Chapter Twenty-Two
In the days that follow, our study group rediscovers its vigour. However, all references to future festivities are subdued. Hogwarts is overcome by antsiness; there are frequent incidents between Gryffindor and Slytherin, not just due to the breakout, but due to the proximity of the Gryffindor Slytherin Quidditch match. Both teams are unbeaten, with Gryffindor having demolished Hufflepuff and Slytherin having done the same to Ravenclaw. Whoever wins, goes the rumour, is a shoo-in for the cup.
All this would pass me by, as Quidditch often does, if it were not for Trace.
After four years of seeming indifference towards Quidditch in general and flying in particular, Tracey Davis has rediscovered her passion for the sport. The day before the match she corners me in the library and talks my ear off. I am given a running commentary on the strengths and weaknesses of the Gryffindor team: their Chasers, who are 'awesome'; their keeper, who is 'hit or miss, but it's Ron, he's ours, we've got to back him, Harry!'; their beaters, Derrick and Bole, who are 'cute kiddos'; and their seeker, Mclaggen, who is 'a bit of a bully'. She throws the form book at me; she treats me to a history lesson in the rivalry. She demands so much attention with her golden retriever energy that my readthrough of our Third Year Transfiguration text is thoroughly ruined.
I set it aside, though not without a tinge of regret.
"Why," I demand, turning to her, "are you telling me all this?"
"Cuz' I promised Angelina we'd root for Gryffindor." Trace reaches into her satchel and pulls out a scarlet and gold abomination that she tries convincing me is a scarf. "You'll wear this. It matches the one I have, see?" She spreads out a second one that's even uglier. "I charmed these myself."
"They look like they've been cursed by an African shaman," I say dryly.
"Rude, Harry."
"And true. Seriously, why not get Daph to enchant it?"
"She said it'd disgust her to sit with Gryffindors. I couldn't let her do it after that! It would've made me look weak."
She takes my pained silence as an invitation to continue.
"You'll look really handsome in it." Trace smiles sweetly. She extends her hands and wraps the scarf around my neck, then gives me a peck on the cheek. "You're my last hope, Harry. I said to Daffy, he'll never refuse me, he's the bestest person ever, he'll come and sit with me and the Gryffindors.'"
"Not in a million years," I retort, crossing my arms. " I know what you're doing. It won't work, Trace. I'm no one's doormat."
Come breakfast next morning, I have red and gold around my neck. I rock back and forth, stroking its garish edges and contemplating the pit of despair my life has fallen headfirst into.
The girl next to me is effervescent, though. Trace is a Gryffindor in all but tie colour. Her jacket, cloak, skirt and leggings are all crimson. She's heavily streaked her hair red as well. There are handwritten placards in front of her, each with an animated chant for a separate player. There's also a picnic basket. She stole into the kitchens at the crack of dawn and got it from the elves. She proudly shows off its contents throughout breakfast, ignoring the looks she's getting.
"Grilled cheese sandwiches," she explains, smacking her lips, "and ham and smoked salmon. Oh, and treacle tart. Or look, blueberry muffins! You can have 'em if you want, Harry. Pumpkin pasties are mine tho'. You take one, you lose a finger."
Halfway through this discussion on cuisine, Daph enters the hall. I try catching her eye, but when she sees us her head snaps up so quickly that she's momentarily a blonde windmill. She has an existential crisis over the grotesqueries we're wearing, then decides, after some thought, that she wants nothing to do with a matching pair of intellectually challenged imbeciles. She alters course and goes over to Astoria at the Ravenclaw table.
After breakfast, we move towards the school grounds. We break away from the Slytherins and try joining the Gryffindors, but halfway through we encounter Snape, who takes umbrage with how we've chosen to dress ourselves.
"Detention," he sneers, "for the next two months—"
But before he can get any further, we are rescued by Dumbledore, who is heading in the same direction. He is wan and sickly but lights up when he sees Trace. His eyes twinkle.
"Forty points, Miss Davis, for the best costume I have seen at Hogwarts all school year," he says, "excluding—if you will forgive my immodesty—my own personal attire."
He takes Snape by the arm— Severus Snape, who is seconds away from triple homicide— and says cheerfully, "Come, Severus, we're going to be late."
In the hush that follows their departure, Trace turns to me, all radiant.
"He likes my dress!" she cries, doing a fist pump and a celebratory twirl.
"Coming from Dumbledore, that's not the compliment you think it is."
But nothing can ruin her mood, which mirrors in its happiness the ambient glow on the horizon.
The stands are jam packed. Three of them openly chant for Gryffindor. It is a fresh, delicate day, of the sort that you never associate with a British winter. Even the tawny, sundrenched grass seems to foreshadow a red riot.
The omens are all for the lions, I think, mounting the steps to the stands and pushing my way through the press of bodies and the furious festal noise.
"Coming through, coming through, please," Trace exclaims from behind, as I jostle past a flock of errant second years. One of them slyly knees me in the ribs; I elbow him across the face for his troubles. He goes down, clutching his nose.
