Chapter 6

Well. Well. It pains me to admit this, since I had hoped to avoid touching upon the issue in the first place, but I suppose I ought to give you a brief summary of my time under Lockhart. It should explain my dislike for the man. It should also, I believe, explain why my relationship with him falls under the banner of 'complicated'.

Let's rewind the clocks. It was December in my first year. Daph had dived in the way of a spell aimed at me. Pomfrey was having difficulties fixing this, since it seemed to be some sort of botched human transfiguration. Daph had ended up with antennae, shark teeth, fins, fishmouth and gills, and the situation was pretty delicate. The perpetrators were suspended; but respite, as I well knew, would be short lived.

So while Trace was in the hospital wing with Daph, I was in the library—I was in the process of beating myself up over my shoddiness with a wand. Even at eleven, it was chastening to admit just how little damage I could do to the people targeting us. I'd learnt spells, I'd practised obsessively; but there was a six-year gap between me and the people coming after me. It had gotten to a point where I was considering swallowing my pride and begging Malfoy to target me alone, not that I expected him to oblige.

This was when I first discovered duelling. It was through a slender, dog-eared book in the library. It was hidden in the bottom rack of a shelf, but switched places with a potions' text at the top and appeared right in front of me just when I needed it the most. I took it as a sign from the gods. Over the next forty-eight hours, I read everything I could about the subject, and the more I read, the more convinced I was that this was the answer to all our troubles.

I came across a duelling yearbook, and it told me Filius Flitwick was a two-time champion in his heyday. I approached him immediately; I begged him to take me on as a student and teach me some extra spellwork after school hours.

He politely refused. He gave me some books on the basics, though. It was not what I needed, but it was a start.

Three weeks later, over the Christmas holidays, I participated in my first under fourteen tournament. It was in the city of Edinburgh, and I put up a lukewarm performance. Despite several gaping holes in my technique, and despite being three years younger than my competition, I made it to the quarter finals.

I included that reference and owled it to eighty professional duellists across the world, alongside a letter, begging each of them for tutelage.

Seventy-nine of them did not respond. Gilderoy Lockhart was the only one who did.

Thinking back on it, it is difficult for me to explain how overwhelmed I felt at that moment. The hope, the elation, the gratitude, the determination to not let down the one kind soul in the entire universe who trusted me enough to take a chance on me despite my last name.

I apprenticed under him for two years. I know 'served as a second' is probably the better term, but truth be told I was his apprentice in all but name.

The first twelve months were the happiest in my life. He was obnoxious and unscrupulous; he was a windbag who prattled on endlessly and dragged me from interview to interview; but he could be charming, treated me well, and spent a couple of hours everyday training me. All this, of course, was after I'd gotten a signed permission slip from Dumbledore: the man sympathised with my circumstances and was happy to help in any way he could.

Our time together at Hogwarts, during the Chamber of Secrets fiasco, was very productive. Lockhart was relentless in how he drilled me. I ended up spending four, five, sometimes six hours a day under his tutelage. I wish to clarify that Gilderoy Lockhart, while competent, has never been a good duellist; but when he tried, he made for a good mentor. He understood the basics, so he could guide me through forms, help me with footwork, and tell me how to go about building a spell repertoire. My work ethic and prodigious talent made up for everything that he could not help with.

I was vehement in defending his reputation. There were nasty things whispered about him, but to me, this man was Merlin reincarnated. He could do no wrong. Once or twice he took me on what he called 'secret negotiations', which involved paying off less illustrious duellists, convincing them to throw matches so he could progress an extra round or two; but despite the blatant match fixing, the man remained my God. My gratitude towards him was so extreme, that when Daph had the temerity to call him a snake oil salesman, it briefly fractured our friendship. I gave her the cold shoulder for an entire fortnight before she reluctantly apologised.

I make no excuses for my behaviour. I am not proud of any of this. I regret to say I stood by him even after Dumbledore fired him. I'd love to call it the foibles of youth, but sadly, it was blind idolatry.

As a brief detour, Lockhart writes books. You may have read them. They come in glossy covers, with all sorts of alliterative titles: Voyaging with Vampires, Wandering with Werewolves, Gadding with Ghouls and whatnot. It is not, as you would imagine, a harmless side hustle: Lockhart's rich and renowned due to his books; he's a celebrated author who duels on the side, not the other way around. His duelling abilities lend legitimacy to his myth, but his myth did not originate there.

