Chapter Twenty Three
Sleep that night takes me back to the summer before fourth year. I find myself trapped in that accursed arena, wand in hand. At the tip of that wand, the sickly glow of the Sumerian cutting curse. Across me, the man I murdered. I try shouting a warning, but my mouth's been sewn shut. The wand ignites; the gash across his neck yawns open . . . and it is my neck that sprays blood. Hands scrambling to clutch my throat . . . froth and bile filling my lungs . . . the sense of drowning, drowning, even as I scream against the stitches which refuse to give. . .
I stagger out of my bunk, and into the adjoining washroom. Grab the sink and wrench the valves. Cold water stings my palms— with a shuddering gasp I propel it upwards and feel it jacknife into my blurred eyelids. Jagged pieces of glass. Again. And again. I raise my head— a pallid stranger stares back from the mirror above the sink. For a moment, and just a moment, the eyes I see are his, not mine.
I grab a towel and scrub my face. Would scrub my hands as well, but nothing tonight can wash them clean.
Her father's death has knocked loose this nightmare, I decide, glowering at my wan visage. This nightmare, which was once a common occurrence. I thought I had occluded against it and shunted it into that Pandora's box of forgotten fears, but no matter how I stuff that memory into neat, ever narrowing boxes, sometimes the latch bursts or the tape comes apart.
I step out of the washroom and creep into my bunk and grope in the dark for my wand. Oleg Abercombe. That was his name. He was sixty fifth in the world and had two children and died horribly in a meaningless group stage bout because I could not control myself. My fault, mine alone, as the papers say . . .
"Tempus," I croak, when I finally locate my wand.
Four thirty in the morning. Three hours to daylight— five to the funeral.
For an ancient and noble house that has beggared itself, the Greengrasses are still awfully posh and put great stock into appearances. The family crypt is a decadent affair, domed, dark and airy, with blood wards prohibiting entry to anyone not belonging to the family. The casket for that walrus of a man, Cygnus Greengrass, is encrusted with precious stones— I spy rubies, I spy jades, I spy diamonds and pearls. I chew at my lip and wonder where the money for all that has come from. Isabella Greengrass, at least, is determined to give her husband a martyr's send off.
Yet the only martyrdom to be found is at the behest of my poor eardrums, forced to endure eulogy after eulogy praising this cancerous invertebrate. The truth is that there is nothing noble about Greengrass's death. He drank himself to death. They found him keeled over in a puddle of his own vomit, next to an empty flagon in a pub in Diagon. The imbecile had added a hundred grams of powdered dragon claw into his drink— an obscene amount to ingest dry, let alone with firewhisky.
What stops me from making pointed comments about this is the rigidity of Daph's posture. Aside from that solitary spasm of agony yesterday, she has shown no emotion. Now she leaves my side and glides forward and leans down and kisses her father farewell; now she consoles Astoria, who is unable to hold back tears; now she greets the mourners, her creditors, and tells them that she will get back to them as soon as she's had the opportunity to scrutinise the family's books of accounts . . . and through it all, through it all, I swear, I have never seen anyone look more stately.
Afterwards, she retreats into the crypts with her family. Having nothing else to do, I look around at the congregated herd. There was probably a time, in the not so distant past, when a Greengrass's funeral would have been attended by the Prime Minister and his cabinet. This, on the other hand, is a poor showing. There are several stragglers. Interspersed amongst those are a few heads of families. I recognise Yaxley, Nott, Avery and Bulstrode, all from the famous Death Eater trials, all acquitted. Some of them leave immediately; others mill about, discussing business or matters of state. None of them approach me. I look for Lucius Malfoy, if only to have someone to goad, but he is nowhere to be found— it would seem that attending his prospective brother-in-law's funeral was beneath his station.
There is someone, though, that stands apart from this group. Loitering at its fringes is a thickset brute of a man. He has sunken cheeks and a crooked nose and dark hair flecked with grey. His robes, for a pureblood (if he is indeed one), are shabby. His eyes, when I catch a glimpse of them, are watery brown. Even at this distance I can tell he's drunk. He totters up to Yaxley and tugs at his cuff; I hear murmured voices, which soon grow volatile.
Yaxley whips his arm away.
"Sod off, Macnair," he growls. "You're too deep into your cups."
"Just telling it how it is, Corban. If you can't spare a friend ten galleons—"
"Friend? You're a wastrel; you'll just drink it all away. You're as bad as Greengrass ever was."
Macnair belches.
"Well, I'm alive, aren't I? Unlike ol' Greengrass. And we're all friends here, though you keep trying to throw me overboard. We are united under the Dark Lord—"
Yaxley shushes Macnair. He is furious. He grits his teeth and thrusts his hand into his coat pocket. His voice drops back into a whisper as he holds out the money.
Walden Macnair, then. The executioner who put that Hippogriff at our school to death. Inept, apparently. I've gone through his records. His trial, from what I remember, was unremarkable— no participation in the war, no known instances of muggle baiting. Yet, to everyone's befuddlement, his arm bore a Dark Mark. His lawyers used the Imperius defence: in his case it was lent more credence by the lack of atrocities.
Walden Macnair stumbles off. As I watch him disapparate, I wonder what that was all about.
I am not given much time to think. There are, ironically, raised voices emerging from the entrance to the crypt. Daph storms out, clutching Tori by the arm— her mother follows, and we are all treated to her words:
"You will do as asked. You have brought enough dishonour to this family! Consorting with mudbloods! And now that loathsome boy! Why, your father and I never thought we had raised someone so ungrateful."