"Excuse us, sorry!" Trace cries, "My boyfriend's an angel, he'd never hurt a fly."
. . . this as I viciously body check a cowering third year who is too slow to get out of the way. The girl goes spinning and is dragged into the whickering herd. She is presumably trampled to death— I do not pause to look.
My warning shot does more than Tracey's apologies. The Gryffindors part before me like the red sea before Moses. We stalk through their crumbling phalanx and land ourselves prime vantage, in the form of seats next to Neville Longbottom and Hermione Granger.
"I have massacred half your house to get to you," I announce, panting. "Don't take it personally, mate, they were in the way."
Neither of them is amused.
"What are you doing here?" Granger hisses. "It's against the rules to be fraternizing in the wrong stand. Check rule twenty-six, two, subclause (b), on page four hundred and thirty-seven of the Instruction Manual for—"
She's interrupted by Trace, who breezes past me and pulls both Hermione and Neville into a bear hug, laughing.
"We're here for you," she says brightly, after letting go. "Gryffindor today, see?"
She does a twirl for them as well, her hair a fluttering curtain of red and chestnut. She dips into a curtsey at the end and winks.
Granger's eyes soften.
"Oh, all right, I'll overlook it this time." She bites her lip. "Though I don't know, I'm not supposed to, I'm a prefect . . ."
"So's Neville," I say. "But look at him, he's chill. There's none of this, oh, I'm a prefect, woe is me. What will I ever do if someone breaks the rules?" I reach into Tracey's picnic basket and pull out a butterbeer. I offer it to Granger, who shoots me down with an irritable jerk of the head. I hand it to Neville instead. He accepts.
"Where's Greengrass?" He asks me, popping the cork.
"She went the way of Mary Antoinette," I inform him. "We don't tolerate treason around these parts."
"Dunno who that is," Neville says cheerfully, tipping the bottle back and taking a sip, just as Granger adds: "Daphne does not like us very much, does she?"
When I stare in surprise, she gets defensive.
"What? I'm not stupid, Harry. She's polite, but I can tell when I'm being humoured. I don't know what I've done to upset her. . ."
She squints at me in suspicion. She does not come out and say it, but Granger is well aware of what she's suggesting. The unsaid implication hangs between us. Blood Purism. Racist towards muggleborns. Neville picks up on the vibe as well; he sets the bottle down and stoppers it, then sits up straight.
I am annoyed. I rally to defend Daph, because her issues with Granger are not about blood purity, not truly. I don't think so, at least.
Trace beats me to it.
"It takes her time to open up." Tracey's voice has that sincere warmth which mine lacked when I tried deceiving Granger last week. "She was hurt very badly when we were firsties, so she doesn't trust easily . . . don't ask me more, it's not my story to tell." A beatific smile. "If she dislikes you, Hermione, she says it to your face. She likes you tho'. So you'll give her a chance, won't you?"
The way she bites on her lip at the end and stares at Granger with wide eyes is frighteningly effective.
"I suppose it would not hurt to try a little harder to befriend Daphne . . ." Hermione grumbles.
The crisis is averted, but my surprise ratchets up several notches. Trace is not just lying— she's being blatant about it. Two days ago, Daph said the exact opposite in our presence:
"Switch the assignments," she'd pleaded. "Give me Longbottom, or even Edgecombe. But not Granger. That girl can't keep her mouth shut. Yesterday, when I saw her approaching, I tried hiding behind a venomous tentacula. It did not work; she found me anyway. Then she lectured me about how the plant is dangerous, and how it would've eaten me if she'd not been on hand to save my life. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me, Harry. I salvaged it by saying I'd bent down for a moment to tie my shoelaces . . . but I can't take it anymore, I can't! You have to get me out of this!"
"How's the healing coming along?" I'd asked.
"She's brilliant," was the grudging response. "Completely insufferable of course, but her talent for healing is second to none. It's pointless, however. I refuse to teach that swot any further. She turns everything into a competition; she has a compulsive need to be the smartest person in the room. When I told her she was wrong about the Arithmantic configuration for a healing spell, she went behind my back and researched its origins. She traced it to Egypt, then informed me that it has undergone thirty-two separate revisions in the last three millennia. She said her alternative is as viable as mine. The nerve! This is psychotic behaviour, Harry— she's a very disturbed girl!"
"Was she right, though?" I'd asked idly, only for Daph to flap her arms about and fling a textbook at me, shrieking, "that's not the point!"
The point, I'd wanted to say, is that you're two peas a pod. Trace had averted that crisis as well— she'd covertly kicked me under the table and placated Daph then, much as she placates Granger now.
"Will you hold this, Hermione?" Trace asks. "It's a placard. I made them myself, so we can motivate our team together. Take this one, it says Ron."
"Ron and I are not talking to each other," is the clipped response.
