Chapter Forty-Three – Bitter Truths
"Your high guard's too high," Daphne said, slashing Tracey's wrist with a cutting spell. A thin red line bloomed across Tracey's wrist, a single drop of blood slipped down and splattered on the floor.
Tracey winced but nodded, lowered her wand a little, then tried a tentative attack. Her hair – brown strands that she had tied back with a headband – pulled free and fell into her eyes. Daphne dodged the spell, not bothering to parry. Tracey recovered, then waved her wand again, tried to push her hair back with her free hand, failed, then waved again. Again, Daphne dodged the spell – a poorly aimed binding spell.
"Stop announcing your attacks," she growled.
Tracey cursed softly. "I am, aren't I?" She frowned, narrowing her eyes.
Daphne nodded. "Half a dozen times. You look where you're going to strike. You tighten your grip and pull back just before you cast. You always plant your left foot forward, and just as you..."
She abandoned the words, disarmed Tracey with a quick flick of her wrist, then made an elegant sweep with her wand and hit Tracey in the stomach with a ramming spell. Tracey doubled over in pain as she backed away and raised a hand in surrender. Daphne hit her in the jaw with another spell and then again in the stomach. She pelted Tracey with more and more spells until Tracey raised her fist and swung in a wide, blind arc. It was a lousy, non-magical attack, but at least it was an attack.
"Don't stop fighting," Daphne said. "Never."
Tracey lowered her fist. She was breathing hard, sweating, and her face was covered in scratches and bruises.
"I hate it," she said. "I hate being so weak."
Daphne brushed one of her black strands from her slightly sweaty face. Not because it bothered her – unlike Tracey – but because it gave her a moment to think about Tracey's unasked question. But it was the one question that had been on Daphne's mind, in one form or another, all her life, and to which she had always found only one answer, no matter how much she had thought about it as a child, as a teenager, as a witch, no matter what she had experienced, what dangers she had faced, and what danger she herself had become – the kind of danger parents warn their children about, governments their citizens, priests their faithful.
The thought almost made Daphne grin mockingly – almost, for she forced herself to frown instead, as if Tracey's words were the most foolish thing she had ever heard.
"Then get better," Daphne said succinctly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was, at least to her.
Tracey laughed bitterly. "I'll never be as good as you. Or as Potter."
"Call him Harry. Now that we're... on the same side, we might as well be on a first-name basis."
It was difficult for Daphne to put into words the new dynamic that had developed between them since Tracey had pledged her allegiance to them the night before. For the fact that she and Harry had killed her father in the cruellest and most painful way imaginable, quite incidentally. Though Daphne understood that this might have been the last drop that made Tracey's potion of tears, blood and poison – her own and the poison that had been pumped into her ears for years – overflow.
Daphne remembered all too well the conversations she had had with Tracey over the past few years, the silent gestures and stifled cries of a girl who wanted to escape so much, who wanted to burn so much behind her. But what would become of this girl after she had bent her knee and been rewarded with more oil and matches than she could have imagined in her wildest dreams?
A weapon? A tool? A servant?
Only the future would tell, Daphne and Harry had decided in silent agreement the night before. In any case, there was no question that there was a fixed hierarchy – with the two of them at the top and everyone else below. That was true of the world as a whole, and it was true of Tracey Davis.
"But you're right," Daphne went on. "You'll never be as good as us. We are prodigies."
Tracey snorted. "Not modest, anyway."
"Only fools close their eyes to the truth. And I hate fools. Are you a fool, Tracey?" Daphne's gaze pierced the other girl, who frowned slightly.
Daphne would bet anything that the same images were running through Tracey's mind at that moment as through her own: Tracey, her eyes filled with stormy emotion, in a dark room, behind heavy spells, on her knees before two... teenagers, rebels, villains, heroes, whatever – the important thing was on her knees before them.
But was this the act of a sage or a fool? Or did it even matter?
Before Tracey could answer, Daphne continued. "But talent alone is not enough." She swept her hand across the Room of Requirement, which that morning had taken on the shape of a large training hall. Tracey had been – rightly – impressed when Daphne had shown her here earlier. "Being lucky enough to have something like this isn't enough. Having a tragic story isn't enough. You also need determination, discipline, a goal that you want to achieve more than anything else."
"And no scruples," Tracey murmured.
Daphne just nodded. "That helps too, of course."
This time the look in Tracey's dark brown eyes pierced Daphne's. "And what is your goal, Greengrass? Or should I call you mistress?"
A surge of something – pleasure, pride, power – went through Daphne at the word. She prided herself on honesty, particularly with herself, and didn't shy away from the truth of her reaction. The title pleased her. Perhaps too much. She filed this realisation away for later – when she could dissect it, preferably with Harry, wherever he had disappeared to.
He'd left earlier for a flight over Hogwarts, while Daphne had agreed to supervise Tracey's first training session. It had made sense – Tracey was her housemate, after all – but now, as she imagined spreading her own wings, feeling the cold air glide through her feathers and experiencing the sense of boundless freedom that came with flying in her Animagus form, Daphne felt a twinge in her arms and legs, a deep longing inside her. Or perhaps it was Harry's emotions reaching her from afar. The egoist didn't even have the decency to hide his feelings. Daphne tried to make him feel her own annoyance and displeasure through their magical bond. All she got in return was a faint hint of amusement, like the echo of a cackling crow in the wind.
"Who says we have a goal?" asked Daphne, raising one of her dark eyebrows.