Isabella Greengrass is slender and severe looking; she has that perpetually scrunched nose which I associate with purebloods. She resembles her elder daughter to a degree, but where Daph's features, despite their innate sharpness, can often ease into kindness, and dare I say it, beauty, her mother is all hard contours. A woman wrought out of ivory and iron.
Daph's composure is gone, her face is reddening. She's trembling from head to toe.
"You do not get to speak about my friends like that!" she shrieks. "And you do not get to tell me what to do. You are a Rosier by blood, not a Greengrass."
She hides a cowering Tori behind her. Her eyes are aflame with emotion.
"You can live in that manor as my father's widow. I will not deny you that. But you do not speak for this family! I do— I head this house now. If I ever hear you mention contracts again, I will strike you off the family tree."
She spins and strides up to me, dragging Tori along, ignoring the gaping onlookers and the vitriol which her mother lets loose.
"Gringotts," Daph announces, taking my hand. "There's no need to let this farce continue."
What else is there to say? We break the contract, though the goblins quite clearly despise me just as much as they always have. However, they are happy to take my coin. Five thousand galleons we transfer from my vaults to the Malfoy vaults, with the goblins taking a two percent commission. After that we return to Hogwarts, Daph nursing a hand injury (they sliced her palm open with an enchanted dagger and made her sign the escape clause in her own blood).
Tori, still despondent, takes her leave to meet Lovegood. I wait till she rounds the bend, then break my silence.
"Rosier, huh?"
Daph blinks, her hand wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet.
"On my mother's side."
"Any relation to Evan Rosier?"
She hesitates.
"My uncle."
"You never told me."
"It . . . never came up."
She looks at her feet.
"You're not angry, are you?"
I wrap an arm around her shoulder.
"Come now, Daffy, are we really at a point where we're judging each other over dead relatives? I was just surprised, that's all."
"My mother does not speak of him either," she replies, sagging in relief. "He was before my time."
"Hm. And how are you, other than that? You were silent all through yesterday. And, after what happened at the crypt . . ."
"She's always known how to get under my skin," Daph murmurs, her voice weary. She rests her head on my shoulder. "She wanted me to marry Goyle immediately— to stabilise our finances, she said."
I cannot help the snort that escapes me, nor the chuckles that follow. Daph stares out of the corner of her eye for a long moment, then joins me in my mirth.
For a minute we giggle like little children, though her laughter is tinged with more than a touch of hysteria.
"How bad is it on the money front?" I ask eventually. We have separated. She threads her fingers through mine.
"I don't know; I'll have to look." A shrug. "But it will be bad. We've been hemorrhaging gold for years. Don't trouble yourself, though, it is none of your concern. I will sell the manor if I have to. It should be enough to settle my family's debts."
Oddly formal in that last statement. Distant. Detached. And defeated— utterly defeated. The reason isn't hard to guess. Daph's always been attached to her family's history and to this day obsesses over the prospective legacy she will leave behind. That manor has stood for centuries, as proud proof of Greengrass noblesse. To sell it, to shake off all its splendour and antiquity, is to give up a piece of her own soul.
Sadly, I have no solutions to offer. Her familial debt will no doubt equal, if not exceed, what we paid to free Tori. Despite appearances, and despite my current streak of good fortune, I am no self refilling piggy-bank.
I give her hand a squeeze.
"Daph . . ." I begin.
"Shush." Her lip quivers. "It will be all right. I've always wanted to experience what you and Tracey call the magic of a smaller home. A cottage, perhaps."
She gives me a tired smile.
"After all, who, in this day and age, wants to live in a manor?"
"But it's awful! Where'll she go for Christmas?" Trace cries, twisting her bloodroots.
"Try being a little louder, just in case someone in this greenhouse hasn't heard you yet."
Daph's gone to bed. She had no desire to attend the day's classes. I have made my way to the greenhouses, and, as of this moment, have just finished giving Tracey the details of our trip. She stayed behind, though not without registering her protest— it took our collective efforts to stop her from tagging along.
Trace twists her bloodroots all the harder at my reproach. It sprays viscid goop at me, but I am quick to dive out of the way. I shake my fist at her; she rips the roots in half, dumps them into the pail, and wipes her reddened hands against her robes. Her cheeks are flushed with exertion.
We are digging up Potions ingredients. Trace has a pail, I have a shovel, we both have dirt and snow all over us. Sprout has given the class license to loaf about, much in the spirit of the upcoming Christmas. The work we've been assigned is mind numbing, but also safe. This gives us the freedom to gossip.
"What about Christmas, eh?" Trace demands. "She and Tori can't go home if she's fallen out with her mum."
"They can stay here," I say.
"At Hogwarts?" Trace seems horrified at the mere suggestion. "You can't do that to her! Not when we're gone. They'll be all alone, they'll think a lot. Bad thoughts, you know, 'bout their da'. You don't want 'em thinking about their da' right now."
Sprout begins her circuit around the greenhouse. I hastily find a patch of earth that has not yet been upturned and start digging. Trace crouches next to me. Mud lines her skirt. She wipes the smudge of dirt on her nose, spreading it further, then wipes her sleeve against her equally dirt bespattered cheek.
She holds out her pail, as if asking for donations.
"I could stay back," I suggest, slipping on a glove and ripping out chunks of aconite. I toss them into the pail. "I never do, but I could make an exception this time. You could as well, if you want."
