AN: Pride of Portree

Beater 1: Player 4: An epigraph and an example of personification
Optional Prompts: (word) tradition, (word) forgive

I do not own the Harry Potter universe or the song Speeding Cars by Walking On Cars!

I would like to say a big thank you to Cypresswand for showing me Speeding Cars by Walking On Cars. The lyrics from it are in the epigraph and it's been an inspiring listen!

Also, a thank you to Sophie (Screaming Faeries) for the challenge to look up a random Wiki page (Chinthes) and incorporate what I've learned into my writing!

Chinthes et ut Abscondaris

How I love that no one knows…

It's his little secret. As he weaves through the shelves that have been stacked precariously high, Harry smiles to himself. It's a little smoky in here, and the plush maroon carpets muffle his footsteps and those of other shoppers. In fact, the antiquated shop on the Sri Lankan street corner does such a good job of concealing whoever else is wandering through it that Harry finds it magical—he knows full well that this shop is run by wizards.

His senses are almost overwhelmed. The sweet musk of incense dances around him, making him slightly heady. There's a noticeable lack of air-conditioning, and beads of sweat form on his neck as the midday heat creeps into the room. His ears are assaulted by silence; yet, the building he's stood in has sounds of its own. If you asked him, he wouldn't be able to explain. His fingers have run over countless textures: mahogany, silk, glass… but it isn't just mahogany, silk, and glass.

It's an entire forest, an ocean, and a crystal ball… or the staircase in Privet Drive, Ron's awful new curtains, and the lenses of his glasses.

It's moments like this that Harry shakes his head, and though he's trying to stop cursing, he can't help but let a few bad words escape his lips.

Why does his mind insist on ruining the magic of the moment?

It's then that he hears it. For the first time since he first started frequenting this little shop, he hears the bell jingle as someone opens the door.

He strains his ears for any other sound, but it's quiet again—but a voice!

He just heard it. He's sure of it.

What he's not sure about is if he wants to see the owner of the voice. His feet carry him in the direction he thinks it came from anyway.

The smoke thins (another first), and he sees a wisp of a person.

It thins further and there she is, stood before him in undeniable solidity: Daphne Greengrass.

She's stood so he can only see her side, but his jaw tightens at the sight of her. There's indescribable pain there too.

She was brought up surrounded by pureblood ideals. They shaped her view of the world, leaving the two of them on opposite sides of the war.

He doesn't want her here, in his safe space. It's where he comes to be alone.

But you were both so young. Things change…

There's an uncomfortable clarity, and Harry misses the shroud of smoke that passed away moments ago.

He watches her pass over a small brass statuette. It's a Chinthe; he recognises it as one similar to the one in his pocket. Long ago, the Chinthe statuettes were used to measure the quantities of items. His hiding place evidently hasn't moved on from those times.

But Harry likes it. It gives him the sense of being in another world—an older one that exists outside of the Wizarding Wars. This is the only place where he's truly relieved of everyone's critical gaze… and that brings his train of thought back to the invader.

She's just slipped something into her pocket. Her haste to conceal whatever she has bought makes Harry immediately suspicious, but he can't investigate her. He doesn't want to, actually. This is the place he's relieved of his burdens—and that includes his work.

Then she turns around, and Harry realises too late that since he can see her, she can see him. He's far too accustomed to the anonymity the shop offers…

As soon as her gaze lands on him, her eyes narrow, and she looks accusatory—as if he's the one intruding. He can't bring himself to glower, though; it's a subconscious decision.

I'm not polluting this place with negativity.

That's why he smiles. Daphne's surprised expression almost makes him laugh, but he's never before broken the silence of this place and he doesn't intend to do so now. Instead, he tilts his head to where he believes the exit is and leaves.

He's stood outside for no longer than two seconds before Daphne appears beside him. He waits until he hears the wooden door of the shop click shut before he speaks.

"Daphne," he says, stepping further away from the shop.

"That is my name, Harry," she replies, and he can feel the smirks on both of their faces.