"I know you have no reason to trust me," Tracey began, her eyes downcast. Her voice trembled slightly, but she seemed determined to say what was on her mind. "Not after the way I've behaved these past few years. Whose skirt I clung to." At these words, something like disgust appeared on Tracey's face. "But that wasn't me. It was just... a stupid girl. A girl so, so stupid. A girl so stupid and so blind..." She paused, then shook her head violently. "I've made up my mind, Greengrass. Mistress."
The word sent another shiver down Daphne's spine, though she kept her face impassive.
"I did not take my oath lightly," Tracey continued. "I have thought about it for weeks, ever since I heard about Azkaban. Maybe even before. Every time I laughed at Draco and Pansy's vile jokes, every time I saw the power you wielded. The ease and disgust with which you swept them away like cockroaches. And they are cockroaches. But I... I don't want to be a cockroach."
Daphne sighed. "You're not, Tracey. You never were. You were just misguided."
"And you can guide me back to the right path?"
"That's for you to decide," Daphne said without hesitation. "I don't believe in right or wrong. I only believe in myself. But that doesn't have to be the way for everyone."
"I believe in you too. And in Po–Harry. I've decided to believe in you."
This time it wasn't just a pleasant feeling that ran through Daphne's body, but also a pulling sensation deep inside her. As if her intestines were contracting. She also made a decision at that moment, the decision to be honest with Tracey, at least a little.
"Harry and I will be leaving Hogwarts after this year," Daphne finally said. "As soon as we pass our OWLs. We won't be coming back after that."
There was a moment of silence between them, broken only by the howling of the wind outside the windows. Daphne saw a black shape flash past the glass.
The silence lasted a few more moments before Tracey said quietly, "But you do have goals for the time after, don't you?"
Daphne shrugged. "Only fools don't have goals."
"And goals for your final year?"
This time Daphne nodded. Again a strand of sweaty hair fell across her face, which she pushed back carelessly. "Of course. There are still bills to be paid."
A cold smile twitched her lips as she thought of the biggest bill of all: Albus Dumbledore. Once the last Horcrux had been destroyed and Voldemort killed once and for all, the last hour of their oh-so-wise headmaster would have struck. With their prisoner – their guest – down in the Chamber of Secrets, they would be unstoppable.
"For example?"
Daphne knew only too well what Tracey was planning: unveiling their plans one question at a time. It was clever. Pragmatic. And maybe it deserved a little indulgence. Tracey had, after all, tied her fate to theirs, and loyalty had to be acknowledged.
"You don't think I'd allow my sister to be someone's concubine, do you?" Daphne's voice was icy, her words razor sharp. "No. Before this term is over, Malfoy will be dead."
Some might have gasped at such a declaration, recoiled in horror or even fled in fear. But Tracey Davis wasn't like most people, and Daphne knew that. Still, she was momentarily surprised when Tracey let out a snort that sounded almost like a cruel laugh.
"Good," Tracey said simply. "I never liked that bastard. And good for Astoria."
At the mention of Daphne's younger sister, Tracey's expression softened, becoming almost thoughtful. "I don't know how she's going to react to all this..." she added quietly, her voice trailing off.
Before Daphne could reply, the door to the training room creaked open. Harry entered, wearing his school uniform but with a black cloak over it, as if he had just come from a walk around the castle. The cloak almost vibrated with magic – and rightly so, Daphne thought, since it was she who had put so many protective enchantments on it.
"Good morning," Harry greeted them both before walking over to Daphne. He leaned over her and kissed her tenderly on the lips. Only then did he wrinkle his nose. "You stink of sweat, love."
Daphne slapped his arm playfully. "That's no way to address a lady. Especially if she's your fiancée."
Even if the accusation was true – she had been training for over an hour, after all – she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. At least not verbally. The glint in his emerald eyes told her he already knew.
"Maybe the lady should take a shower," Harry teased, nodding towards the wall. Almost instantly, the Room of Requirement responded and a magnificent bathroom materialised in its place.
Daphne raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Is the lord going to keep his lady company? I might need some help getting out of these tight, sweaty clothes."
Desire flashed in Harry's green eyes and Daphne knew she had him wrapped around her little finger once again, as if she really were a dark, seductive sorceress. Well, she was the first for everyone, but the second only for him. For him alone.
She slipped her arm through Harry's and together they disappeared into the bathroom. Behind them remained Tracey, whose cheeks Daphne noticed had turned slightly rosy.
How long would it be before Tracey realised that she too needed a shower – and that the Room of Requirement would provide her with everything she desired?
Perhaps not too long. After all, the girl was learning quickly.
Tracey – Harry still had to get used to not calling her 'Davis' in his head – was waiting in the seventh-floor corridor, freshly showered and dressed, next to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. She'd finished earlier than he and Daphne, but that didn't really surprise him. It was hard to imagine her being anywhere near as …occupied as they had been.
The three teenagers exchanged glances, knowing that this was the moment when Tracey would have to stand by her decision – in front of everyone. But the Slytherin just straightened her back, raised her chin and asked them to lead the way to breakfast in the Great Hall.
Once there, it actually took a while for the first glances to fall on them.
Daphne walking to the Gryffindor table with Harry might have attracted attention the first day or two of their first year, but now it was considered the most normal thing in the world – it would attract more attention if she didn't eat with him. And so, at first, many didn't notice that this time there was a third person walking behind them, so close that she almost stepped on their heels.
Katie Bell and a few girls from her year were the first to notice, exchanging puzzled glances as Harry, Daphne, and Tracey passed them midway down the long table. Whispers began as recognition set in: Tracey Davis, usually glued to Pansy Parkinson's side, was now shadowing Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass.
Still, most shrugged it off. It was the first morning back after the holidays, and the students were absorbed in their own chatter. Many had long since learned that questioning Harry and Daphne's choices was a futile exercise – better to accept their idiosyncrasies and move on.