Trace gives me a mournful look.
"I can't. I promised mum I'd join her on that road trip 'round Britain—"
"—as you do every winter," I finish for her, trading the shovel for a hand trowel and scraping away the soil to check if there's more aconite hidden somewhere. "I'm jealous, Trace. It must be nice having such an amazing relationship with your mother."
She beams.
"Is, too. Every place we go to is so pretty and mum being there just makes it better. Oh, you should see the hotels! We'll do a roadtrip of our own someday, and I'll show you all the hotels we've been to, nice 'uns, all of 'em. Mum's set her sights on Inverness this time, and I really, really want to re-visit Urquhart castle..."
A dreamy, faraway expression. Followed by a rueful look. Followed by a significant glance at me.
"But we were talking about you and Daffy," Trace says. "I've got a better idea than Hogwarts. I know you dislike it here."
"I do," I admit. "More bad memories about this place than good ones. It's you and Daph that make this castle special. Else it's just a frozen ivory tower of brick and stone."
Trace hums.
"That's why I say take Daffy with you on your holiday."
I consider this.
"What, to Godric's Hollow?"
Trace gives a vehement nod. I am reminded of a pendulum swinging.
"It's small," she explains. "And comfy. And she and Tori won't spend Christmas alone. Daph will be so happy if you invite her, Harry. You will, won't you?"
"If you want me to. As a conversationalist, Daph's a step up over an empty house."
Trace lets out a celebratory whoop and throws her arms around me. The explosion of sound alarms Sprout. She goes sprawling into the Motherwort she is examining. She pulls herself out of the mud, then hisses at us.
"You've chosen right," Trace tells me sheepishly, untangling herself. Her eyes shine with joy. "Good things will come out of this, you'll see. I just know they will!"
Snow whitens the compartment windows. The countryside recedes as the Hogwarts Express snakes its way into a tunnel.
Tori has disappeared to bid goodbye to her friends. It's just me, Trace and Daph again — and, as the compartment door flies open, Draco Malfoy's silhouette at the entrance, I decide it is just like the old days.
"Nostalgic." I grin wolfishly at him.
He does not react to the provocation. He has come alone. His face is a whirlwind of emotion.
"Potter. My father wrote to me . . ."
"Yes?" I prod.
"You—" His eyes flicker to Daph, who is staring out into the dark, then to Trace, who is leaning forward eagerly.
"You broke the contract," Malfoy whispers, awed.
"We did."
He glares at the floor.
"I . . ." He begins in a strangled voice. "Potter, I . . ."
"No need to thank me, Malfoy. We didn't do it for you."
"I understand." His jaw works. "Still, what you've done . . ."
He looks about listlessly. Clenches and unclenches his hands, as if preparing himself for a great ordeal.
"Davis," he says suddenly.
"Um, yeah?"
Malfoy gulps.
"I should not have . . . I mean . . . I regret calling you . . . that word. And— and . . . everything else, as well."
"Oh, it's ok."
Draco Malfoy gives her a stiff nod. He turns to do the same to me— then changes his mind after seeing the expression on my face.
"Happy holidays," he says, eyes leaping to the luggage rack.
"You too," Trace chirps, waving at him, though Daph and I respond with stony silence.
Another stiff nod, this one at the windows. He turns and leaves. The door slides shut behind him.
"What d'you know?" I say, bemused. "Looks like he's trainable after all."
At the platform, Trace stands on her toes and pulls me into a long, languid kiss. We are both flushed by the time she lets go.
"I'll miss you," she cries. "And you as well, Daph, adieu! Or however the French say bye— I dunno, I don't speak a word of French."
She laughs and scratches her head, then grows contrite.
"Sorry about the spell, Harry," she says. "I promised I'd translate it by Christmas, but, er . . ."
I wave away the apology.
"Take your time."
"Feb!" She swears. "I'm close to a breakthrough, I can feel it. I'll need some help from you tho', Daph. For Arithmancy."
"Anything you need," is the sullen response.
"Bye, then. Enjoy yourselves, guys! Love you, Harry. Love you too, Daph."
With a wave, and without a backward glance, she departs. We hear her carefree hum despite the ruckus in the station; we watch as she vanishes past the barrier, rolling her trunk and looking as radiant as ever.
"Where's Tori?" I ask.
Daph grimaces.
"That girl," she mutters. "I'm fed up with her. She was supposed to be here already— she promised she would be."
We push our way through the crowd and find her six coaches down the line, having an earnest discussion with Neville Longbottom. There's an entire team of plain clothed Aurors trying to act inconspicuous in the background.
"Neville." I nod at him, and am favoured with one in return.
"It's time to go, sister," Daph says.
"One sec'." Tori pounces forward, grabs Neville by the scarf, tugs at it so he bends on instinct, then plants a kiss on his cheek. In the silence that follows, he's as dazed as we are.
"I'll see you at Hogwarts," Tori says serenely, letting go of the scarf and clasping her hands behind her back. She dips her head and steps away.
"Huh . . . uh . . . what . . . I mean . . . I . . ."
Neville Longbottom's eyes are vacant.
"Hogwarts," he bleats, a broken man. "Sure, yes, Hogwarts."
Here, then, is Godric's Hollow. Coniferous trees flank the snowed over pavements. The smattering of streetlights on either side burn bright, for the sun is a stranger today and the skies above are overcast.