I've read some of his works. He shoved an entire bundle into my arms, free of charge, when he first took me on. He insisted they were autobiographies. I laughed it off. Again, while Lockhart is a competent duelist, he's never been at a level where he could accomplish a fraction of the things he claims to have done. The two years I served under him, the highest rank he ever held on the circuit was thirty eighth. Nonetheless, I did not begrudge him his imagination or his little pieces of fiction.

Or so I thought.

It was tradition for me to spend my winter holidays at his manor. On Christmas eve, in my third year, I was up all-night practising. Sometime around midnight I spotted him sneaking out. I followed. He did not apparate. He took a broom from his shed. Something about his demeanour aroused my suspicions, so I took a spare broom and tailed him.

We ended up outside a muggle pub. I disillusioned myself, did not dare breathe, and made my way in after him. He met a witch who had fuzz sprouting from her chin. First Lockhart threw up a notice-me-not charm and other sundry protective enchantments. Then he interviewed her about her exploits vis a vis a community of Hags. They spoke for hours. The pub emptied. Predawn chill permeated the air. And just when I considered that perhaps I was mistaken about his shiftiness, Lockhart smiled, nodded, gestured to something behind her and, when she turned to look, whipped out his wand and obliviated her.

He spent half an hour wiping her memories. He was utterly brazen about it. I'd seen enough, so I hightailed it.

Holiday with Hags was published next month. I daresay it was the most successful of his commercial ventures.

Meanwhile, the foundations of my reverence were turning into quicksand. I interviewed the witch myself, and confirmed he'd quite thoroughly destroyed her mind. They'd admitted her to St. Mungo's after they found her wandering the streets of London, emaciated, half starved, feverish and unable to recall her own name.

I went further. Through hook and crook and sheer industry, I compiled a list of persons admitted into magical hospitals over the last decade with severe memory impairment, and at least half of them showed the same symptoms as the witch.

And when I looked even further, I discovered that Lockhart's previous Second had ended up in St. Mungo's with a mixture of memory loss and addlement, presumably due to stumbling upon some scene she was not meant to witness. The official reason given was extensive spell damage from duelling.

Now, knowing all this, put yourself in my shoes. On one hand, you have Gilderoy Lockhart, respected member of community, Order of Merlin Third Class, eminent litterateur and fashionista, with contacts in the Ministry, friends in high places, and bucketloads of galleons; on the other, you have Harry Potter, penniless spawn of deceased death eater, with several accusations and no concrete proof. Consider that it would be his word against mine. Consider further, that even if I somehow miraculously managed to bring this man's misdemeanours to light, then Wizengamot, in their infinite wisdom, have deemed 'memory charms' to be punishable with four to six months in the lowest levels of Azkaban.

There's not much else to say. I handed in my notice. He thundered at me that I'd rue the day, because there was not a snowball's chance in hell I could make it on my own. I nodded affably and did not snap at him.

I've not spoken to Lockhart since then. I'm glad for it. I would have loved to leave it that way, since no matter how much I despise the man, I owe him a great deal and once considered him a father figure.

But here we are.

There's something about all my fathers, man, both literal and figurative. Something that turns them into monsters. So the next time I am tempted to cast someone into that role, I take a shovel to their face first and ask questions afterwards.

The first rest day is a thing of beauty. A warm breeze gusts in through our half open dormer window. The sun outside is an overripe plum. It suggests the mellow fruitfulness of autumn, not the sweltering heat of midsummer. I stretch, I stick my head out, and the sights, sounds and smells warm my heart.

Of course, none of this matters, because I have resolved to stay in. Tracey is not well.

She lies at the centre of our bed, trying to stifle her shivers. This is the space she generally occupies when we sleep— her in the middle, me on the right, Daph on the left. Her blankets are crumpled and drenched in sweat. She was burning up all through last night— Daph and I took turns to watch over her. This is one of the drawbacks of getting hit with the dark arts, then ingesting Merlin knows how many potions to fix the damage. Sometimes there are side effects. High fever is a solid six out of ten on the scale of inconvenience. It could be worse. I have, to use a euphemism, been forced to spend two days in the toilet before.

But I'd rather that than permanent scarring or nerve damage or the loss of a limb. The dark arts are not to be trifled with.