But as they approached the fifth year section, the reactions became sharper.
Lavender froze mid-bite, eyes wide, before elbowing Parvati, who also looked surprised but didn't dare look at Daphne for more than a second. The two of them huddled together, whispering softly, though Harry could only make out fragments of their conversation.
Dean and Seamus, in the middle of a discussion about something involving exaggerated hand gestures, fell silent and looked at them in confusion. Neville, who was sitting on the other side of the table with Susan, turned to them before nodding at them and immediately turning back to whisper something in Susan's ear.
The most intense reactions came from their immediate neighbours: Hermione and Ron. Both of them were staring wide-eyed as if they'd just discovered one of Hagrid's creatures sitting at the breakfast table.
"Morning, guys," Harry said as he sat down on the bench with Daphne. He gestured to a nearby fourth year. "Could you scoot over a bit so our friend can sit down? Thanks."
The boy reluctantly moved over, but before Tracey could sit down, Hermione broke the silence.
"Friend?" Her voice was almost shrill. Her eyes darted between Harry, Daphne and Tracey as if solving a particularly puzzling equation. "Since when is Tracey Davis your friend?"
Daphne shrugged. "Since last night. Maybe longer. Hard to say." Her tone was airy, almost bored. "But it would be polite if you said good morning. Or shall we start with you, Tracey?"
"Good morning, Granger, Weasley, Gryffindors," Tracey said as she sat down next to Daphne.
"Er, good morning, Davis," Ron replied, scratching the back of his head, his confusion obvious.
Hermione gave Harry a look that told him she had a few questions for him when they were alone. Together with the other topics he knew she wanted to discuss with him, it promised to be a very special conversation. He felt a brief pang in his heart and, immediately afterwards, Daphne's warm hand on his. She squeezed gently, without taking her eyes off the others.
"And you, Granger?" she asked challengingly. "Can't you even muster a modicum of politeness?"
Hermione jumped as if she had been hit. Then, as if she had suddenly remembered her upbringing, she said, "Of course, good morning, Davis. Forgive me – I'm just a bit surprised. You didn't have much to do with Harry and... Greengrass, if I'm not mistaken?" Her tone made it clear that it was meant as a question.
Tracey was not to be ruffled. "Times change," she said simply, while putting some bread and an egg on her plate.
Harry and Daphne did the same, and for a while the sound of cutlery on plates filled the air against the backdrop of hundreds of other conversations in the Great Hall as they all ate in silence. From time to time, Harry could feel eyes darting to him from across the hall, but all in all, it didn't seem to be a particularly unusual breakfast.
What was unusual was the silence at their part of the table. Tracey's presence seemed to act as a dam, holding back the floodgates of questions brewing in the minds of everyone nearby. Eventually, it was Hermione who broke the silence.
"I just don't understand it, I have to admit," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes wandered suspiciously between Tracey, Harry and Daphne. "Davis, you've always been one of Parkinson's friends who" – she pointed at Harry and Daphne – "didn't really like them. Why the sudden change of heart?"
Tracey put down the pumpkin juice she had been drinking and looked at Hermione. "I don't need to explain myself to you, Granger. Who I pledge allegiance to is my own business."
The words landed like a thunderclap.
From nearby, Lavender and Parvati's whispering reached a fever pitch and the surrounding Gryffindors leaned in, their curiosity outweighing any sense of propriety. Even Hermione's carefully composed facade cracked; her face twitched in disbelief.
"Allegiance'?" she said incredulously. "You're... allegiant to them?"
At the same time, Ron blurted out, "You swore a pledge or something?"
Tracey ignored them both and continued with her breakfast as if nothing of significance had happened. But Harry noticed the subtle flick of her eyes towards him and Daphne, a silent signal that she expected them to deal with this mess.
Harry sighed and put down his fork, ready to intervene – when approaching footsteps caught his attention.
Turning, he saw Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode making their way towards them, the two Slytherins moving hesitantly, their steps faltering as they approached. Shoulders hunched, heads slightly down, as if trying to make themselves as small as possible, they played nervously with their fingers. Their eyes flickered over Harry and Daphne, but only briefly, as if they were afraid of turning to dust if they looked at them for more than a heartbeat – which was quite possible, since Harry and Daphne had learned the spell for that ages ago.
Then the eyes of the two Slytherins wandered to Tracey. But she didn't pay any attention to the two newcomers.
And so Parkinson finally said in a low voice, "Tracey..."
Tracey put the knife down and turned to face her. "Yes, Parkinson?"
For the second time that day, Harry saw someone flinch as if they had been struck, even more so in Parkinson's case. There was a multitude of emotions on her face, and although Harry had never had a very high opinion of her, to put it mildly, she didn't seem completely stupid. After a few moments, Parkinson's face hardened as she seemed to finally realise the truth.
"So that's how it is now," she said, her voice tightening.
"Yes," Tracey replied evenly. "That's how it is now."
"You've found someone else to cling to."
"They are strong. Much stronger than you and your empty promises."
Bulstrode took a step forward and reached for Tracey, but stopped as Harry's eyes fell on her. Her hand fell to her side, and her voice trembled as she said, "But… we're your friends."
"Milli," Tracey said, her voice serious, "do us both a favour and close your mouth before I throw up."
"You'd never have dared talk to us like that before," Parkinson said, her eyes fixed only on Tracey.
"I'm just as cowardly as I was then. The difference is, I've found someone I fear even more than you. And most of all, you fear them too. So much that you can't even look at them for more than a second. In the end, you're even more pathetic than I ever was."