Here stands the statue of Godric Gryffindor. His fingers are wrapped around the pommel of his sword, which has been hewn into the stone pedestal. The statue, of course, is enchanted. It tilts its head to observe us as we march past.
The rows of houses grow increasingly sparse the further we are from the centre of the village. We pass a few shops, a pub, an abandoned playground. We round the bend, and there it is, my precious cottage.
From the outside it looks unremarkable, but the wards surrounding it are ancestral, and therefore nigh indestructible. The roof is conical and wears a crown of white. Boles of ivy overtop the walls. A sprig of holly leans against the rusted gate. A gravel path leads from the gate to the front door. On either side, dead grass. Four bedrooms on the inside, alongside a foyer, an attic and a basement. Two floors, not including the basement, which also doubles up as my personal practice space— home sweet home.
Or it would be, if it were not for the two girls behind me, who have been snarling at each other like a pair of chihuahuas since leaving the station.
"—violates every convention! Have some shame, you're supposed to be in mourning! Did father mean so little—"
"You're my sister, not my governess! If you wish to die unwed, then go die, Daphne, but you can't tell me—"
"Don't you dare talk to me like that!"
"I'll talk however I want! I'll do as I please! I've had enough of you sticking your nose into my life for everything. I can't even breathe without your permission . . ."
"I let you do things, Astoria. I let you join that duelling club, did I not? But this, this shameful deed, and that too in full public view—"
"Let, let, let! You're a control freak! I don't know how Harry stands you, I don't know how anyone can! If you weren't my sister I'd want nothing to do with you! You're horrible. Just leave me alone!"
This through a mask of angry tears.
I exhale heavily, ignore the acrimonious feud which continues to torpedo out of control behind me, ignore the crash of a trunk being knocked over, ignore the outraged cry of Astoria, behave!
Instead, I stare straight ahead as I unlock the front gate.
Could've been a perfectly good holiday, I think to myself. But no, I had to tempt fate. Dunno what spirit possessed me to let these two into my house.
They're not talking to each other. Tori claimed a ground floor bedroom the minute we entered; the phantom echo of that slammed door is yet to leave my ears. Daph, equally enraged, stormed up the narrow stairs, trunk floating behind her. She took the first floor bedroom on the left. I rounded off the set taking the room across hers on the first floor, as I always do.
Afternoon lengthens into a pearlescent evening, yet neither girl emerges. I unpack; I go down to the basement to train, and discover that my technique has gotten worse. The differences are so minuscule that most amateurs, indeed, most professionals, would find it hard to notice; but to someone as in tune with their own body as I am, my casting speed has gone down. I am also a fraction of a second slower to react to spellfire from the duelling dummies.
This issue is still at the forefront of my mind as I climb back up into a silent house.
The puzzle, by its nature, is a gordian knot. Skill degradation, that harrowing indignity which happens to everyone when their focus is split. Not even prodigies are free from it, nor career duellists; I've not trained as I used to, nor pushed myself hard enough— not in the right fields, nor for the right reasons. Teaching has eaten up too much time. This way lies the inevitable path to stagnation.
I stand in the foyer, submerged in silence, and consider the implications of this problem.
Would I be happy like this? Happy if I stopped where I am? Happy to stagnate, to rust, to trade away all potential for growth in pursuit of better friendships and being a better person overall instead of the solipsistic wreck I sometimes think myself to be? In the past I've never had a life beyond breaking and reinventing myself from the ground up. Dawn to dusk, dusk to dawn; studying, training, studying again. And fighting. Fighting to near death, fighting because it's the only truth, the only god. My body has gone to pieces, as has my mind, but I have not cared a jot; not about that, nor about anything else that gets sacrificed at the altar of magical talent.
I've had my reasons for this, but the large bulk of it was because I was guided by fear. I did not want to see my friends suffer.
I have accomplished that. At the risk of sounding arrogant, I am an exceptional wizard. I have reached heights most wizards cannot even fathom, and yet . . .
Yet, there is always someone better.
And in all likelihood, there always will be.
If you squint hard enough, there will always be another summit to scale.
Where, then, does one stop? Where does one draw the line? At what point is the price for growth no longer worth it? At what point am I allowed to be happy with what I am, instead of chasing the next high, the next one, and the next one, in a never-ending journey towards oblivion? Behind all progress looms the specter of sacrifice, the roads left untraveled, the time torn into bloody bits and offered up as offal. Any refinement beyond where I am right now, only marginal, the price growing ever steeper . . .
Clarity blooms. How much, I wonder wearily, have I missed in this manic pursuit of greatness?
And there flits back the memory of my outraged question to Dumbledore, all those months ago: why him, why not me? Is it because he has that scar?
And the monosyllabic denial that followed.
I sigh. Too single minded, even in retrospect, to consider any possibility other than being defrauded— what metric have I ever used for excellence, other than skill with a wand?
"Maybe he's right," I say to the empty foyer. "Maybe Neville does understand something that I don't. Maybe inspiring people is what life's about, not this nonsense I do— slinging spells, martyring myself forever and ever to be the best duellist in the world."
Maybe I'm fundamentally damaged. The Patil twins, afraid of spell fire, unwilling to take a hit— that's how it's supposed to be, that's what normal looks like. Only a total psychopath would run headfirst towards someone trying to kill them.
But this is who I am. It is too late to change, too late to teach an old dog new tricks. So this drop in skill is an insult— it must be ripped out, root and stem, no matter the price. It is the only road I've ever walked.