I step away from the window. I take the space next to Trace. I listen to her breathing, I watch the swell and dip of her chest. I brush my fingers across her forehead, I stroke her hair. My hand freezes— I realise the gesture is surprisingly intimate.

I withdraw my hand. I'm a wreck whenever I think about Tracey's confession. I don't know what to do with it. The truth is, instead of asking, she only has to insist, and she knows she'd have the relationship she craves for. There's not a single demand of hers I could refuse: I'd drop anything and anyone for this girl, simply because if there exists such a thing as a soulmate then Tracey Davis is mine. But I do not— I think I do not— mean that romantically. I think that term has nothing to do with romance as people understand it. What I feel for her isn't what I felt for Fleur or even Bonesie— I was a junkie looking for a fix then, and, paradoxically enough, I laughed it off when those relationships fell to pieces.

Whereas Tracey . . . she's a fixture, a permanence, a part of my soul. You don't understand the depth of affection I harbour for her nor the extent to which I'd go . . . I'd sunder the heavens for her if I had to. There's no greater love in my life, and regardless of how the rest of it pans out, there never will be. But when I think of her, there isn't this brain rot, this quickening of the pulse, this tightening of the chest, this tingling of the nerves, or any other thing you would associate with romance. She's simply the breath in my lungs— I can't live without her.

So judge then for yourself, how terrified I am at the thought of getting into a relationship with her, only for it to go tits up. For her to leave or resent me, for us to never see each other. I don't think I could survive that. Whereas if she married someone else, and if there were never any romantic complications between us, then maybe we could be close friends forever. When it comes to Trace, that's enough for me.

Having reluctantly confessed all this, I suppose you could guess what my boggart was during my third year. What might surprise you, however, is that this was also the only year I did not have a perfect score in DADA— I could not dispel my boggart. Somehow the thought of Tracey lying all mangled failed to inspire the requisite heartiness for laughter, go figure. I did not just liquify the boggart; I did not just pulverise the wardrobe it was in— I vaporised the wall behind the wardrobe as well.

I was only dimly aware of doing this. I am quite sure I did not use a single spell. It was simply my fury given life through one flick of the wand.

You lose marks for that, apparently.

"Why are you still here, you berk?" Trace groans, bringing me out of my thoughts. She glares at me through half lidded eyes.

"The burdens of friendship."

"The burdens of—?" She squints at me, dazed. Her mouth opens and closes. It takes her a second to register what I mean. She groans again.

"I thought we had this conversation before I drifted off. Go out there and enjoy yourself, goddammit. Don't make me kick you out of the room."

"I'd like to see you try." I shrug. "No, really, Trace, I would; I'd call it progress if you were able to take two steps without fainting."

"Don't make me repeat myself, Harry. It's a beautiful day, in an exotic place. Some would call it a once in a lifetime opportunity. Stop wasting it on my deathbed."

"Hold on a minute," I protest, "the hell do you mean, once in a lifetime opportunity? It's the Mediterranean, not the lost city of Atlantis. We could pop back in for Christmas if we wanted."

"Not the point," she gasps. She grabs my wrist. Her eyes burn with the feverish gleam of prophecy. "Life goes by. You're wrinkled and dying before you know it. You'll never get this day back, comrade, so go out and make memories."

"You're a poet when drugged, Trace." My tone is tinted with admiration.

"Oh, and take Daph with you, because I worry she'll turn into Snape if we leave her alone."

"I resent that!" Daph exclaims, emerging from the bathroom. "I just washed my hair, I'll have you know. Snape never does."

"Would it really be torture if we were to waterboard him?" I wonder. "It'd do miracles for his personal hygiene. But then again, maybe it would count as extreme cruelty, since I'm sure the man's never willingly touched a drop of water his entire life. He subsists on cheese crackers, mountain dew and the souls of his enemies."

"So go out and live life before he takes yours," Trace concludes. " Please. I'd like some peace and quiet."

"You know me, I can be quiet, Trace."

The gimlet eye she gives me adequately conveys her lack of faith in this notion.

At the end, after a lot of grumbling, a lot of haranguing, a lot of browbeating and a lot of cajoling, I put my foot down. I show Trace I'm not to be messed with . . . by changing into a muggle jacket, taking Daph with me, and fucking off into the heart of magical Milan.

I think I've just been bamboozled. I've been shown up as a bit of a woolly. When I put this suggestion to Daph, she makes a sound at the back of her throat that is half distress and half agreement.