"Eh? But why?" Dying friendships are Tracey's specialty. "Move over, Neville, move over. Here, you can sit next to Harry." She hands me her picnic basket and bulldozes her way past a bewildered Neville Longbottom, who tries folding himself in half to let her get through without falling on top of him. This done, Trace wedges herself between him and Granger. She stays there as the players tramp onto the pitch. I catch crumbs of hushed conversation from the other side.
Neville's face is a study in helplessness.
"Er . . ."
"Trace can be like that sometimes," I commiserate.
"I honestly didn't know. She's not like this in Runes."
"What's she like, then?"
"Dunno. Um . . . normal? Less girly?" He shifts about uncomfortably. His voice drops to a whisper. "That's not. . . it's not offensive, is it?"
"The secret to life is offending everyone," I advise him. "You won't live long that way, but it's a life worth living."
I pat him on the shoulder when he continues to look unsure.
"Don't worry, Neville, you're fine. Tracey is hard to offend. She's survived me for five years, hasn't she?"
In the silence that follows we watch the game.
It takes three minutes for things to go pear shaped. With Gryffindor having raced to a 30-10 lead, Montague rams into Alicia Spinnet. As her broom whirls out of control, Goyle blasts her full pelt in the forehead with a bludger. The screams from three stands drown out the crunch of her skull and her resultant fall. Dumbledore saves her before she meets the ground face-first, but her race is run. Play is suspended for five minutes, during which Trace chews on her fingernails, Granger deplores the existence of Quidditch, Neville bashes the railing in impotent fury, as if it were Goyle's head, and I watch Madam Pomfrey carry off an unconscious Alicia on a gurney. The latter's skull looks like a squashed snooker ball.
Play resumes, though Gryffindor are down to six. Six becomes five two minutes afterwards, when Katie Bell's broom is barged into from behind in the same way and the same strategy is repeated. Seven versus five— it's over before it has even begun, though the penalties given for foul play briefly push the score up to 70-30. Angelina cuts a heroic but increasingly frazzled figure against the three Slytherin chasers; Derrick and Bole look more likely to whack each other than the bludgers flying at their team mates; McLaggen quite clearly does not know what a broom handle looks like, let alone a snitch; and Ronald Weasley, though in top form, is left to fend for himself.
"We have no substitutes," Neville mumbles, chin against his chest. "Angelina's always worked with smaller groups. Everyone else in our house is rubbish on a broom anyway, so it's not like it would matt— COME ON, RON!"
The last bit is in response to a triple save. It proves futile; Flint pounces on the rebound and scores.
The stands start to empty. Once or twice I catch a gleam of gold behind the hoops, but neither seeker spots it. Weasley keeps Gryffindor in it, but there's only so much a keeper can do. 70-30 swiftly becomes 80-120. We stop looking at the scoreboard after that, though we dutifully sit through this demolition, Trace waving her Ron Weasley placard in defiance every time he makes a save. She ends up waving that placard a lot. She is the most passionate admirer anyone could ask for: she cajoles, shouts, pumps her fist and demonstrates the finest pair of lungs in the history of sport.
It does little to alter the course of events.
"Don't fly?" I ask Neville, if only to have something to gossip about.
"I've been on a broom once." He shudders. "Never again."
"Bad memories?"
"Er, bit of a funny story, really."
The stragglers erupt into groans. This is drowned out by the raucous roars from the Slytherin section. Flint's just exchanged passes with an unmarked Pucey and sunk the quaffle past an outstretched Weasley for the third time in the span of a minute. Weasley turns to Angelina Johnson and throws his hands into the air. You bollocksed that up, I hear him shout. Fuck's sake, give me a chance, at least.
"Funny, you said? Maybe that's what we need to get through this suffering."
Angelina receives from Weasley in a huff and tries leading a one-person breakaway; she ducks underneath a bludger, artfully weaves her way past Crabbe and Goyle, who both take swings at her, nips past Flint as well, but is body-checked by Montague and spills the quaffle in the melee. Pucey collects and bears down on the hoops. Weasley saves, saves again, then concedes at the third time of asking. He bellows at the sky, his face a spectacular shade of puce, and punches the nearest hoop. Then he kicks it for good measure before collecting the quaffle and resetting. On the next play, he submits to the red mist that has overtaken him and fumbles an easy pass to Johnson— Montague intercepts, sends him the wrong way and smashes it in.
Neville buries his head in his hands.
"So my great-uncle Algie," he mumbles quietly, "he's a bit of a character. He took me to fly when I was eight. Said some bollocks about manly hobbies.
"We get to this empty park, yeah? And it's snowing like there's no tomorrow. I'm freezing, I want to go home. But uncle threatens to tell gran. Gran is a force of nature.
"So I hop on. I can't see past my nose or feel my hands, but I hook one leg 'round the broom." He mimes a clumsy motion. "It's wobbly, y'know, but I think I'm okay . . . Then Uncle Algie slaps the back of the broom like it's a Thestral's rump."
He bites back a hollow chuckle.
