Chapter 84 - The Mistletoe's Answer

Miles looked a little embarrassed. "After I read the newspaper, I just... read the newspaper. If I'm being honest, I don't really read it that much anyway. Heh."

Praeris nodded. "Yes, that's easy enough to spot. Burns, scalds, and scars from other injuries all look different."

Miles immediately jumped to his feet and spun a circle in front of her. "So what can you tell about me?"

She found him rather endearing. "Hmm. You had soda bread for breakfast."

"You can tell that?" His face went slack with shock. "I really did have soda bread!"

Praeris finally laughed. "Because you're Irish. Of all the breakfast options this morning, only the soda bread would appeal to an Irish palate."

"That's it?" He looked a little cheated. "I thought there'd be some elaborate deduction involved!"

Praeris shrugged. "When you don't understand the principles behind something, it seems magical. Once you've mastered it, even the most dazzling spell becomes ordinary."

She had said this more than once. It never helped. People always decided her talent was some kind of superhuman divine gift, that she was a playwright working from a script she'd written in advance.

In truth, she thought of herself as an ordinary person. One of the millions of powerless ordinary people in the world. The moments when she was helpless far outnumbered the moments when she held all the cards.

Otherwise, she would have unraveled every secret on Moody by now.

Praeris had a class in half an hour, so they turned and walked toward the castle.

Miles watched her from behind, unable to quiet a tangle of thoughts he couldn't quite sort out.

Praeris was so brilliant. Did she know what he was thinking right now?

He realized he didn't understand her at all. He'd known she was clever — he just hadn't known she was this clever. He'd known she was capable — he just hadn't known she was this capable.

He had declared himself before he truly knew her, running on pure impulse, and now that he'd actually gotten closer to her, the impulse had curdled into hesitation.

He couldn't stop asking himself: Miles, you were drawn to her because of her strength. You fell for her because of her charm. But do you actually deserve someone like her?

He had told himself, once, that maybe it was his steadfastness that had moved her. That she'd given him a chance because he hadn't given up.

If that was true — did she know about the small schemes he'd used while pursuing her? Did she know he had doubted her? Did she know the mess he was carrying around inside right now?

He had never felt anything this complicated before. He hadn't lied to Praeris about that. It really did feel like his first time.

He had always thought his life was like being a Quidditch Keeper. Whatever came at you, you handled it. Quaffle incoming, you knocked it back.

But he wasn't in the air above a Quidditch pitch right now. He wasn't a Keeper.

Love had pulled him down from the sky and put him on the ground, and on the ground he was just a clumsy, green boy who had no idea what he was doing.

---

"To Kitty,

I know what Potter will be facing, and I trust you can handle it well. I won't give you any unnecessary advice on that front.

But some things have nothing to do with strategy.

If Potter feels nervous, try this: inhale slowly over 3 to 5 seconds, hold the breath for 6 or 7, then exhale over 8 or 9. Repeat until he can calm down.

I'll send Diggory a similar anonymous letter. Limited strictly to the breathing, of course.

You know me. I'm an impartial bystander.

Victory belongs to Hogwarts."

---

The day before the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, Hermione was reading this letter for the 4th time. The breathing technique Praeris had recommended for Harry hadn't reached Harry yet. It had already been used up on herself.

Hermione reached out and stopped Harry mid-attempt. "Harry, listen to me. Your anxiety is already affecting your progress on the Summoning Charm. You shouldn't be frantically running through the spell right now. You need to calm down first. Cast with your brain, not just your hands."

She thought, with cautious optimism: perfect. He was already nervous ahead of schedule. That meant they could practice getting him calm before it mattered.

Praeris had written those two letters with a simple intention. There were no Slytherin champions in this tournament. Which meant it was Hogwarts against everyone else.

Praeris thought, with a particular brand of arrogance: it didn't matter whether Potter or Diggory won. The winner had to be Hogwarts.

But Draco made Praeris look positively restrained by comparison. He had been acting like he'd taken the wrong potion entirely.