Harry stifled a groan. The hall was still filled with the buzz of voices and the sounds of breakfast, but the students around them could hear it! And they were listening! Especially Ron and Hermione! They were already staring at them, and Harry could almost hear the cogs in their heads rattling. So much for appearing normal.
Bulstrode seemed to start to say something, but Parkinson grabbed her arm. "I see," she said stiffly. "We're leaving, Millicent."
With a sharp tug, she turned and began to walk away, Bulstrode following like a shadow.
But suddenly Tracey called after them: "Oh, and Pansy?"
Parkinson stopped, but didn't turn around.
"I never liked you," Tracey said, her voice calm and cold. "Not for a single moment."
Parkinson still did not turn, but Harry saw her shoulders slump. A tremor seemed to seize her body, and this time it was Bulstrode who grabbed her arm and pulled her along. Moments later, the two girls had disappeared behind the other students.
"Lovely," Daphne commented. "I think this will go into my top ten breakfast experiences at this table."
Harry could feel her amusement spilling over to him through their magical bond, much more than the events of the moment would normally warrant. But he also picked up on Daphne's memories of some of Tracey's earlier words that day. The girl seemed intent on burning all the bridges behind her. Well, that was one way of forcing a path forward.
Meanwhile, Hermione was watching them from across the table – and now Harry was more than certain that she would be confronting him soon. He sighed softly, but no one seemed to notice, except Daphne, of course. She moved closer, her shoulder and hip pressing against his. Their proximity synchronised their heartbeats into a steady, unified rhythm. As their magic intertwined effortlessly, Harry felt the faint metallic taste of blood on his tongue, an echo of the power coursing between them. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to maintain composure.
For the rest of the breakfast, there was a strange atmosphere in their part of the table, the silence of the missing conversations all the louder in the buzz of voices around them. While the other students talked about everything that was on their minds – their experiences during the summer holidays, their secret crushes, their homework, Grindwald's escape, the destruction of Azkaban, Harry Potter's crazy behaviour at the end of last term and his engagement in July – there was an uneasy silence among them.
As dinner drew to a close, the Heads of House began to walk around the tables, handing out the new year's timetables. Professor McGonagall had one for Daphne and Tracey as well.
"Here you are, Miss Greengrass and Miss Davis," the Transfiguration teacher said, placing the scrolls of timetables in front of them. "At Professor Snape's kind request. I look forward to welcoming you to my class this very afternoon."
"But not with the Gryffindors," Daphne said in a slightly sour voice as she scanned the parchment.
"You will, however, be sharing Charms, Potions and Defence with your fiancée, Miss Green-grass. Speaking of which," she added, her eyes flicking between Daphne and Harry with a hint of stern curiosity, "the two of you will explain exactly how this came to pass. Saturday, three o'clock, my office. Bring nothing but yourselves. Tea and biscuits will be provided."
The unspoken command in her tone left no room for argument.
"Thank you, Professor," Daphne said with a politeness that Harry, even after all these years, couldn't be sure was genuine or not. On the one hand, Daphne was not a naturally polite person, but on the other, he knew how she felt about powerful witches and how much she had looked up to McGonagall in the past. "Of course we'd like to come."
Professor McGonagall nodded in satisfaction. "However, I am not the only one who would like to take up your time," she said. "Professor Dumbledore would like to see both of you in his office after breakfast. Fortunately, your first period is free, so you won't miss any classes, although I don't think that's one of your concerns..." This time it was McGonagall's voice that had turned slightly sour.
Only now did Harry look up at the staff table and see that the large golden chair in the middle was empty. Dumbledore hadn't attended breakfast. Whether that was a good or bad omen, Harry couldn't decide.
"We'd better get going then," he said, getting up from the table.
They said goodbye to the others and left the Great Hall, heading for the second floor.
Their new friend Tracey walked close behind them.
Tracey followed the two she had sworn allegiance to to a large gargoyle. Behind it, she knew from older Slytherins, was the office of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. It was here that Greengrass and Potter – Daphne and Harry, she reminded herself mentally – turned to her.
"You can't follow us any further," Harry said, his tone neutral but with a faint trace of amusement in his eyes.
Tracey felt her face harden. She could guess what he thought of her. And he would probably be right. But she knew who she was; she might not have always known, but she had known more and more in the last years, months, weeks; she had realised with ever clearer vision and crueller honesty who she was and what that would mean to her. What she wanted, what it would mean to her.
She had thought a lot lately, and yet she had always come to the same conclusion, the same answer to the question, the all-important question. She was weak, but that didn't mean she couldn't be a part of something strong, even if she was only chaining herself to it in a pathetic attempt to keep herself from drowning. Especially if she chained herself to it just to see that everyone else was even more pathetic than she was. And wasn't that a truth that brought endless joy?
No matter how she turned it around, Tracey thought bitterly, she always came back to the same truth that had driven her to swear the night before. And for the first time in her life, she had a goal in mind: to fulfil that oath, whatever the cost. For without it, she would be nothing. Without it, every day would be her father's cruel touch, his stinking breath, his poisonous voice. And her weakness.
Harry and Daphne weren't saviours, she had no illusions about that. But they had given her something precious, and now she would do anything to never lose it again. For this year they would still spend together at this damn school, and for everything that would come after. Because there would be more after, Tracey was sure of it. Azkaban had undoubtedly been just the beginning, and next time she wouldn't be a spectator – she'd be part of the destruction.
"See you in Binns' class then," Daphne said with her usual cool composure. Binns' class was the first of the new term, right after this free period.