He shakes his head, apologetic. Then shakes it again so that the dark hair in his eyes is no longer hindering his vision. "I'm sorry," he says with a small smile. "I'm just surprised to see you here."

"As am I," she says. Her response is elusive, and Harry can't help but keep talking.

"You come here often?" he asks, and he's genuinely curious.

She looks up, and Harry sees the mix of emotions in her eyes. "A lot since…" Her voice trails off and Harry knows that the word she doesn't want to say is 'war'.

"I understand."

Daphne seems to realise that he visits often; perhaps they visit the same amount… Harry can't be sure, though, but she's invited him to a café.

They're sat opposite each other, and he has his elbows resting on the sun-warmed table, marvelling at the view he has. Elephants. He's absolutely transfixed by their slow movements, some of them laying on the ground with their tails flicking lazily.

He's uncomfortably aware of Daphne's cool gaze, and he wonders why she frequents such a relaxed dining place; it's certainly a break from tradition. He'd expect to see her dining in a high class wizarding restaurant, but instead, they're sitting with small slices of bread in a Muggle café. Harry thinks the place has a certain charm to it… He can certainly forgive the dingy outward appearance.

In an obvious effort to break the silence, Harry asks, "Do you visit this café often?"

Daphne nods before speaking, the sun making her blonde hair glimmer. "I've been visiting since my third or fourth trip to Sri Lanka," she answers.

He arches an eyebrow. If she's visited as many times as he has, then she'd have spent hours and hours in this place. It's then that he notices just how deeply she's looking into his eyes, and he wonders if the sun is having the same effect on his green irises as it's having on Daphne's blonde hair.

"Why do you visit?" asks the blonde in an almost-whisper. She seems to want to retract the words the moment she says them.

Harry's eyes widen at the question and Daphne looks like her breath has been stolen from her. He doesn't really know how to answer properly—how to summarise just how much that small shop on the Sri Lankan street corner does for him, so he simply says, "To hide."

Once he says the words aloud, he realises they're quite true. He also realises that he doesn't mind telling Daphne; there's something in her eyes that tells him his answer has struck a chord within her. He knows from experience that it's a painful relatability.

He doesn't anticipate a verbal confession from her, so when she says, "I do, too," he's surprised. In fact, he's not quite sure he's heard her right.

She laughs at his expression. "Yes, I said I do, too."

He doesn't want to push, but he has to know something. "Why?"

Daphne sobers up as soon as the question leaves his lips, morphing into the picture of pureblood composure. Then he watches, fascinated, as the facade drops once more. "I don't know," she says.

He lets her think for a moment.

"I—After the war, I could see it in everyone's faces," she begins. Harry knows what she's talking about. The admiration, the pity, and the war itself. Daphne continues, oblivious to Harry's thoughts, "They looked at me and all I could see was the disgust, the wariness—even the war itself. It was imprinted on the premature lines on their faces."

Different experiences from different sides of the war.

He's broken from his thoughts by Daphne's, "What about you?"

"Oh," he says, caught off-guard, "the same."

Daphne snorts, and it's the first time he's heard her make a sound that isn't ladylike in its entirety. "I don't believe that for a second," she says. "No one would look at the Golden Boy with wariness and disgust."

He's not stupid; he can tell he's being mocked when it's right in front of his face. However, he knows that Daphne's words are coming from a place of hurt, and an impulsive feeling of righteous anger flares in his chest. Why should Daphne be condemned for the choices her parents made?

But all he says is, "They don't, but it feels the same sometimes. I see the war in everyone's faces, and it's hard to look at my own reflection knowing that I'm the reason for it."

Harry doesn't think either of them knows why they're opening up to each other so quickly. Perhaps it's this place, or maybe it's the fact that they can feel an odd sense of familiarity oozing off one another.

Either way, Harry can sense the bond they have, and he looks up at the cloudless Sri Lankan sky, thankful for the magical little shop that dropped its veils just in time for the two of them to meet.

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