Praeris fiddled absently with the box on her desk. "What is wrong with him?" she asked Pansy.

The story required rewinding to the night she'd found out what the first task was.

No occasion. No warning. Draco had simply materialized at her side and, without a word, pushed a beautiful case into her hands. Inside was a magical pocket watch.

The watch could record emotions. When its owner didn't want to let a precious feeling go, they pressed the watch and it kept the feeling safe.

Later, when they wanted to revisit that feeling but couldn't bring it back on their own, they turned the hand to the right position and pressed the button. The watch let them experience the moment again.

The face had only 4 positions: 3, 6, 9, and 12. Four feelings, maximum.

If they no longer wanted a feeling, they set the hand on its number and pressed the watch twice.

"Christmas isn't here yet," Praeris had told him.

Draco's expression went stiff. He recovered quickly. "Isn't that obvious? There aren't any Christmas trees up in the school!"

She pushed the case back toward him. "So?"

She had wanted to ignore the whole thing. She couldn't.

She very much wanted to ask Pansy whether that girl had been throwing punches on her behalf behind the scenes.

She didn't ask.

Draco drew himself up with startling confidence. "Just keep it!"

And then he turned and left. Left. Left.

Pansy sighed long and hard behind her.

From that day on, Draco began forcing strange little magical trinkets on her at irregular intervals.

"Am I your storage vault?" Praeris asked him once.

"It's a gift," he said, his expression sour. "Throw it away if you don't want it."

Every single one of them was something Draco had made himself, or restored himself. Each gift, like the pocket watch, had spent a long time in his hands and carried the mark of real thought and real care.

When Praeris picked them up, she could almost feel his warmth in them. She could sense, clearly, the traces he'd left behind.

This was Draco's particular brand of arrogance. He was completely confident that no matter what he said, Praeris would never actually throw them away. Not just because of what they cost. Because of what they were worth.

And so the bizarre situation continued.

Without her quite noticing, the case grew heavier. More crowded. Praeris worried about what to do with all of it, and found she couldn't do anything with any of it.

The items were also expensive enough that she couldn't just leave them somewhere careless. She had to keep them in her bag.

When she walked, she could hear them knocking against each other inside.

"Is he stupid?" Praeris asked Pansy.

Pansy nodded. "He is stupid."

Pansy was actively refusing to acknowledge that she had known Draco for 10 years. It was too embarrassing.

He had practiced with Felix Felicis. Many times. And then he would walk up to Praeris, and he would just, that hopeless fool.

---

"We should head over early tomorrow and get a good spot," Miles said. "How do you think they handle the dragons? Are they actually going to fight them? Can they even win a fight against a dragon?"

"Probably not fighting them directly," Praeris said. "That would exceed what the champions could reasonably handle. From a design perspective, I'd expect something more like a retrieval task."

"Retrieval?" Miles said. "Like the legends, right? Dragons hoarding treasure."

Praeris shook her head. "Probably not treasure either. Anything that got damaged would blow the tournament budget, and the Ministry would never approve it. My guess is dragon eggs. A mother dragon's protective instinct toward her eggs is extremely strong. That's the kind of challenge that works."

She added, "Though they'll almost certainly use fake eggs rather than real ones. The champions would be careless enough to smash one, and a real broken egg would send the mother into an absolute frenzy. So it'll be retrieving a fake egg from right under her nose."

"I can't even begin to imagine how you'd do that," Miles said. "That sounds exactly like fighting a dragon."

"The biggest complication is that the arena is on Hogwarts grounds," Praeris said. "If it weren't, you could distract the dragon and Apparate straight to the egg."

She thought for a moment. "If it were me — I'd use a Transfiguration spell to turn some of the rocks in the arena into animals. Then I'd cast something loud and flashy near the animals to draw the dragon away. Once she moved, I'd use a Mud-Sinking Charm to briefly pin her down, then cover myself with a Disillusionment Charm and a Silencing Charm and go collect the egg before she spotted me. It's a rough plan. Real combat would require adapting on the fly and swapping out pieces as you went."