"That broom . . . it shoots straight up." He makes a whizzing sound from the corner of his mouth and snaps his hand upwards. "Worst ten seconds of my life. I hold on but, y'know, I'm slipping 'cause of the snow. So I go one way, the broom goes the other . . . and when I come to, I'm at St. Mungo's. Fractured skull. Herniated disk. Angry Gran. And uncle Algie nowhere to be seen, slunk off like the coward he is. Never sent him another Christmas card after that."
"Good riddance," I say.
"You'd think so, wouldn't you? That's what my gran— WELL DONE, RON!"
Neville's on his feet. Weasley has just pulled off a gravity defying fingertip save. He clutches the quaffle in one hand and starts a counter by himself. He skips past two Slytherin chasers, plays a one-two with Angelina, then scores a rocket into the right hoop. The diminished Gryffindor section explodes. Trace jumps up and down in a frenzy. I look at the score. It reads: Slytherin 260 Gryffindor 120.
"Come on, guys," Trace begs, crossing her nail bitten fingers and waving her Ron Weasley placard all the more fervently. "Just catch the snitch now, and we could—"
But what 'we' could do is rendered moot, because Malfoy spots the snitch that instant and plummets towards the expanse of grass. He scoops up the struggling snitch, his knee grazing the ground, then circles the stands, preening. A flailing McLaggen trails ineffectually in his wake.
Four hundred and ten to one hundred and twenty. The worst beating in Gryffindor's history since nineteen forty-three, I am told by a glum Trace. She hugs her placards to her chest. She's so sad that she leaves behind her picnic basket, which has gone untouched, except for the butterbeer I gave Neville.
I curse the Gryffindor team for being a bunch of plodders, then slip my arm around Tracey's waist and try lifting her spirits. It bears no fruit— she is the very portrait of utter dejection.
Before Transfiguration that afternoon, Trace and I agree that we're going to avoid Daph.
"It's her or me, you have to choose," Trace declares, before entering the class. "If she can't stand by us at our worst, she doesn't deserve us . . ." She scrunches her brow, "at our slightly less worst?"
"Words to live by," I assure Trace. "Daph and I are strangers now. Off, off, eely tentacle! There's nothing between us."
It takes Trace five minutes to forget our concord and break ranks.
"You chose those filthy Slytherins over us," she cries, her practical assignment already done.
Daph, who has been working and failing horribly at hers with quiet dignity, looks up, and blinks.
"We are Slytherins, Tracey," she says slowly, as if talking to an idiot, "and I watched the match with the Ravenclaws."
"Huh, Ravenclaws?" Trace is somewhat mollified. "They're no Gryffindor, but it's a lil' better, I s'pose."
This is my cue to join the conversation.
"With Lovegood?" I ask.
"And Tori, yes. I do not mind the odd piece of japery, but sometimes it is too much for me. You went too far this morning, and I have my own reputation to think about."
"We did," I admit. "But are you telling me Lovegood's supposed to be better?"
"At least I know not to take her seriously." Daph taps her scales— we've been asked to turn them into funnels and alembics. "That girl needs a mind healer— I'm not joking either. She went on about rotten tomatoes as a defense mechanism against Inferi, then tried convincing me that every Greengrass is a unicorn in disguise. . . it's no surprise that she's such a lackwit, however. Tori plays along with all her delusions."
She lifts her head and meets my gaze.
"But it was still better than sitting in the Gryffindor section, I'd wager," she says.
"You'd be surprised," I reply. "We chatted up your best friend."
"Ugh, Granger." Daph wrinkles her nose. "Now I'm doubly glad I chose to stay away."
"She's sweet," Trace mumbles, "just a lil' uptight. Dunno what you and Harry keep moaning about."
"You deal with her if you like her so much," Daph fires back.
"Would too, if I knew healing." Trace looks at her assignment. Her eyes are sad. "She doesn't talk to me much tho'. She prolly thinks I'm dumb."
"We are dumb," I say, "and we wear it as a badge of honour. It's what separates us from some people I know."
I slowly look Daph up and down. She gives me the gimlet eye.
Further conversation is suspended when Minnie McG clears her throat. She's sour faced — the crushing defeat suffered by Gryffindor has taken its toll.
"As this is our last class before the winter break, I would like to wish you all a happy Christmas in advance. Please strengthen your theoretical base over the upcoming holidays— some of you will need it. I am looking at you, Mister Fletchley, and you, Miss Greengrass."
Daph ducks her head and swears under her breath. Her catalogue of foul words is impressive—I did not know she had it in her.
"I will also be coming around in a moment," McG says, "to grade your homework assignments."
It takes her ten minutes to reach our table. First she grades Daph's assignment, whilst Daph says sorry through gnashed teeth for being rubbish at Transfiguration; then she grades Trace, who wishes her merry Christmas and happy holidays, and is wished as such in return. Both of them receive Es.
She takes my assignment— I can see her mentally preparing herself to shred me. I'm in a bad mood, her tightening lips seem to say, just give a reason to take it out on you.
She reads through my assignment . . . and her mouth drops open.