"She always gets what she wants, that Tracey Davis," Daph mutters darkly.

"Her methods are sinister and her motives unknown," I agree, just as darkly.

We share a moment of quiet solidarity.

"D'you think she'll be all right?"

"Yes." Daph waves away my concern. "I'd have not let myself be browbeaten by that shrew if I thought she'd be in trouble without us. Her fever's gone down; she'll be fine by the time we return."

"A'right, then. Thoughts on where we ought to go?"

"I went through some maps," she tells me. "Their equivalent of the Diagon is hidden in Cologno Monzese. It's— what, half an hour from here on one of those muggle contraptions people use?"

"Buses?"

"Wait, the muggles call them buses as well?" Daph blinks. "But no, I meant cars. Cabs, I think— is cab a word? I seem to recall Tracey taking me around in one of those when I met her this summer."

"I could apparate us there, you know."

"What, to some place you've never been to?"

"Sure. I'd just need a picture."

"And, as we both know, I lug around a photo album with me at all times."

"No need to get sassy, Daph." I laugh. "It was just a suggestion."

"Not a helpful one, though, is it?"

"I wouldn't know. You're the charms prodigy— get creative."

She chews on her lip and considers this.

"Could you conjure me a piece of parchment?" she asks.

"Sure." I look around. I spot a store with a muggle repelling ward on it. "Here, step this way for a sec'."

She raises an eyebrow.

"To get around the restrictions?"

"You can perform magic as long as the locale you are in, or the roof you are under, is clearly magical," I recite. "Unwritten rules and all that."

We stand next to the storefront. I conjure her the paper she's asked for. She pulls out her wand, closes her eyes, presses one hand to her forehead, then traces out an octagonal pattern across the page. She reverses the pattern twice with smaller octagons. She follows up with a swirl and a stab.

The paper comes to life. Streets sprawl out in black lines from the tip of her wand, trees and telephone poles climb. Sunset bleeds in. Buildings bloom in the backdrop. She's also added some sort of animation charm, so this has the surrealism of a wizarding photograph. Cars flit by at regular intervals.

Daph opens her eyes.

"There," she says, jabbing at a spot.

It is an archway adjacent to a chapel.

I offer her my arm. She takes it.

"If this experiment splinches us, or if we never see each other again, then lemme just get this out of the way: Daphne Greengrass, you are the most talented witch I know."

She preens under the praise. Then stops and considers it. Her expression changes.

"You know, like, five witches."

"And you're slightly better than the other four, praise the lord."

She opens her mouth to retort— but before she can, we've vanished with a crack.

My first step past the archway robs me of breath. Where Diagon Alley is spartan, this marketplace is baroque. It is an ode to eighteenth century architecture. There is a pulsing fountain right in front of me. With every spume the fountainhead exhales crimson. Before us, on either side, lies an unending knot of storefronts. Golden pilasters gleam at the rectangular edges of every shop. There are ornate engravings on the friezes and cornices. Moving paintings have been inlaid into each shop glass through clever charmswork— centaurs, griffins, goblins, runespoors, dragons; books, brooms, wands, steaming cauldrons and other sundry objects.

"It's . . . elaborate," Daph says.

"That's one way to put it." I pick my jaw up off the ground. "If you checked the name of this place while consulting your map, is this perchance called Mercato della libertà ?"

"Something like that. Why?"

"Ah, right. Well, there's a story behind it."

We step into the market.

"Is this where you entertain me with your love for niche historical events?" She wonders.

"Don't knock it, never scored less than an O in History, have I?" I raise an eyebrow. "And trust me, it isn't due to Binns."

Daph sighs.

"It's because you moonlight as a historian when you ought to be studying potions."

"And I'm proud of it, damn you. Every cell in my body rejects Snape."

She sighs again. It's the sound of broken dreams and perpetual disappointment.

"If you say so. Now, the story?"

"Yeah, so— despite the embarrassment of riches you see around you, the shops here are not private property. They're all Ministry owned. Not a single affluent citizen has spent a knut on these decorations. Well, not willingly, anyway."

"Meaning?"

I pause. I ponder.

"Are you aware of Italy's pureblood history?" I ask.

"Um, it's richer than ours. But a lot more . . . troubled?"

"Sort of." I look around. We've just drifted past an emporium run by a vampire.