Miles stared at her for a long moment. Then he made a slow, wondering sound.

The gap between people, sometimes, was wider than the gap between a person and a dog.

"Right," he said. "Did you bring your spell notes? Mud-Sinking Charm, Silencing Charm — what even are those?"

Miles liked carrying Praeris's bag. He had offered from their very first date, and it had become habit. Sometimes he'd fish things out for her too, which he seemed to find genuinely entertaining.

Right now he was holding the ornate case, turning it over in his hands. The letters D and M were engraved on the base.

Praeris said, without any particular feeling in her voice, "Gifts that couldn't be returned."

Miles was quiet for a while.

Then he smiled. "You know what? My cousin told me there's a Yule Ball over Christmas, during the tournament."

"Oh?"

"Fourth year and above." His smile went wide and bright. "Would you come as my partner?"

"I don't know how to dance," Praeris said honestly.

Miles gripped the case a little tighter, still looking entirely delighted by this. "That doesn't matter — I don't either. It's Christmas, Praeris. The whole school will be decorated with Mistletoe. You know what I mean. I want to be with you that day."

Praeris blinked. "Mistletoe?"

"Yes. Mistletoe." He held the case with both hands now. "Will you?"

She felt the faint urge to sigh.

The legend of Mistletoe comes from Norse mythology.

The belief was that a girl standing beneath Mistletoe could not refuse a boy's kiss.

The belief was also that lovers who kissed beneath Mistletoe would be happy for the rest of their lives.

What Miles was asking was simple enough, once you saw through the framing: would she be his girlfriend? Would she let him kiss her? Would she be willing to be with him for the rest of her life?

How long had it been since his first confession?

The champions hadn't even faced the first task yet.

Praeris could admit it. She hadn't wanted to accept his feelings at the start. It was Madam Puli and Winnie who had given her the courage to try.

Back then, she hadn't thought too hard about any of it. She admired the warmth and energy in him. She looked at his life and saw a different version of her own, a path she hadn't walked, and she let herself wonder whether another version of her, shaped by different circumstances, might have been as free as he was, as bold in going after the things she loved.

Being with Miles was joyful. It felt like what she had imagined love might look like. They practiced magic together. They shared a box of biscuits. Miles told her about his past, about the things that happened among the Slytherin boys that were worth laughing about. Praeris shared her observations with him, the small stories from among the girls that she could actually say out loud.

But the moment Miles said Mistletoe, Praeris hesitated.

She still didn't understand love. Miles already did.

To like someone was to keep imagining, despite yourself, the possibility of being with them. To love someone was to keep imagining, despite yourself, being with them for the rest of your life, to wish for something permanent.

And Praeris had never once imagined a distant future with Miles.

That hesitation was its own answer, even unspoken.

It made Miles the losing party in this. Completely and entirely.

He opened his mouth. He wanted to say something. But the love he'd been carrying around had turned into a piece of hard candy, already crushed. He swallowed it without hesitating, wanting to keep it. It caught in his throat. Sharp edges. It cut on the way down and took his words with it.

At first, it had just been impulse. She was special. She was good. He wanted to be with her.

But what had actually taken his heart, completely and without his permission, was the very same thing. Because she was good and she was special. He had become more driven because of her. He had flushed red at her romanticism. He had spent nights lying awake over individual things she'd said. He had felt his stomach tighten every time she was in any kind of danger.

She was gentle, and she was sharp. She was open, and she was impossible to fully read. She was a Sphinx with endless questions in her, and every time Miles thought he'd found an answer, she handed him a new one.

He couldn't stop wondering: how did a person fall this hard, this fast?

He couldn't stop answering himself: with Praeris, it was just that easy.

He was still smiling. The smile was an effort, but he kept it. "Same as before. You don't have to give me an answer."

"No." Praeris shook her head, and her voice was serious. "This time you need one. Right now, I don't want to kiss anyone under the Mistletoe."

➤ Next: Bonus Chapter Thanks