"This . . ." she stammers, "this is . . ." She takes off her spectacles and stares at me. "Are you feeling quite all right, Potter?"
"That bad, huh?"
"You've done the assignment!" She exclaims, dropping it as if she's been scalded. "It is in proper handwriting. It has no food stains or spelling mistakes, you have not written down the lyrics of a popular song, and you have even referenced all six of Du Pont's theories for inanimate Transfiguration in the correct order, with creative uses for each of them. This is excellent. Are you sure you did not hit your head somewhere?"
"Ah." I give her a sheepish grin. "What you said last time really got to me, Professor. It'll stay with me right here," I tap my heart, "till the day I die. It was so passionate and heartfelt . . . I decided when I heard it that I had to do better— that I could not continue letting you down, and that you deserve to see me try and be the best version of myself."
If anything, the O of her mouth grows even more pronounced.
"I only said . . . you were late for class," she says faintly.
"It's changed my life." I bow my head. "Thank you, Professor McGonagall. Your honesty has been a revelation, ma'am, and I wish you a Merry Christmas."
For a man whose team got publicly slaughtered, Ronald Weasley is unreasonably happy when he lopes into our tutoring session. He's humming under his breath.
"Great game, Weasley," I say, when I catch his eye.
"Didn't matter though, did it? Forty-seven saves— it's got to be a record— but we lost anyway." His freckled face eases into a grin. Then:
"The Chudley Cannons'd sent a scout today. He told me after the game that I did 'very well, very well indeed'. You reckon they'll recruit me after school if I keep this up?"
"Oh, absolutely. You could do better than the Cannons, though." I recall the Quidditch league table that caught my eye when I skimmed the sports section, looking for references to myself. "They're rock bottom, aren't they?"
"Support 'em, don't I?" He grunts. "Been a lifelong dream to play for them."
"Good luck with that."
He nods his thanks, then joins Cho, his sparring partner. I turn to Marietta. I've decided to use the day for individual tutoring and full intensity spars.
"This will be our last session together before the Christmas break," I tell her. "After that, you'll probably spend as much time with Tracey as with me, because I have to focus on Neville Longbottom as well. In any case, you've been an excellent understudy. I know you compare yourself to the others— to Dean, or Susan, or Neville himself; I know you think you're not as good as any of them— but remember, we're often our own biggest critics, so sometimes we need someone else to tell us just how good we are. I'll do that now— you've improved a lot, and it has been a pleasure teaching you, Marietta."
"Erm, thank you?" It is clear from her demeanour that she's not used to compliments.
"Now, with that out of the way, I'd like to focus on the one thing I've wanted to teach you from the start."
I slip my hands into my pockets and regard her.
"I've never properly explained what's so special about you, have I?" I ask.
"You said something about my wrist," she says hesitantly, flexing it. "That it bends unnaturally. You said you'd tell me more when I'm ready."
"I did." I pace around. "I think you're ready now . . . Well, okay, that's a lie— I don't, but we're out of time, given what happened at Azkaban."
I turn to face her.
"First, you have to understand what duelling really is."
"Er . . . isn't it just . . ." Her voice drops an octave, " . . . trading spells? Fighting to defend yourself, or . . . someone else?"
"No." I shake my head. "Those are things that a duellist can do. It is not what the artform is about."
"Oh." She dips her chin and looks at her shoes. "I don't know, then."
I tune out the sounds of spell fire that reverberate all around the room and consider what I'm about to say.
"A duel is two thirds muscle memory and pattern recognition." I transfer my hands from my pockets to behind my back. "When you fight a professional, there are tactics, yes, and there's skill involved; but what you're really facing is thousands of hours of accumulated hard work, during which hundreds of good duelling habits have been drilled in through repetition. Those repetitions keep happening till each of those habits becomes second nature. Till the mind does not have to think, and the body remembers."
I stop.
"I'll give you a quick example."
I draw my wand and mime the wrist movements for a spell chain.
"Which one is this?" I ask.
"Um, duellist's hello."
"Good. And the spells in it?"
"Body bind, Leglock, Stunner, Disarmer."
"Perform it for me," I order.
She does as asked, without hesitation.
"Well done, Marietta." I beam at her. "Now, there are many spell chains that start with a body bind, yes? But the leg-locker is distinct, and its position as the second spell in that chain is a giveaway. It eliminates every other possibility— I see that sequence, I know in advance that I'm not facing anything with area-effects. So I don't have to shield; I can just step aside and reset. That is instinctive— it is a pattern which is burnt into my mind. It barely even registers as a conscious thought. Thousands of hours of studying compendiums and hundreds of duels fought have primed me to do that. With me so far?"
She nods.
"Good," I say. "Similarly, every good duellist has studied the art in such detail that they can tell you what chain they are facing by the second or third spell. They know in advance what the best approach against it is. This too happens subconsciously. It frees up our minds to focus on the important stuff."
I take a deep breath.
"To the untrained eye," I continue, "it might seem as if a good duellist is a freak of nature. But really, most of our fights are predictable.