Yet, I think, staring at the flakes of snow drifting outside my window, hearing the children jogging past with their hoots of joy, yet, it is a pity . . .
When I let myself into her room, Tori is lying face up, staring at the ceiling. Her trunk's half open; clothes and books are messily strewn about. There's a discarded book, Sumerian Society, the Rise and Fall, at the foot of the bed. The glass lamp on the table is aglow; the candle within, however, has worn itself down to molten wax. I vanish the mess and replace the candle.
"I could've been undressing, you know," Tori says. She continues to stare at the ceiling. In the rubescent glow of the lamp I see that her eyes, though red, are dry.
"That's why I knocked first."
"And which part of me not answering made you think, oh, it's a good idea to open this door?"
"My house, Tori."
"Do you want me to leave?" She's dead serious about it.
"Nah. I'd love it if you were to stay forever. I find myself in need of a bride before my warranty for that lordship expires." I seat myself in the easy chair adjoining the bed.
"You're not as funny as you think you are. And, I'm taken."
"I saw. It is not too late to change your mind on that. He's ugly, ungainly and has the wits of a mountain troll; I am handsome, dignified, and, quite frankly, marvellous."
She suppresses a snort and sits up. Her dark hair bounces about her face when she shakes her head.
"I don't want a lecture," she grumbles.
"You're not about to get one. I just wanted to ask if I could borrow your Transfiguration text?"
Tori leans back on the pillow and knots her fingers together.
"I'm a Fourth Year," she says.
"I know."
"It is a fourth year text."
"I know."
"It is in awful condition. I doodle in it whenever I'm bored— so all the time. I'm failing Transfiguration."
"So am I. We can now continue this conversation as intellectual equals."
"I'm serious."
"I am as well." And, on hearing her scoff, "okay, I'm not exactly failing, but I probably know as much theory as you do, and I'd like to change that this winter. So if you could lend me your book . . ."
"What happened to yours?" She demands. "From last year."
I look out of the semicircular window and sigh.
"I may have used it to make paper airplanes. Lots of paper airplanes. But of course, you don't know what an airplane is . . ."
She assesses me for honesty. Convinced, she gets up and goes over to the trunk. Crouches. Rummages about and withdraws the book.
She gives it to me.
"Here. Now leave."
"What's the rush?" I pat the bed. "Come, sit a while, chat with me. This is my last Hogwarts holiday, Easter aside, and I'd like to enjoy it with my favourite person in the world."
"Go find my sister, then." She gives the trunk a savage kick. A grimace of pain. Astoria swears colourfully, then limps over and sits cross-legged on the bed. "And what d'you mean, last Hogwarts holiday?"
"I am leaving after I get my OWLs. I've been considering it for a while now, but I made up my mind five minutes ago, right outside your room."
"Don't play around, Harry. I'm not in the mood for it."
I give her a pointed stare.
A myriad of emotions flash across her face.
"Daphne will go spare," is the reply she settles for.
"Good. She can spend Christmas angry at the two of us." I give Tori a conspiratorial wink.
She does not return it.
"What about our group?" She demands.
"Agreement's only till the end of this school year."
"Neville was hoping—"
Tori flushes.
"Go on," I prod. "What'd he tell you?"
"He was hoping you could be persuaded into sticking around till the end of seventh year."
I raise an eyebrow.
"And pray tell, how did he hope to do that?"
"He . . . he considers you a close friend, so as a favour . . ."
She sees my face.
"He knows they won't be ready," she protests weakly. "They'll die without you, Harry. He even said he's willing to pay a lot . . ."
She trails off and looks at me, hope in her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Tori. I really am. I like him, I love you, but I've got better things to do with my time."
A spark of anger— it goes out just as quickly as it appears.
"I'll tell him," she grunts.
"Don't bother. I'll tell him myself when he asks. And, it is not all hopeless. We've got until June; I can train him to a level where he's ready to take over from me." I lean back. "Now, onto more important matters. Since this is the last time I have a decent holiday, I would be very grateful if you and Daph could settle your differences—"
Astoria glares at me.
"It is her fault, not mine; she's the one thinking she gets a say in my life."
"The impression I got," I say cautiously, "is that she was just surprised . . ."
The glare redoubles in intensity.
I wince.
"Okay, fine, Daph's wrong, I won't defend it. But she's your sister. I think that after spending her entire life attached to you, she's loath to see you grow up, loath to let go, even if she's been mentally preparing herself . . . and, er, you know, this entire thing at the station came at a bad time, given the stress she's facing . . ."
"Stop making excuses," Tori snaps. "Say it as it is. She cannot accept that I'm not a child anymore." In the contours of her furious face, I see that faint familial resemblance to Daphne.
"I told her that back in Milan."
"Tell her again; she listens to you more than she listens to me anyway. I loved my father more than Daphne ever did. How could she have the heart to suggest that I would disgrace his memory? It was cruel!"
She twists the blankets.
After a few moments, though, she sighs and lets them go.
"I'm tired," she grumbles. "Tired of this fight. It happens every month. Sometimes it's about my health. Or my studies. Or my friends. Or the boys I'm interested in. But it's really always about the same thing. Daphne wants to control my life. Just because I'm ill doesn't mean I'm an invalid. She can't put me on a mantelpiece, reinforce me with an unbreakable charm, and hope I stay the same forever. If you speak to her, tell her I said that."