Tracey just nodded once before the two of them turned and gave the gargoyle a pat on the nose, which then cleared the way to a spiral staircase. The two of them stepped onto the first step and the stairs slowly began to spiral upwards. Gradually they disappeared from Tracey's view until the gargoyle blocked the passage again.
Now she was alone – alone with the bare stone and the unmoving, stony gaze of the gargoyle. Somehow she felt as lifeless as the carved guardian before her. Almost empty.
With nothing else that seemed meaningful to her at the moment, Tracey leaned against the wall and waited. And waited. And waited. The minutes seemed to drag on, thick as...
Tracey forced her thoughts away from the picture. This was the past, and there wasn't even ashes left of him. But she was still alive. It had taken fifteen years, and it hadn't been her victory, but he had lost. That was all that mattered.
A small sigh escaped her lips. Her thoughts went round and round. The present, she had to concentrate on the present. But the present was so terribly boring.
Tracey sighed again, louder this time, when she suddenly heard footsteps approaching. They were delicate footsteps, careful, light-footed, elegant. But also purposeful and swift. Tracey knew exactly who they were.
"Good morning, Tori," she greeted the other Greengrass daughter in the castle, the little sister of her new mistress.
The title, even if only spoken in her mind, sent a pleasant shiver down Tracey's spine, just as it had when she had read about the destruction of Askaban in the newspaper. But she tried not to show her excitement and looked calmly at the younger girl.
"I knew you would come."
Astoria, who had grown a little over the summer holidays and whose head now almost reached Tracey's chin, seemed to have dressed up for the first day of the new school year. She was wearing a brand-new, wrinkle-free school uniform, including a snow-white blouse, and her auburn hair shimmered with a blue ribbon that matched her eyes perfectly and reminded Tracey of a calm summer sky.
Only her blue eyes were anything but calm at the moment. And not just her eyes, Astoria's entire petite body trembled as she quickened her pace and hurried towards Tracey. Her hands were clenched into trembling fists.
"Have you lost your mind?" hissed Astoria, her voice not trembling but full of emotion, mostly anger, Tracey realised. "Are you so desperate that you would –"
Tracey reacted instinctively. She closed the gap between them and slapped the younger girl hard across the face. The sound echoed through the empty corridor.
"Don't you dare talk to me like that."
Astoria froze, her hand pressed to her reddened cheek, but her eyes still burned with defiance. "How am I supposed to talk to you then? When you make a decision this stupid? My sister? Seriously?!"
"It's not a stupid decision." Tracey suppressed the impulse to raise her hand again, even though she could feel her own anger rising. Not as strong as it had been when Pansy had stood in front of her in the Great Hall, but anger nonetheless. "I'm not stupid. Maybe I've been stupid all my life, but not anymore. I've finally made a wise decision."
"Wise? Do you even hear yourself? Did my sister and Potter cast a spell on you and –"
"Oh, you don't think I'm capable of making my own decisions?"
"Of course not!" Astoria looked her hard in the eye. "Look at yourself, Trace. In all these years, you have never made your own decisions. Never! You always followed someone who was stronger, who was louder, who was more than you!"
Tracey's jaw clenched. Her blood was boiling. Her heart was pounding. She was getting hotter and hotter and hotter. She was so close to pulling out her wand and using everything she had already learned in a single training session with Green—Daphne.
Then Astoria continued, more quietly, more painfully.
"I understand you, Tracey," she said, the words breaking like fragile glass. "Believe me, I understand you more than you know. Do you know what it's like to be born into a cursed life? Cursed with parents despised by the world? Cursed with classmates who treat you like air? Cursed with a sister who..." Astoria faltered, tears streaming down her cheeks. "...who I once admired. A sister who seemed so strong, so perfect. And then I saw what she really is."
Astoria faltered, her breath catching as the tears came faster. "She's cruel, Trace. Selfish. Cold. She'll hurt you, just like she hurt me. And I... I just want..."
Her voice broke completely, a small sob escaping her lips.
Suddenly it was as if the air had been sucked out of the situation, as if the fire inside her had been extinguished by a cold wind. For a moment, Tracey saw Astoria not as the little Greengrass sister, but as a desperate girl, as lost as she was. And she realised that she had been going about this all wrong.
"I see," she said at last. "Of course you accuse her. If she were my sister – someone who should have loved and protected me, who instead left me to suffer, to live a miserable, pathetic life – I would accuse her too. I would stand on the rooftops of Hogwarts and shout her name to the heavens, calling on the old gods to curse her, to tear her down from the pedestal on which she sees herself, down to the filth in which she has left me." She paused, letting the words sink in. "But I'm not you, Tori. I never had anyone. Never had a sister to love or hate. I've always been alone."
Astoria shook her head, tears still streaming. "You haven't been alone..."
"I've always been alone," Tracey repeated. "The world failed me, and now I don't give a damn. I know they don't care about me. But they make me feel strong. Or maybe just less weak than others. That's all that matters to me."
"You're pathetic," Astoria whispered, her voice trembling.
Tracey's lips curved into a faint, almost mocking smile. "Maybe," she said. "But not as pathetic as you."
Astoria stared at her, tears in her eyes, her cheeks glowing with anger and shame. She said nothing for a long moment, then abruptly turned and ran, her footsteps echoing like gunshots down the silent corridor, each one fainter than the last.
Tracey watched her until she was out of sight. Part of her felt triumphant, another... empty.
Leaning back against the cold stone wall, she closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. The corridor was silent again, except for the faint whisper of her own thoughts.
"The weak devour the weaker," she murmured to herself. "It's always been this way."
And this time she didn't sigh.