"Italy still has some prominent pureblood families," I say, "and they have deep pockets. But unlike with the Wizengamot, they hold no political influence. This marketplace is a manifestation of that. It's a reminder of what happens when you cross the line."

She hmms and inclines her head in a manner indicative of interest.

"This marketplace was commissioned in 1774 by the newly elected senate in Rome, consisting of muggleborns, half bloods, and, believe it or not, creatures. It was the conclusion to months of rioting, picketing, looting and eventual feasting."

"Feasting?"

"They ate purebloods."

". . . is that a turn of phrase?"

"Nah, literally ate them. Here, in this very marketplace. That's what that fountainhead back there represents."

Daphne Greengrass has turned green, pardon the pun.

"That's horrible!" she cries.

So was the pun, Daph.

"Depends on whom you ask. The purebloods, certainly, would've been strongly against it, I suspect, if they hadn't already been in pieces and at the bottom of someone's tum. But for everyone else? Well, I've heard the vampires from back then discovered this delectable recipe for roasted meat . . ."

"Why? "

"Well, because raw meat is inadvisable, you silly goose, what with bacteria and—"

"I mean, why did they eat them. . ."

It's a miracle. I've stunned Daph into speechlessness.

"Eh, there's only so many times you can kick a dog before he bites." I shrug. "Extortionate tax rates, feudalistic repression, property ownership limited to purebloods, slave markets for muggleborns and creatures, a nepotistic plutocracy, and, most damning of all, the institution of nation-wide apparition wards that prevented all migratory movement for half-bloods and under, unless it was on foot. If you were born in this country and not a pureblood, you were destined to die horribly."

"They . . . ate them." Daph seems oddly fixated on that. I am disturbed. I hope I have not accidentally knocked loose a repressed fetish of hers. I would be most displeased if that were the case.

"Yeah, see, the mistake the purebloods made is that they took the wrong lessons from their muggle counterparts. You might get away with horrific oppression against a pitchfork wielding populace; but when they have wands, and when the creatures have superhuman strength, then best not to treat them like dung underfoot. Well, not beyond a point, anyway."

". . . ate them . . ." she mouths.

I scratch my neck.

"It was supposed to be symbolic, Daph. You denied us food, so we'll eat you instead, or something of the type. Personally, I think they were only meant to take a bite each but got carried away by the taste: that secret recipe with its secret sauce was rather catchy. But anyway, more to the point, they allied with the goblins and cleaned out the vaults of these affluent purebloods. With a significant chunk of that money they constructed this marketplace, both to ratify the amity between magical races, and to mock the majesty of that wealth by forcing it to serve the proletariat. No pureblood wants to step into a market and see creatures emblazoned on shop windows."

We stop in the middle of the street. People pass us by. They seem piqued by the hysterical English lady and her frazzled valet. They keep giving us inquisitive glances.

"How could anyone respectable have stood for this barbarism? Did the rest of Europe not interfere?"

"Most of them had their own issues and were limited by the statute of secrecy. They took in refugees, the Zabinis amongst them, which is why Blaise has French roots. They salvaged some of the wealth via an accord with the goblins. Refused to recognise the senate for over a century. Barred Italy from the ICW, cut off all international apparition points, and eventually, in the 1880s, negotiated safe return for the pureblood families that had escaped persecution. I think they funded guerilla groups and political proxies too, which led to a gradual whittling down of the radical attitudes here. In the meantime, the wizarding community in Italy suffered horribly, because for over a hundred years none of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons or Durmstrang would take them. But they got by. Had a school themselves for a few decades, but couldn't get the mix of enchantments right, and one day it went poof. But again, they got by. People often do. Our spirits are resilient— there's nothing that makes men more glad to sup on stale bread and cold crust than the defence of a cause. And boy, did they defend it. To this day, magical Italy remains more welcoming of creatures than any nation in central Europe."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Daph says faintly. "Those horrid, horrid animals . . ."

"You only hate them because you like your steak medium rare, whereas they burnt theirs to a crisp before devouring it."

No more words are exchanged. I suspect she's giving me the cold shoulder.

Turns out she isn't. She just needed time to digest all that information. When she eventually emerges from her rumination, the first thing she does is cast translation charms on the two of us.

I am much obliged. Despite my consistent self belittlement, the truth is that I'm pretty good at battle charms. It is not intuitive to me, but since elemental spells have an aspect of charms, I've studied the combat side of the spectrum extensively, and can hold my own when it comes to that.