"So duelling at the highest level, then, is about creating controlled chaos to upset that predictability. It's about the little switches you make mid round, to exploit a weakness more effectively. Everything else is reflexive— it is covered during prep."
I point at her.
"And that's where you fuck everything up," I say.
"... I don't understand."
"Same spell chain, right?" I repeat the Duellist's hello. "Think about what I just told you. It is an automatic response for me, and indeed for anyone who's good with a wand, to step left or right after that second spell. I don't shield; I write off your entire sequence as a tactical set up to move me around, perhaps to create a better angle for yourself. My thoughts are already on what I'm going to counter with.
"So imagine my shock, Marietta, when you violate every known principle about spell chains, and the third spell in your Duellist's hello is area effect."
I spread my arms.
"Instant coup de grace against someone of middling talent," I say solemnly. "Your opponent freezes up— they forget what a shield looks like. The only way to fight this is to go against years, sometimes decades of ingrained instincts. It is simply not possible for most."
"Would you be able to . . .?" she murmurs.
I shrug.
"Probably. But it would catch me off guard if I were seeing it for the first time. Even against me, it would shift the momentum completely. You've created a situation where my instincts are unreliable, so now I have to mentally accept that, then out-duel you based on skill alone."
"Skill," she murmurs. "But Harry, I'm wea—"
"What did I say about negativity?"
". . . sorry."
"You've got six months to train," I urge her. "Six months, in which you can hone that surprise weapon into a trump card. Now that I've given you the tools, I expect you to do that. Will you let me down?"
Her spine straightens. She squares her shoulders and draws herself up to full height.
"I won't," Marietta Edgecombe says resolutely.
I nod to her, then pair her up with Tracey, who is without a partner because Neville Longbottom is missing.
"Spar for the next three hours," I tell them both. "Nothing dangerous, though. With Daphne and Granger helping Pomfrey in the hospital wing, we don't have a healer."
After that I move about and watch my students duel. Students. It is a fascinating word, because despite having taught this class for two months now, I'd not consider myself to be much of a teacher. When I think 'teacher', it is McG I think of, or even, reluctant as I am to admit it, Albus Dumbledore, who changed my perspective on a field I considered myself exceptional at in the space of one conversation. While my words to McG were glib, the truth is that I have been studying— I still put no work into charms or potions, but my ego will not let me be anything but the best at Transfiguration.
So to lump me in with people who put their heart and soul into teaching, who have genuine insight to offer on most subjects, feels sordid, feels wrong. Still, teacher I am, and teacher I will remain, for the next six months.
Could've done a better job, I admit to myself, wincing as I watch the Patil twins duel. They're going way too easy on each other— they have all the requisite knowledge, but both of them are frightened of getting hit. So they are slow to aim and cast and quick to shuffle out of the way— they're not even properly aiming at each other's torsos. I peruse the rest of the duels and note that this is a pattern in quite a few of them. It's such an odd thing to get hung up over, I think to myself, but all the knowledge in the world is useless if you're soft. Fear is the enemy— if you're frightened to get hit, you'll go nowhere except six feet under.
Something to fix after the vacations, perhaps.
But there are positives. I stop and admire Sue Bones versus Dean Thomas. This one's not miles off professional quality. The speed of wrist work, the understanding of space, the ability to switch tactics on the fly, to circle around to each other's weaker sides; indeed, to even induce weaknesses— it's all very close to perfection. Sue has this very, very minor weakness in foot placement, where after each spell exchange she resets the same way and her left foot is slightly misplaced. It is a pattern Dean has cottoned onto— he has built his entire strategy around going for broke the second she resets, so that her foot movement during defense is clunkier than it otherwise would be.
He's good, I think to myself, as Dean slips three spell chains in a row by a hair's breadth, then spins and slashes down. Sue is blown back and forced to scramble away from his pressure; it's only her superior understanding of defensive technique that keeps her in it.
Should've taken him, you know, I think glumly. Daph was right, he's already so much better than everyone else.
Dean does not win, though— not that I expect him to. Two months of paltry training versus ten years of experience. Sue finds a way to pin him down eventually, though she makes heavy weather of it.
I move on and complete my circuit of the room, fixing a foot here, a wrist there; lecturing people on defensive technique and body position, though I'm starting to sound like a windup toy, even to myself; and even doubling back to the Patil twins at the end, to tell them off for their blase attitudes. It does not make an impression— they return to giggling the second I turn my back.
With an hour or so left, and with me getting increasingly bored as I watch Trace casually eviscerate Marietta for the twentieth time in a row, the door to the room opens and Neville stumbles in. He's worn out; his eyes are blood-shot. He spots me and makes a beeline for me. He sinks gratefully into the space next to me on the dais.
"We convinced your friend to join the Order," are the first words that leave his mouth.
Whiplash. My mind flies to Alex, whose letter I received yesterday. She sounded chatty but said nothing about signing up to defend the British Isles.