The spiral staircase carried Harry and Daphne inexorably upwards. All around them was the faint breath of ancient magic, the deep rumble of stone against stone, as old as Hogwarts itself. But Harry heard something else – a disapproving snort from Daphne.
"I should be angry with you," she said, drawing a protective spell around her words with a casual movement of her hand, as if she were doing nothing more difficult than brushing dust off her robes, her engagement ring flashing. "After all, it was your tall tale after the third task that got us into all this. All that talk of repentance and redemption." She clicked her tongue in annoyance.
Harry smiled. "You know, love, that all my ideas are no less yours."
Another click of the tongue. "Then it's both of our faults, and I'm angry at both of us. Well, we're almost there. Let's get ready."
Daphne straightened her back and Harry followed. Then the stairs came to a halt and they stood in front of a simple wooden door that they knew well by now. Without hesitation, they pushed the door open – after all, they could bet that Dumbledore already knew they were coming.
And indeed, the old wizard, seated behind his large desk, showed no sign of surprise. In fact, Dumbledore smiled at them, making the deep wrinkles in his face even more pronounced, even in the pale morning light that filtered through the tall windows and gave the air a milky tint.
Otherwise, the office was as usual when they were here: high bookshelves crammed with ancient tomes, tables full of parchment scrolls, magical utensils and artefacts that hummed softly, a spiral staircase leading to the rooms above. The mirror in which Voldemort's spirit was trapped had disappeared since they had looked into it in their second year, with rather unpleasant results, but Harry recognised the Sorting Hat on a shelf, lying motionless after its service the night before. That must be a terrible life, Harry thought, a thinking being, filled with the knowledge of centuries, but useless except to serve the will of others for one night a year – and the rest of the time, emptiness. Harry shuddered at the thought.
Dumbledore's desk was also full of books and parchment scrolls. There was also a bowl of porridge in the corner of the table that looked as if it had not been touched. The spoon was stuck in the porridge like the mast of a ship in a lifeless sea.
Not that their headmaster would die of malnutrition before they finished him off, Harry thought anxiously, and said aloud, "Good morning, Professor. I hope we're not interrupting your breakfast." He gestured to the bowl.
"Not at all, Harry," Dumbledore said with a smile. "I will eat later. But first, good morning to you both. I trust you had a good first night back at school."
"It would have been better if Harry and I could've shared quarters," Daphne said. They both sat down in the chairs in front of Dumbledore's desk.
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "Ah, the perennial complaint of Hogwarts couples. You are far from the first to lament this great injustice, nor will you be the last. Though, I must admit, most who make such requests are... a bit older."
Their headmaster gave them an amused, almost conspiratorial look over his gold spectacles. But Harry couldn't think of anything worse than discussing his love life with Albus Dumbledore, so he quickly changed the subject.
"You called for us, Professor?" he said.
"Yes. Yes, I did." Dumbledore's tone shifted, growing more serious. "I called you here to share news of some significance. I have succeeded in destroying another of Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes. Even if it was at a cost."
"Your hand," Daphne said matter-of-factly.
"Yes, my hand."
With that, Dumbledore raised his right hand, which had been hidden behind the desk. It was as black as it had been at the feast yesterday, when Dumbledore's sleeve had slipped for a moment. But now, up close... Harry could feel the dark magic emanating from the black flesh as clearly as a puff of air blowing towards him. A draught like from a tomb, damp, warm and filled with a smell that announced decay and putrefaction; only it was not a smell that a human nose could have detected, but it was the best comparison Harry could think of. Beside him, Daphne involuntarily wrinkled her nose.
"How did this happen?" she asked. "A wizard of your calibre should have been able to spot the curse easily. Ancient Egyptian, right?"
"Five points to Gryffindor, Daphne," Dumbledore said. "Yes, it is most likely a curse from the late Sixth Dynasty of the Old Kingdom, but it cannot be said with certainty because the vessel has been destroyed. But the eternal pain and the unpleasant tingling in the fingertips are quite typical of it. And as for your other question..." Their headmaster sighed heavily. "I'm afraid age does not protect against foolishness. And I, my dear students, am an old, old fool."
Harry and Daphne exchanged glances. It wasn't that they would be sad to see Dumbledore suffer any kind of misfortune, or that they would disagree with him if he called himself an old fool, but it wasn't as if the old fool didn't have a job to do before they killed him.
They must have shown some of their feelings, because after another sigh, Dumbledore continued.
"I don't think it will make much difference. I expect I will die sooner than I initially thought when we last spoke. But not so soon that I won't ensure Lord Voldemort leaves this world with me."
"We're... sorry to hear that, Professor," Harry said carefully. After all, what could a fifteen-year-old boy say when a wizard more than a hundred years his senior spoke so calmly of his own death?
Yet Harry couldn't suppress the unease that churned within him. He suspected that the 'circumstances' of Dumbledore's death were probably very different in the old man's mind than they were in his and Daphne's. After all, Dumbledore would hardly remain so calm if he knew what was planned for him. No, he would be screaming, pleading, begging—
A warm pressure on Harry's hand snapped him out of his thoughts. Daphne's fingers curled around his, her skin warm, almost hot, but a pleasant heat, like a hot bath. She squeezed and he squeezed back, her unspoken message clear: Focus. Keep it together.
"There is no need to be sorry," Dumbledore said with a gentle smile that almost made Harry feel sick. "Death is merely another journey into unexplored realms. And I find myself looking forward to reuniting with friends whose paths parted from mine far too soon. No, Harry, Daphne – do not mourn me. Rather, be the support I so desperately need on these last few metres. Together we will reach the great goal, I promise you."
"Voldemort's death," Harry said.