When it comes to just about any other branch of charms, however— and that's about eighty percent of them— I'm a flaming trainwreck. A first year could probably do a better job than me with the translation charm Daph just cast. I suspect this might be down to a lack of application, and Daph might be right about me blaming my wand as an excuse, but given my indifference to the subject matter, I cannot be arsed to find out. I love certain kinds of magic and have an extreme prejudice towards certain subjects— I've made my peace with that.

But either way, I am filled with gratitude towards the beneficence of this witch.

"Daph," I say solemnly, "let's set aside our petty squabbles regarding the ethics of cannibalism. There comes a time when there are graver concerns than the edibility of one's fellow man."

"Such as?"

"Such as, what in Merlin's name are we here for? Tori's an explorer, Trace a buccaneer, but you and I are a pair of lost ducklings, waddling around."

"Speak for yourself. I'm here for Christmas shopping."

"What, in early October?"

"More variety than at Hogsmeade."

"Pricier too, I'd imagine."

"I've saved up for this. I'd like to get Tori something nice."

" Tori? What about Trace and me? What are we, lemmings? You wound us with your cavalier attitude."

"Same gifts as always. Something I've personally charmed."

"Well, the personal touch does add a certain degree of warmth," I concede.

"You liked that animated figurine I gave you last year."

"The miniature duellists?"

"That's the one."

"Clever trick to get them shooting spells at each other, I'll admit."

"Mm. Took me a day. And an extra twelve hours to ensure the charms would last a year. Does it still work?"

"It does. I've kept it by my bedside as a reminder."

"That's rather sweet of you."

"And also as a witness to all the sordid activities I partake in after the lights are out."

"That, decidedly less so."

"And Trace got that hair clip, didn't she?" I ask.

"Yes. That one was much harder. Partially replicates the abilities of a metamorphmagus, albeit limited only to the hair. Thought it'd go down well, given her obsession with new styles."

"Works a treat," I sigh. "You know, you could sell some of these. You have a promising future as an enchantress."

"I won't pursue charms after Hogwarts. I wish to be a healer."

"Due to Tori?"

She rolls her eyes and gives me a look.

"Rhetorical question, sorry." I raise a hand in apology.

We glide past a few shops in silence.

"I haven't ever spoken about this, have I?"

"About what?" I ask.

"The charms thing."

"What part of it, specifically?"

"I am madly in love with the subject. It stimulates my imagination. When I'm studying charms, it's as if time stops and the world comes to a halt. As if there's just me, my wand, the even rhythm of my heart and the blessing of solitude. In that state of mind, I feel like I can achieve anything."

"Eloquent, but it's in line with what I expected."

"I despise medicine."

"You— what?"

"Hospitals have this marked smell of decay. It reminds me of the trips I took to St. Mungo's as a child. For Tori, before you ask."

"I wasn't going to."

"I wasn't sure. Your inability to grasp the obvious is quite underrated."

"Very droll, Daph. But what's this, all of a sudden? Where's all this coming from? You're a bloody good healer."

She gives me an elegant half shrug.

"Being good at something does not equate to enjoying it. I dislike potions, and the lack of creativity when it comes to healing spells is stifling. It's just hours and hours of mugging symptoms, studying curses, mugging wand movements, rote learning textbooks, practising the same things a million times— all very hectic and lackadaisical. Every minute with that subject is like watching your lifeblood drip down your wrists, drop by drop."

A minute of silence.

"If that's how you really feel, then Tori would not want you to give up on your dreams."

Daph snorts.

"She's a child. Of course she'd say that. It's because she does not have the maturity to understand."

"You give her too little credit."

"You give her too much."

"She's a year younger than you, Daph."

"That year is a lifetime. If there's such a thing as a pampered princess, she's grown up as one. I've let her muck about — be a rebel, reject pureblood culture, wear muggle clothes, defy our parents— and through all that I've borne the brunt of her indiscretions. I've given her everything she wants."

"Except a happy sister."

"My happiness is tied to hers."

"And hers to yours. We're at an impasse."

"You don't understand. You won't understand."

"Try explaining, anyway."