But I don't need to. Nor do I get the chance. I do not intrude on Daph's privacy, her understanding of locking charms being superior to mine; and when I head downstairs for breakfast next morning, the sisters have reconciled.
There's something wrong with the picture, though. Tori's lying on the settee and her smile is a little too wide; Daph's, on the other hand, is brittle. They both look exhausted.
Daph tips her chin towards the kitchen when she sees me. I nod and follow along.
"I had to drain and replenish her blood this morning," Daph whispers.
I look over her shoulder. The dining table is littered with empty vials; blood-soaked rags lie crumpled at the entrance to the bathroom. Tori is fiddling with the wizarding wireless. She is a shade paler than usual but quite relaxed.
"Does she need St. Mungo's?"
A shake of the head.
"I've taken care of it."
She sounds close to tears, and no wonder. Other than the debilitating aches that the curse causes, it also contaminates its victim's blood roughly once a month. The when, however, varies, so that Astoria can sometimes go six or seven weeks without being affected, while sometimes the period of respite is as brief as three weeks. This episode has clearly come earlier than expected.
"You should apologise," I say.
"I already have." There are dark circles under Daphne's eyes. "It is the first thing I did."
In the days that follow we settle into a routine. Daph shifts from the upstairs bedroom to the one downstairs. She barely gives me the time of the day— we exchange a few words at dawn or get together to make breakfast or lunch or supper; but other than that, she spends all her free time with Astoria. There are no further mentions of the blood curse. They talk about Neville, the where, when and now; they reminisce about their father. They talk about Tori's dreams of becoming a magizoologist. They make lists of all the places they will visit together after they graduate, all those ancient, forgotten, now ruined societies. Once, at midnight, after I finish an intense training session in the basement, I ascend the stairs to find Astoria gone to bed and Daph glaring into the fireplace whilst fiddling with that list. But her mind is not on the crackling logs, nor on the piece of paper she is holding; and though she offers me an artificial smile, it is not an invitation to converse but a request to be left alone.
I respect her wishes. Drown myself in a study of Transfiguration. With two days to go until Christmas, and my mind a melting cauldron of wand movements and jargon, I take a break from everything. I go outside for a walk. Halfway through that walk, with a fine layer of snow accumulated on my Astrakhan hat, I am seized by the urge to visit Diagon Alley.
The wandmaker's shop is boarded up. The shops on either side of it are tinselled and glittering, a veritable granary of light and laughter. Here I breach the press of bodies, push my way through the Christmas shoppers. Buy myself a Christmas tree, which I shrink and fit into my pocket. Then go to Flourish and Blotts. There I purchase the sixth and seventh year texts for Transfiguration, then move to the musty, mahogany shelves that hold books on ancient societies, with the aim of getting Astoria a Christmas present. By dusk I have stuffed my shopping bag with a library's worth of material; and, for the first time in a week, I feel an inkling of relief.
When she sees the books I bring home, Tori bounds up to me and hugs me, squealing in delight. Physical contact, a visceral form of reassurance: still solid, still here, still alive.
We spend the morning before Christmas decorating. Daph is morose in her own quiet way, and has been for the entire week; but on being urged by me and her sister, sets aside her parcel of woes. We have turkey and lamprey pie for lunch. And, on Christmas eve, with Godric's Hollow presided upon by a smoky sky that betokens rain, Daph decides to join me on my walk.
"You'll be fine, won't you?" she asks Tori anxiously. "We'll be back in a couple of hours. You have that bracelet I enchanted. Use it if you need me."
Tori, her face having regained its healthy hue, looks up from her book and rolls her eyes.
"Yes, mum."
The wind outside is sharp and whistling. It slices into us. Daph, who has worn two sweaters under her traveller's cloak, tightens her scarf and adjusts her cap. In the waning light she's all forest green and gold.
We are silent at first as we walk. Past the park. Past a school for little children, now closed. Past the gravelly main road, into the byways. Into dense overgrowth. Branches dip and dance and brush against the tops of our heads. The bleak sky eases into a light drizzle. Swirling rainwater blows into our faces. I conjure an umbrella and hold it out. Daph, shivering already, steps a little closer and takes it.
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"I don't know. I'm as lost as you are."
This gives her pause.
"You spent last winter here," she points out.
"Last summer as well. But you know how it is. I only leave my house to get groceries."
"Ah. Okay. Fine."
I stop and stare.
". . . fine?" I echo. "Fine? The Daphne Greengrass I know would have pitched a fit over having her time wasted."
"There's a trail." She points to the snow encumbered path with her free hand. "It must lead somewhere."
Then that ironic half smile which I've grown quite fond of.
"I can also think of worse company to be lost with," Daph murmurs.
I ignore the warmth that blossoms in my chest.
"As a matter of fact," I say, clearing my throat, "I was pulling your leg. I know where this path leads. You go straight for a couple of kilometers, and you come out on the other side; that's where the pub is, and the local church, and the cemetery."
A lull. We continue to trudge along the path.
"I've not prepared your Christmas present," Daph says apologetically, "so you can't have it tomorrow. You'll have to wait till the end of the holidays."
"I understand. You've had other things on your mind."
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. Tall, pale, elegant, with a curtain of frizz sticking out from under the cap. Tired, though. Tired and melancholy and in desperate need of cheering up.
"Your friendship's the best gift I could ask for anyway," I add.
And there it is again: that sliver of a smile.
