she rounds the bend.
"She likes you a lot," I inform Harry.
"Ah, I like her a lot as well." His hand flies to his heart again. He grins. "Say, want to go for a jog around the great lake, Trace?"
"Sure."
But even as we head downstairs it is obvious he thinks my comment about Daph was in a familial sense. As a sign of kinship or something.
Subtlety is wasted on them, I note. It'll be a while yet before they stop dancing around each other and admit this shift in dynamic, though I still don't know what caused it.
Saturday. Back in the headquarters behind the tapestry. We've been here all day. Harry's consulting Daph about lesson plans. They're sitting side by side with a heavy dossier between them. They pore over it, their heads so close together that their hair keeps touching, black contrasting with gold. I've taken a seat on the far side and am going through Elphias Doge's Introduction to Aramaic. It's a tough read and my mind keeps wandering. But I've made some progress anyway— I'm taking notes as I go along.
"No," Daph says, "not the patronus charm, Harry. It's too niche and too difficult."
"Voldemort has a fondness for dementors," Harry points out.
"If you want to waste half a year trying to teach a bunch of dunderheads one spell, then be my guest," Daph replies. "But the correct approach to a dementor encounter is to flee, not to stand and confront them."
"Unless there are anti-apparition and anti-portkey wards involved."
"Both of which the dark lord is known for using in conjunction with Death Eaters, not dementors."
Daph slaps her palm against the table. The thump makes me start.
"Your time is better spent elsewhere," she insists authoritatively. "Shields. Palladium Maxima—"
"Is a magical shield even aurors have difficulties controlling," Harry interrupts, his expression incredulous.
He turns to me.
"Do you know Palladium Maxima, Trace?"
I take a second to clear the cobwebs from my brain.
"Erm. Physical and magical shield. Best used to defend large groups. Big improvement on Aegis Maxima. Holds up well against everything except the unforgivables. Founded by, uh, Hereward?"
"Yes." Harry's lips quirk. "Enlightening history lesson, Trace, thanks. But I mean, can you use it?"
"Stop trying to humiliate her." Daph's voice is a whip. She looks furious. "I thought you were better than that."
"I'm not trying to put her down at all." Harry says calmly. "I've been training with Trace for two years and we've spent six months working on that one shield. An hour a day. I'd still not trust her to cast it in a high-pressure situation. And Trace is a highly talented duellist in her own right, far better than this lot. If she can't do it, then they can't either. You're wrong, Daph— the Patronus is easier."
Padma's words float back into my mind. Condescending. The word plays itself over and over, till I decide to break my silence.
"They might surprise you," I say quietly. And then louder, "Harry, can we talk?"
They stop quibbling and look at me.
"Yeah, sure," Harry says.
"Your personality . . . um, you can be sorta intense sometimes."
Harry grins and gives me a thumbs up.
"Thanks, Trace."
Daph tilts her head. She weighs my words.
"It was not meant as a compliment," she notes.
I rub the back of my head in apology.
"Afraid so, haha."
Harry looks between us quizzically.
"What d'you mean, then?"
"You overshadow everyone," I explain. "Like, in the pub last week. You kinda rubbed it in. And sometimes, um, your words cut deep when you're being sarcastic. Also, er, what sounds like a joke to us won't feel that way to strangers?"
I can't help it. My voice hitches and the attempted assertion turns into a question.
Harry strokes his chin in thought.
"Ah, you want me to be nice," he says.
Harry is paying attention, like the sweetheart he is, even though I'm a total mess and neither he nor Daph can understand the crux of what I'm trying to say.
The right words don't come, so I make do with what I have.
"Yeah," I say, nodding. "But also, the classes are about your students, not you. You're not the star. You're there to make them better. And, um, I feel like a lot of teachers forget that. Some of them made me feel dumb, you know. Like they were judging me when I could not keep up."
I shift about and look at my feet. My face heats up.
"I never learnt anything in their classes."
"There's nothing wrong with having standards," Daph retorts. "This is not muggle school and they're not you, Tracey. They've all had at least three years of magical education. Ten, for some of the purebloods. It's silly that you want Harry to hold their hands and lead them about like little children."
"You wouldn't get it, Daph," I reply. "You're very talented. But not everyone is. Some of us just need an arm round our shoulder. A couple o' kind words. Someone to remind us it's ok to mess up sometimes, as long as we try our best. And most of all— most importantly— someone to keep faith. To believe that their students can do whatever they're asked to, because they have the fighting spirit in them."
"And you've had this mythical teacher in your life?" Daph asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah."
"Who, McGonagall?"
"Harry," I say simply, pointing at him. "He just needs to be the same way with everyone else. He needs to stop judging his students' potential before he's even had a class with them."
Harry beams.
"Words to live by," he says. "Right, you've convinced me, Trace. I'll keep my frustrations to a minimum. I'll go in there genuinely believing there's some hope of salvation for this lot."
"And if there isn't?" Daph prods.
"I'll run them into the ground anyway," Harry laughs. "Back breaking effort is the only god I've ever known."
Endnotes
One more (?) Tracey Pov to go. I can't say for sure, because this is not pre-written and I'm guessing based on the structure I have and the scenes I still need to write. So might be one, might be two. But I think I might switch back to Harry next chapter for the DA. Hence why I ended it here. Still in two minds about whom to pick as narrator for the first DA lesson. I'm leaning towards Harry, since his promise to Tracey means he'll externally try and be on his best behaviour. His internal monologue is a different story.
Writing's exhausting. Everything hurts. I've not had the best few days recently either. So leave a review if you have the time. Much appreciated.
Thanks for reading and take care.