"Astoria was— I don't know how to put this. She was always a tender little thing, I suppose. Always needy, always fragile, always running to clutch at my skirts anytime mother got angry or father returned home drunk. This habit has persisted: she'll incite something with her defiance, then take refuge behind me when our parents kick off. Just this summer she refused to spend a weekend at Malfoy manor; in the frightful row that ensued, I had to threaten mother at wandpoint to leave her be. To be honest, I'm surprised they've not kicked me out yet."

Daph takes a deep breath. She considers her next words.

"I coddle her. I do it because I love her— she's my little fledgling. The first time I saw her ill, I was five, she was four. She started vomiting all over the sandcastle we'd built. I knew right then that there's no stone I'd leave unturned to keep her happy. I owe my life to her, you know. She's kept me alive. Through everything. Through the nastiness at home, the bullying at school. . . it's only for Astoria, it's for her alone that I'm still . . . " she tapers off.

Sometimes—" she twists her hands and makes a strangling motion; "— no, not sometimes; every single day of my life, I wish it was me the curse had picked, not her. If I could wrench it from my little sister and imprint it upon my own soul, I would. But I can't. I can't. "

Another minute of silence.

"The blood curse sometimes skips generations," she whispers hoarsely. "And it is not the automatic death sentence Tori would have you believe it is. Our great aunt had it, and she died at eighteen; our grandmother had it too, and she lived a fruitful life well into her eighties. So it is possible, you see, with excellent healing and delicate care, to prolong Tori's life. I will do it, I will find a way, even if it hollows me out on the inside— because without her, I have nothing and I am nothing."

We enter a shop for artefacts and jewellery. Daph spends half an hour going through bracelets, rings, earrings and necklaces. There are enchanted rubies, finely cut diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, jades, pearls— I lose count of the number of stacks she goes through after a while. She shoots an emerald bracelet with a lynx engraved in the middle a forlorn look: the price tag reads ten galleons.

She hems, haws, wavers indecisively, then puts it back with a sigh of regret. She does not like admitting it, but Daphne has a taste for the finer pleasures in life.

"Take it," I say.

"Tori won't like it."

"I meant for you, not her."

"I can't afford it, Harry."

I take the box, then signal the employee to pack it.

"Congrats on your Christmas present, Daph," I say.

She's happy but tries holding in her smile. It's a damn shame, if you ask me.

"Every galleon counts," she reminds me.

"It's a one-time expense. I can drop ten quid on something you covet."

" Covet is a strong word."

"Oh please. You were glaring at that with the intensity of a niffler. Ten seconds away from nibbling into it, by my estimate."

This time she giggles. It's a lovely sound. Her perfect teeth gleam in the flickering indoor lamplight.

We both freeze.

"Did you just—?"

"No."

"I'm quite sure I heard—"

"No."

"I would swear on my life if I had to, that you just laughed."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's not a crime, you know."

"It will be, once I get into Wizengamot."

"Oh wow. A literal killjoy."

She beams at me. Her eyes sparkle.

"Lest I forget, thanks for the bracelet, Harry," she says softly, dipping her head. This is the other thing— she's not used to people being nice to her either.

"No need to mention it, ol' chum."

"Now help me pick something out for Tori. Oh, and you ought to get something for Tracey too."

"Eh, Trace prefers muggle movies over jewellery. You know, the sort with lots of blood and gore. There's this series called Die Hard, I've had an eye on it for a while now. I'll try and get her cassettes for that."

"What a beastly name."

"We have a dark lord that goes around calling himself flight of death. I think we're in no position to judge."

"Point taken."

She does not buy jewelry for Tori. We go over to the next shop and get mokeskin gloves and a silver stole instead. Daph proposes to spend her evening weaving defensive enchantments into the latter.

She also gets herself some potions' ingredients— she insists that if I somehow make it past the quarters, then she might find herself short on pain suppressants and blood replenishers. Apparently, Tracey yesterday put a dent in her stock.

It is afternoon by the time all our shopping is done. We amble through the district, arm in arm. We freeze before a cafe named P&P's Confectionaries. The nameplate is in English, which catches us off guard.

"We should go in," Daph says. "We're looking for lunch anyway."

"I escaped Britain to avoid the British," I grouse, nonetheless pushing open the door.

"It's impossible. We grow everywhere, like a rash," Daph hums, following me inside.

It's neat and cozy. The lights are dim. There are four or five tables set apart at equal distances. We take one of them, and the proprietor, a frumpy but ruddy man rushes over and hands us menus. He's shorter than Tracey.