The path twists and broadens. On the other side of the thicket, Church Lane. Decrepit little shops line it, and here and there the occasional reveller. Overhanging the mist and rain, the worn down steeple of a church shoots skywards.
"You must think me to be cruel," Daph says, picking at her glove. "My father died last week, but I've moved on already. I've not shed a single tear."
I shrug.
"I don't think you need to show me that you're sad— you're a private person, you keep your grief to yourself. Besides, I know what it's like to have a complicated relationship with your parents."
She continues fiddling with her glove.
"He used to hit me sometimes," she admits.
I freeze.
"What?"
She does not look at me.
"It was rare," she continues. "He'd take out his drunken rage on mother, mostly, but sometimes . . ."
She closes her eyes. Seems fragile as she stands there, swaying.
Nausea wells up within me.
"I'm glad he's dead." I enunciate each word carefully. "My only regret is that you did not tell me this when he was alive. I would have . . ."
But what would I have done? What could I have done, if she'd told me this in our first or second year? Hurt him? Rescued her? I'm no prince and ours is no fairy tale. Back then, I could not even stand up for myself.
"I took care of it." Her eyes are closed. "I told him that he'd regret it if ever touched me again . . ."
She opens her eyes, and they are full of tears.
"He hurt me so much," Daph whispers. "So what does it say about me, that I still loved him, even at the end?"
On our way back, I lead Daph into the cemetery. She's stewing in a pit of self loathing; I doubt I could find the words to pull her out of it even if I tried. So this instead. This, a confession of my personal disgrace. Never shared it with anyone else, but if she trusts me enough to share her past, then the least I can do is share mine in return.
Or so I tell myself. What I'm really looking for is either condemnation or forgiveness.
A forgiveness which I can never obtain.
"They buried her here," I say.
Before us, row upon row of decaying tombstones. This place is silent, mouldering— not even the ghosts visit. I myself have only been here once, when they laid her to rest.
Daph, who has been quiet for the last half an hour, shakes off her malaise. It does not take her long to figure out just who I mean.
"Your mother?"
"Yeah."
"You don't talk about her."
"I don't," I agree, moving between the nondescript plaques, a conjured lantern in hand. "There's not much to say. There was a sense of mystique about my father. A sense of fiction, if you would. He did not exist to me, not truly. He was always larger than life, there to be loved and hated, depending on my mood, depending on the revelations I uncovered about him. I could twist him into whatever I wanted him to be— a hero, a blackguard, everything in between."
I take a deep breath. We drift past the crumbling graves from centuries ago. Not long before she and I are re-united.
"My mother . . ." I hesitate. "My mother was real. And . . ."
I choke back a hollow laugh.
"Forgive me, Daph, this is going to sound awful. My mother was . . . a disappointment."
I can feel her stare at the back of my head. Judgment in that gaze, most likely. Or confusion. I do not look— I do not wish to know.
"I don't mean it the way you think I do. I was brought up on her stories, you know: just how bright and talented she was, how lovely, how gifted, how ethereal. And after I was told the truth, about how she sacrificed herself for me, there was this pressure; I had this image, born from a child's imagination, I suppose, of how it would be love at first sight when I met her, how I'd be the one to break her out of the state she was in . . ."
I come to a halt. Here it is— her gravestone. Lily Potter, 1960-1994. Betrayed to the very end, I had wanted to carve into it, as an epitaph. Betrayed even in death, by her own son.
"And then I went into that hospital ward." My voice, I note with clinical detachment, is starting to waver. "She was . . . I don't know how to describe it . . . an inanimate lump of flesh. No movement, no recognition. Nothing. Nothing. I tried, you know— I took her in my arms, I held her close; I wrung my fucking heart out for a drop of that love which I was supposed to feel, which everyone expected me to feel, which was my mother's right, if only for everything she'd done for me . . . but I never felt it. It was not there. It was as if I was staring at a stranger. And . . . all I felt towards her was a detached sense of gratitude. You died so I could live— I'm grateful, but that's all I can ever say to you. I can't love you, mum, because I don't even know you, and never will."
I stare at my feet.
"You asked me what your love for your father says about you. I think it makes you a horribly abused daughter. It is fucked up, but at least you feel the love you're supposed to feel.
"Me, though? What does it say about me that I don't love either of my parents, not even the one who sacrificed herself for me? What does it say, when the only reason James Potter interests me is the persecution I thought he faced? Historical wrongs. It's the only bloody thing I've chased for half my life."
I finally look up, and what I find surprises me.
Daphne Greengrass isn't staring at me in judgment. All I find in her gaze is pity.
On Christmas morning, my room is invaded by a jubilant Astoria, who has tramped up the stairs and decided to batter me with a pillow till every last trace of sleep leaves me.
"What are you, four years old?" I ask grumpily, crawling out from under my quilt.
"We've got presents, Harry," Tori squeals, continuing to strike me over the head. "Presents!"
"They'd not have grown legs and run away if I'd slept for an extra hour." I flick my wand. Her pillow turns into a rubber duck. "Say, what time is it?"
Seven, as it turns out. I guide her out of the room. Perform my daily ablutions, then descend the stairs.
The sitting room is festooned with holly and mistletoe. At the centre is our solitary Christmas tree, resplendent with streamers and fairy lights. Underneath it, an assortment of presents. Tori is halfway through making short work of the packaging on hers.
"Where's your sister?" I ask.
But it is a rhetorical question. I can hear the rattle of pots and pans from the kitchen. Daph sticks her head out briefly, an apron around her waist.