"Who?" I ask, just to confirm. "Alexandra Grimsditch?"
"Not her. The one whose memory you gave us. Lacroix."
"Oh, him."
I think back to the times he's savaged me.
"He's a good addition," I admit.
"Yeah." Neville rubs his eyes. "It was hard, y'know. Professor Dumbledore took me along, as he always does, and we had to negotiate for ages . . . my head was pounding by the end, but I had to be there, the professor takes me to all his meetings. We made no progress, I was going spare . . . but just when I thought he'd refuse, your friend finally accepted our offer. Better representation for Vampires in Britain, in exchange for aid . . ."
"Is it just him?" I enquire. "Or is it his whole tribe?"
"Him, for now. He said he'd bring a few friends. But our deal is with him, not the vampires of Marseille."
"Good for you, man."
"Yeah." He rubs his face and groans. "Yeah . . ."
There's nothing then but the sound of spell fire. Trace finishes off Marietta for the twenty fifth time in a row.
Neville reaches for a water bottle, breaks the cap, and guzzles it down greedily. He wipes his lips, then coughs to clear his throat.
"I . . ." His face eases into a boyish grin. "I'm a little jealous of you, Harry."
Whiplash again. I have been told many things in my life, but I've never had anyone openly admit that they envy me. I would not admit it either, though I have envied many people in my life— to be forthright about it is a sign of weakness.
"Someone I'm not very fond of once told me that my only redeeming quality is my skill with a wand," I say dryly. "Harsh but fair, is what I wish I'd said to them. You, on the other hand . . . you're rich. You're famous. You've inspired the sort of loyalty from these clowns," I gesture to the Duelling Association, "that most people would give an arm and a leg for. I have no idea why you would be jealous of me."
"Yes, but . . ." Neville offers me a rueful look. "None of those things have any meaning, do they? You've got what really counts . . . you've got . . . strength. But— it's . . . it's not just that either. You're also . . . free. You can do whatever you want, you've got no responsibilities. And sometimes— just sometimes, you know, when I'm really down— I, erm . . . I want that for myself."
A pause.
"Is it wrong, d'you think?" He asks. "To want to be a normal person, and not this . . . beacon of hope people look to all the time? I felt like a total fake today. I didn't want to be there, I didn't want to sit through another meeting, and . . . it's always like that, they always expect me to be something special, when I'm only me. I'm just . . . Neville Longbottom."
"You could abscond," I offer. "Australia has lovely weather this time of the year."
"Nah . . . there's no one else to step in, is there?" That wry grin again. "What would my friends do if I ran off?"
"Die, probably," I say, and then: "Sorry. Sorry, Neville, I didn't mean that. That was both thoughtless and cruel on my part."
"You're all right." He waves it away.
We lapse into silence again. Trace has now pummelled Marietta for a thirty third time. I'm starting to feel bad about it.
"Is that how it is, then?" I ask.
"Huh?"
"Apprenticing under Dumbledore," I clarify. "Do you just go to meetings— is that all?"
"Oh. Sometimes."
"And the others?" I prod. "You were garbage with a wand when we first met, so he could not have taught you that. What did he teach you, then?"
"Erm. Bits and pieces of using a wand, though not a lot. Diplomacy as well. And a little bit of alchemy. We mostly do the other stuff, though. He's introduced me to his entire network of contacts on the continent, he's taken me to shadow him during political negotiations. And . . ."
"Yes?"
"Er, I speak Mermish and Gobbledygook."
"Gobbledygook," I say dryly. "Gobbledygook, brilliant. That's it, that's just the thing— screech at Voldemort in a rubbish made up language and hope his ears implode."
"I know their mother tongue sounds rough," he says calmly, "but it is a beautiful language."
I shake my head in derision.
"Forgive me— I have an issue with Goblins."
Another pause.
"Wanna talk about it?" He asks.
"What's there to talk about? They're nasty, they're a waste of space."
"They're just different from us," Neville says, "not better or worse. I think we can understand 'em, if we try . . . the world I'm fighting for is theirs as well. They have a place in it, just like we do."
I tilt my head.
"There we disagree. We'd be better off if those abominations were wiped out."
Daph would have agreed with the sentiment. In fact, she is, and always has been, one of its foremost proponents.
Neville Longbottom just looks disturbed.
"You think the correct answer to a difference in opinion is . . . genocide?"
"Isn't it?" I enquire politely. And then: "Forget I said that, I was trying to be glib. You're simplifying what I'm saying, though. The goblins are deeply entrenched, they can make us bleed. They have made us bleed in the past. Their resentment won't disappear with better terms. They've taken for centuries; they'll happily take some more, then spit in our faces for it. This appeal for peace and understanding. . . it is Dumbledore speaking through your mouth, not you."
"Eh, I agree with Professor Dumbledore." Neville's words are earnest. "We've learnt how to live with muggles. Muggles, Harry! They hunted us for generations. But we defend them, we respect their ways. I mean, I've seen you do it in Muggle Studies."
He crosses his arms.