Dumbledore nodded gravely. "I am certain that only one Horcrux remains: the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff, hidden in Bellatrix Lestrange's former vault at Gringotts."
His voice took on a pragmatic undertone, as if to dispel the gravity of the moment with facts.
"I've made some progress since we last spoke. Bellatrix Lestrange did not name an heir after her husband, who is also dead, and thus the contents of her vault will not automatically pass to a blood relative. Instead, the goblins or the Ministry will claim them, depending on how the legalities unfold."
"That sounds too simple," Daphne murmured.
"It's more complicated than it looks," Dumbledore admitted. "The advantage for us is that we only have to persuade these parties to take the Cup from the inheritance, just a rounding error of the wealth we are talking about. We would have to offer the goblins a similarly noble object as a replacement, while the Ministry, or rather the Minister, would be more likely to look for political favours. But I'm afraid there's a bit of a tug of war going on between Gringotts and the Ministry at the moment, because the old contracts are obviously open to different interpretations. While I do not fear this will escalate into another goblin rebellion, it will delay resolution."
The answer satisfied neither Harry nor Daphne. A hint of annoyance flared between them, simultaneously or first in one of them, Harry or Daphne, and then transmitted and amplified through their bond; it was hard to tell, and perhaps not important. What was important was that Dumbledore had failed them – again.
"And can't you just force them to settle it quickly?" Harry asked. "I mean...you're the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot?"
"And the most powerful wizard of our time," Daphne added. Her tone was honeyed, but the edge underneath was unmistakable. "You'd think that would be useful for something."
Dumbledore leaned back, the joints creaking quietly. "Of course, I could force them. But there would be a price to pay – for us, for the world. And it's not a price that needs to be paid, believe me. Before the end of term, this Horcrux will be destroyed and Voldemort will be mortal again."
Harry and Daphne exchanged looks. They were both tired of this charade.
So Harry said, "Well, thank you for the information, Professor. If there is nothing else you want from us, we'll –"
"Actually, I have one more request," Dumbledore interrupted him calmly.
Harry gritted his teeth. It would have been too good to be true. A hint of annoyance, much stronger this time, reached him from Daphne. But there was only a faint trace of it on her pretty face, nothing to arouse the suspicion of someone who had already had dealings with her.
Harry also forced his face to remain calm and asked, "Yes?"
"Have you read the books and scrolls I sent you?" Dumbledore continued. He looked at them through his half-moon glasses more intensely than at any other point in their conversation so far.
"Of course," Harry lied. "They were helpful."
Daphne nodded and added with feigned honesty, "We have tried to follow the advice in them. Although our case is somewhat different, of course. We don't want to exorcise demons from our mind or anything like that, but – how did you put it, Professor? – to calm our troubled souls. To cool the blazing embers. To bind festering wounds."
If she spoke with a hint of mockery in her voice, it only added to the masquerade she was playing. Dumbledore merely nodded gently at her words, as if he were the mild-mannered teacher praising the progress of his pupils.
"That's more or less what I said, that's right, Daphne. I am glad you found the content helpful. But –"
"More than helpful," Harry interrupted. "It's helped us focus more on the other sides of our bond. The good sides. The strength we can draw from the bond." It was easy for him to say, because it wasn't a lie. He looked at Daphne, who had fixed her beautiful golden eyes on him, with a small green glimmer in them, invisible to anyone but him. "Like the time only our bond saved me from the Dementor's kiss."
Daphne's eyes grew warm.
"But you are still practising Blood Magic, aren't you?" Dumbledore asked, his blue eyes fixed on Harry and Daphne. "Still inflicting pain on yourselves?"
Harry forced his eyes back to his headmaster. He nodded. "Yes. Just as we discussed over the summer."
"You won't be able to stop us either," Daphne said. "Not as long as there are dangers in this world that we have to defend ourselves against. But we have reduced the scale, as you requested."
"It is a start," Dumbledore said after a pause, leaning back in his chair. He folded his weathered hands together, the slight trembling of age in his fingers almost imperceptible. "But it is far from enough. We will meet every week from now on and..."
They spent another half hour discussing magic and their Spirits Within, and what other ways there were to make their magic power more powerful and effective without resorting to life power. It was actually a fascinating conversation, Harry thought, though he found the conversations with Grindelwald even more so. After all, the latter was plagued by fewer... moral constraints than their headmaster.
Nevertheless, Harry would take a few things from his conversation with Dumbledore that he would use in addition to his Blood Magic to become more powerful. More and more powerful.
Harry almost felt sorry for Dumbledore and his attempts to save them from an imaginary abyss. But those efforts were as doomed as a lifeline spun from a single, flaming thread of wool. Harry could almost see the old wizard's hands blistering and burning, if not much more – no, definitely much more.
And if Dumbledore only knew what they had already done. What they had embraced, nurtured and fed deep within themselves. The thought of what his reaction would be if he ever discovered the truth almost made Harry laugh out loud. He could almost see it: Dumbledore screaming as he plunged into the very abyss he feared for them, shattered on the jagged rocks of his own foolishness.
When Harry and Daphne finally left the office, the air in the corridor on the second floor felt strangely clear and fresh, like stepping into a brisk wind after hours spent in a stifling room. The gargoyle slid back into place behind them with a low, grinding rumble, sealing the office away once more.
And there, less than five paces away, stood a familiar figure, arms folded across her chest.
"You've been waiting for us all this time?" Daphne asked, raising an eyebrow.
Tracey shrugged indifferently. "I've had nothing else to do."
The Slytherin followed them all day.