"Merry Christmas." She gives me a warm smile.
"You as well, Daph."
Then the unwrapping of presents. From Tori, I receive a pair of duelling gloves. From Trace a muggle wrist-watch, and a long, rambling letter about her current adventures, with about a dozen 'love you and Daph lots and lots' thrown in. From Alex, a rare, pricey Charms compendium; from Chang . . . a helmet, along with a note saying: for skull. You need it next time I meet you. Bastard. From— wonder of wonders— Neville Longbottom, a slender volume on magical plants and algae. I feel bad— I've gotten him nothing in return, his existence having briefly slipped my mind. To cover my embarrassment I turn to Astoria:
"This is whom you asked out," I say. "His ideal romantic destination is at the bottom of the sea."
"So is mine," is the snappy reply.
Come afternoon, we resist the pall of gloom which has descended upon Godric's Hollow. The sky is stormy; there is the occasional streak of lightning, the boom of thunder, yet this does not stop us from going out into the snow steeped garden and building ourselves a snowman, Tori shouting encouragement from the porch. Even Daph, teeth chattering, cheeks frozen, breath making a plume of frost, laughs with us— then shrieks and flees when I toss a clump of snow in her direction. I run after her— and am caught in the face by a charmed snowball. The battle lines are drawn; our time together degenerates into harmless sniping. Finally, snow spattered, exhausted but exuberant, we agree to a truce and return to finishing that snowman.
Hail slashes against the window panes by evening, and the cottage is its own comfy little cocoon against the elements. Daph and I occupy the sofas, Tori takes the settee, and we all sip hot cocoa while sitting before the fireplace, talking about everything and nothing. On the farside, covered with a dusty cloth, is the outline of a piano, which was bought for my mother, and which I myself have never touched. My mother, though, was classically trained. I've never had the heart to get rid of this relic from the past.
For the last half an hour, I have seen Daph's eyes flit that way with barely disguised longing. Even when we were cleaning, she ran her fingers over the soiled cloth, as if reminiscing over a forgotten melody. Now, with the thunder reaching its crescendo, and evening bleeding into night, she asks about it.
"My mother's," I tell her.
"May I take a look?"
"Sure. But it's a muggle instrument."
"We share our music with the muggles," she explains, getting up. "Not what we play, or even how we play it, but the instruments. Whether they got it from us, or us from them, I do not know. But the piano is familiar to me; I was taught it for a few years."
"She's good," Tori supplies. "I liked listening to her. She stopped, though. When was it, Daph? First year?"
"Christmas of our first year," Daph confirms, pulling away the cover. She hoovers up and vanishes the dust with a nifty figure eight of her wand; she pushes open the lid, then pulls up a stool. "There was never any time after that."
I watch her fingers fly, slender, delicate, trembling from the stress of creation as they press down. I let the resultant cloud of music condense around me, let the warmth of her nostalgic smile carry me away. Milan, I think drowsily, nodding along; that night in Milan, and all its flimsy, petty, aborted desire, suppressed, repressed, cast into oblivion; her beauty then, matched only by her beauty now . . .
A pause in her performance brings me out of my stupor.
"Rusty," Daph mutters, wincing. She curls and uncurls her fingers.
I drag myself out of the comfort of my sofa.
"I've got sheet music up in the attic, if you're interested."
"I'd like that." Her eyes are glued to the keys. Her fingers continue to fly— once again, the majesty of that symphony.
I chuckle to myself as I climb the stairs. Sheet music. Sealed and packed into a storage box; I'd seen it, even gone through it before putting it away, but there was only bitterness in my heart then. Unlike now. Now an ambient glow. Who would have thought this dead house would come to life again under the strains of music?
I push the trapdoor open and clear out the cobwebs with a flick of my wand, even as the wind shrieks and the house creaks and the din of merriment downstairs fades away. This, then, its own graveyard— here lies the collected debris which my parents brought along, presumably for their summer and winter jaunts. Too much to go through, yet I carefully scrutinised it for clues anyway— clothes, books, photographs, and, of course, sheet music. Kneeling under a dusty table with a broken leg, I discover the box I am looking for. Inside, row upon row of sheets.
I rescue a bundle of pages. I tuck them under my arm. I whistle as I descend from the attic. The music, I note, has died out, and the only remaining sound is the patter of sleet.
I skip past the final step. Shift the bundle to my right hand.
"Got you more, Daph," I call, passing the narrow hallway and making my way into the sitting room. "Enough to keep us up all night, I—"
My blood freezes in my throat.
The sheets spill from my fingers.
The first thing I spot is the snake.
It is a writhing, hulking mass of black, coiled around Astoria's torso. Its fangs are poised against the pulsing vein of her neck. Her muffled sobs arrest me, break something in me. In the dim light, the fangs gleam like serrated knives.
The second is Daphne, frozen unnaturally, fingers curled around the handle of her wand. Her face is twisted in grotesque madness. Only the eyes move— they speak of a thousand terrors.
The third . . .
He stands by the piano, examining it as a child would. When he hears my gasp he turns around.
He's spindly. Dressed and cloaked in black. His face is handsome— unlined and unmarred, yet the eyes which regard me are pitiless.
"Harry Potter," Lord Voldemort says, "a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Come, sit with us. You and I have unfinished business, dating back to your father's time."
Endnotes: Did not get many reviews last time. Was very sad. Please don't make the writer sad. Reviews much appreciated.