"If we can live side by side with muggles, then why not goblins?"
"That's different," I say.
"Different, how?" Neville stares at me with unabashed curiosity. "If your solution is to wipe out everyone who's a threat, then surely Grindelwald was right. The muggles should be killed. Or enslaved. Or is it that you've lived with muggles, so you show them more kindness than you'll ever give the goblins?"
My first instinct is to get defensive. My second is to consider the question. My third, inadvertently, is a reluctant trip down memory lane.
A sudden sense of nostalgia.
Cokeworth.
Grandad.
The homeliness of our Victorian cottage. Stained glass, gabled roof, ornate front gate. Throughout my childhood that gate yawned open, broadened into a fairytale empire which I loved to explore. Bicycle rides to the playground, where I reigned supreme. Brilliant Harry Potter, peerless at everything I put my mind to. Destined for greatness, or so the teachers said. Popular to the point I had children tripping over each other to include me in their friend groups. Never known anything but luxury before Hogwarts, never been an object of anything but adoration.
There were other things too which I took for granted. Birthday gifts, hot cocoa, bedtime stories. Cricket in the backyard on weekends. Grandad's wrinkles eroding into a grin each time the ball cleared our fence. Sometimes, when he thought I wasn't paying attention, he would look at me with such sadness, because I reminded him of the daughter he'd lost. He soldiered on, though— he did what he had to. He was the father and the mother I never had.
So if he were still alive, would I be able to do something so monstrous as snuff his life out with my own hands? How about Cokeworth, that faery village of my childhood? Would I be able to wipe it out for the betterment of our rotten world?
Never.
So if I won't do it to the muggles, who are indeed a threat to our existence, then could Neville be right? Have I been a wee bit unfair to the goblins? The most abrasive and intrusive magical species on the planet, for Christ's sake. The loathing in their beady eyes sickens me. Damn it, damn it all.
"You say this, but you discouraged Granger's crusade over that elves' thing," I grumble, if only to buy myself a minute to think.
Neville blinks.
"She's doing it the wrong way," he says slowly. "You don't force people to change, you've got to make 'em believe first. Want it for themselves, y'know. You have to— touch their hearts."
"You've stabbed me through mine," I say curtly. "So, what's your solution for the goblins, then? Other than hugging it out."
"Dunno." A sheepish grin. "Don't work in the Goblin Liaison office, mate."
"It is hugging it out, isn't it?" I demand, horrified. "Merlin's saggy balls, you are a fraud, Longbottom."
He laughs.
"You're onto me," he confesses. "These problems are old; the answers I've got to them are silly. But I know yours isn't for me, so I'm willing to try something else. Treat 'em well, see if it gets me somewhere. Writing off an entire species. . . that's easy, Harry, but it's not right."
A beat of silence.
"They're annoying, though," I grumble.
"With you on that one, yeah."
We go back to watching Trace and Marietta duel: the current score, I think, is thirty-five to nil.
Which is why what happens next is such a surprise.
Trace has not been taking Marietta seriously— she's not taken her seriously for a single minute in the last three hours. But Marietta's been making slight adjustments; each rally between the two lasts just a little longer than the one prior. Now, as Trace pushes her back, Marietta attempts another spell chain— the duellist's hello, which is her bread and butter. Trace does not take this seriously either, she jerks out of the way of the body bind, then takes half a step to the right to let the leg locker sail by harmlessly . . . and the third spell is not the stunner, as she anticipates, but an area effect ice spell. She dives out of the way with a fraction of a second left, but the disarming charm that follows catches her plumb in the chest. We watch Tracey's wand soar— we watch both her and Marietta stand thunderstruck as the wand completes its arc and lands on the other side of the room.
"Wow," Neville Longbottom says softly.
Wow, indeed.
"And then, Daph," I say, "the damn thing spun ten times in the air. Ten, I swear, I counted each revolution. You should've seen her face!"
Suffice it to say that I feel smug about it.
"I told you both," I crow, "I told you there was something about Edgecombe, and now she's finally shown it. I just wish you'd been there to see it, Daph— you both deserve to eat some humble pie."
Trace, who incidentally has her cheeks stuffed with shepherd's pie, looks like a murderous guinea pig.
"Talk about the forty times before that," she cries, pointing her spoon at me, "or the twenty after it. What's with bringing up my one loss, eh?"
"You are a professional duellist," I say. "Your sixty wins are expected. That one loss isn't."
We're at breakfast in the Great Hall. I'd continue to crow, but our conversation is interrupted by the rush of wings and the mass of birds that fly in through the windows. A midnight black owl with golden eyes lands in front us and holds out the parchment tied to its leg.
"It's from mother— that's her owl." Daph wipes her mouth with a napkin. She reaches for the extended appendage.
She unfolds the letter and reads it. Her jaw tightens, there's a sudden swell of emotion; she fights it down. When she looks up from the letter her expression is inscrutable.
"What is it?" I ask.
"It's about my father . . ." she says quietly. "My father is dead, Harry."