She had held back during the day, but Harry knew that Hermione would eventually confront him. And so he was just waiting for it when he stepped through the Fat Lady's portal into the common room in the evening after a strenuous training session with Daphne. The room was still full of students, and the warm, golden lights and the familiar crackle of the fireplace created a cosy atmosphere that only made Harry's heavy eyes even heavier. All he wanted to do was go to bed and sleep.
But as he had feared, the evening had other plans for him.
Hermione and Ron jumped up as soon as they saw him. Hermione's face was hard and filled with a determination that Harry had never seen in her, not even during the most gruelling exams. Ron seemed a little more hesitant in comparison, but he followed her as she approached Harry.
"Harry," Hermione said with an emphasis that nipped any evasion in the bud. "We need to talk. Now."
"I'm tired," Harry said anyway, not really stopping, but Hermione grabbed his arm and forced him to stop. It wasn't a tight grip, but it left no doubt that she wasn't going to let go.
"I won't be long," Ron said, giving him an apologetic look. "Honest."
With a sigh that expressed so much more than mere exhaustion, Harry nodded reluctantly. "Fine."
He followed them into a secluded corner of the room, where three armchairs had been placed near the window. The firelight flickered weakly over the cushions and Harry flopped heavily into one of them.
Before Hermione could speak, Harry cast a few protective spells with his hand so that no one could hear them. The hum of the spells filled the air around them and tingled on Harry's skin.
Hermione did not sit down. She stood in front of him with her arms crossed, studying him. It was as if she was searching for the right words and Harry almost dared to hope that she would back down. But then she took a deep breath and when she spoke, her voice began softly, only to grow louder and more emotional with each word.
"Harry, you've changed," she began. Her hands clenched around her arms, as if to force herself not to gesticulate. "Since the Triwizard Tournament – since you put your name into the Goblet of Fire. Your behaviour, this... craving for attention and glory and opportunities to show your power. And more and more..." She swallowed hard. "More and more, I don't recognise you anymore."
Harry's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Hermione was not deterred.
"Then the Third Task," she continued, her voice almost breaking. "The attack on Fudge – what were you thinking? And then Azkaban – you show no remorse, Harry. None at all. And... and all that with Greengrass."
His shoulders tightened at the mere mention of the name. "What about Daphne?" he asked sharply.
"What about her?" Hermione laughed bitterly. "She treats everyone like the dirt under her boots and you don't even realise how bad her influence is on you. You're not yourself anymore, Harry! And today, with Tracey Davis and her pledge of allegiance or whatever – she follows you around like a lapdog, as if she were your servant. Your follower? It's like... like you're in some kind of cult!"
Her voice cracked and she blinked desperately as if fighting back tears. "What's wrong with you? What's happening to you, Harry? I don't recognise you anymore."
The words hit him like a blow and for a moment he didn't know whether to shout at her and Ron or just walk away. Turn his back on them, as he had done so many times in the past years, months, weeks. To protect them. They wouldn't go the way he was going anyway, he was sure of that. So what was the point of explaining it to them? Of enlightening them? That they were right about everything and yet couldn't be more wrong? No, let them be happy in their ivory tower – it hadn't been a suitable place for him for a long time.
Still... something about Hermione's words irritated him deeply. The way she looked down on him, insulting the witch who meant everything to him. Just like in her letters over the summer, when she hadn't mentioned Daphne at all. And how she no doubt talked about Daphne behind his back when he wasn't around and couldn't stop her.
"You know what?" Harry finally said, his voice harsher than he'd intended. "Maybe you don't recognise me, Hermione. But maybe this is who I am now."
Hermione gasped as if he had hit her. "You don't mean that."
"Yes, I do," Harry replied, his voice cold now. He had let them talk about him and Daphne behind his back for far too long. Weighing their every action and word as if they were bloody saints themselves. "I do what I want. And if you can't understand that, it's not my problem."
"Not your problem?" Hermione's face turned red. "You're our friend, Harry! We care about you! And you talk as if what you do is normal. As if it's all... okay!"
Ron intervened, clearly overwhelmed by the escalation. "Harry, come on, she only means well—"
"I don't need your help!" Harry snapped at him, jumping up so violently that the chair behind him tipped over. Although the rest of the room could not hear, many heads turned in their direction. Harry hated it, he hated it with all his heart. He had not even given them anything proper to look at!
His anger boiled inside him like a wild animal trying to break free of its cage. Deep inside, his Impetus roared, demanding to be released. Harry could no longer listen to Hermione, could no longer bear to hear Ron's repeated attempts at reconciliation. It was as if their words were clawing at his ears.
His hand involuntarily slipped to his wand. A single curse and they would finally fall silent. Then only screams would follow, simple, beautiful cries of pain that would make everything else fall away.
But as he raised his wand, he froze.
Reality hit him like a bolt of lightning. What was he doing? The shock of realisation made him jump, his fingers jerking away from the wood in a spasm.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice was now shaking with confusion and fear.
He turned abruptly, pushing her arm aside as she tried to stop him, and turned to flee. He couldn't stay here. The air was suffocating, his chest tightening, the pounding of his heart drowning out everything else. The eyes of the other students pierced him like knives.
Then, like a lifeline, came the bond. Daphne. Her presence tugged at him, faintly at first, then stronger – a steady tug that anchored him in the storm. It was the only thing keeping him upright as he quickened his pace towards the exit.
But before he could escape, someone stepped into his path.
"Neville," Harry said as if the words hurt him. "Not now. I can't—I don't have the strength for another lecture."
Neville stood calmly in front of him, his hands relaxed at his sides but his eyes firmly fixed on Harry. "That's not what I want," he said. " Susan and I—we need to talk. With you. And with Daphne. About the future."