He launches into rusty Italian. Even our translation charms have difficulty making head or tail of this sacrilege.

"You speak English, right?" I ask.

"Oh!" He simpers. "Oh! I should've guessed. You look just like James."

Allow me to acknowledge that my father remains a sore spot under the best of circumstances. So, to have him sprung at me in a casual setting, by a random stranger no less, with no forewarning whatsoever, is the sort of thing that makes me disinclined to keep up with the charade of courtesy.

"Who the bloody hell are you, and how do you know my father?" I bellow.

The man flushes. He senses that he has overstepped his boundaries.

"Forgive me!" he cries. "That was silly, to mention him like that. I keep forgetting about the horrible things they say—"

He stops again. My expression tells him this is not the right tone either. He chuckles nervously. He's sweating. His face is a Christmas tree.

"What I mean is, er, I went to school with him." To change the subject he squints at Daph. He's nearsighted— his eyes water.

"Can't place you though, if your parents went to Hogwarts."

"Your name," I hiss.

"Um, Peter— Peter Pettigrew," he squeaks, cowering. "Got out of Britain eighteen years ago, place was too hot for me. I'm half blood, you know, and You Know Who was— er— what d'you call it?"

"All conquering?" Daph suggests.

Pettigrew squeaks again.

"Not what I meant, miss, but I'll take it, thank you. You understand, don't you, what a hellhole it was for a chappie like me, poor grades, no friends, no money—"

"Spare us the sob story, Mr. Pettigrew." I'm grinding my teeth. I suspect I've crushed the menu I took from him. "My father. How did you know him?"

"I was in Gryffindor!" Pettigrew squeals, in the most un-Gryffindorish way he can muster. "Your father was in Slytherin, we were in the same year. He barely noticed me— but . . . he was a superstar, wasn't he? Prefect, headboy, quidditch captain. We admired him, even us in Gryffindor, and when— I mean, when I told him my prospects were dim, he gave me a small loan and suggested Italy."

I let go of the menu.

"That's all?" I prod. "You've only spoken to him once?"

"A few times," Pettigrew insists. "And— and . . ." He trails off.

"Yes?" Daph encourages.

"I believe he was innocent!" Pettigrew cries. "I do not know how they could— oh, you only had to speak to him twice, and merlin, oh merlin, a better man did not walk this earth! He was a saint, he saved my life by getting me out when he did, I'm sure of it! He helped when I had nothing to my name, only the clothes on my back, and I was not the only one. James Potter changed the lives of everyone he touched, and I will never, ever accept slander against him!"

I slump back into my chair, depressed. For half a second I thought I'd unearthed fresh information, but these are just the delusive ramblings of a zealot.

Perhaps sensing my disappointment, Daph takes the lead.

"That's not what the courts say, Mr. Pettigrew."

"They're wrong!" Pettigrew exclaims emphatically. "He was framed, I'm sure of it. You Know Who—" he shudders and looks around, as if expecting to be jumped; "they say he knows forbidden things . . . dark rituals, mind magics of the worst kind. James was not himself— not at the end— there's no other explanation, I know it!"

It's a line of thought I've considered, and that I half believe to this day. But sadly, there's no evidence to support it. My dad was an accomplished occlumens— he had to be, to serve two masters at once for as long as he did. Besides, by virtue of Dumbledore's testimony, I do know he was a death eater— he was a double agent, at the very least.

It's a thin line between playing a part and becoming the person you're supposed to enact. You stick with it long enough, and it erodes your sanity. It erodes the boundaries between right and wrong, even if you were a paragon of virtue at the outset. You start sympathising with the cause you're supposed to be spying on, and then—

But what is this? Why am I thinking about all this dross again? The answer, whenever I tread down this tortuous road, is always the same— James Potter may or may not have been of sound mind towards the end; he may or may not have done everything he did of his own volition. It's irrelevant— the law found him guilty. The only person who can tell me the truth is Lord Voldemort— and I suspect I'm unlikely to run into him at fucking P&P's Confectionaries.

The door behind me bangs open. Daph takes a look over my shoulder and blanches.

"Oh Morgana, don't turn around," she pleads.

"Who is it?" I demand. "The Dark Lord?"

"Worse."

I spin around, and there he is. Striding into the shop, a girl at his arm, is Gilderoy Lockhart.