A/N: sorry for the hold-up! Prince, it turns out, requires a very specific mood to write, but I think I've caught the thread of it again...
Chapter Two: Nosce te ipsum
The city basks in the heat of high summer, houses grand and modest alike creaking as the warmth seeps into their wooden bones. Sparrows twitter above the squares where old women gather to air their laundry and their opinions. Gossip is essential to the running of the city – the sharing of it, in carefully measured increments, enlivens the drudgery of the poor, and the ennui of the rich.
The Duke knows this, and every time he lets a crumb of gossip fall from his lips it gives him a thrill of pleasure to imagine the ripples growing from it, moving outwards from his grand palazzo, through the market square and along the canals; spreading like a drug through the bloodstream of the city, like magic fizzing in the vein.
The boy is alive, the people whisper. Alive.
Where is he? they ask one another, and the sparrows take up the whisper and call it to one another across the red-tiled roofs: where where where?
But as the years dance past, deceptively light on their feet, the whispers die down. The wizards have been quiet, have kept themselves to themselves, but every so often there will be a child selling fruit in the marketplace whose basket is never empty; a thief against whom no lock can stand; a girl whose face is so beautiful the people weep upon seeing her.
The Ministero doors open to admit them. They do not come out again.
It's for the best, people say. Remember the Pretender.
Remember what he did?
The Duke smiles as he watches the people from the window of his tower room.
Remember, he has told them.
Remember.
oOo
Here is a secret: the best dancers have an assassin's touch. Heart-piercing, feather-light.
oOo
It's one of the first things that Master Snape teaches her, and Daphne holds it in her mind as she plays her harp, as she smiles and sips tea, as she lies sleepless in her bed at night, watching the glimmering reflection of water across her ceiling.
Lightness of touch, he had said, that first day, snapping his fingers and sending something stinging across the backs of her ankles. Daphne's eyes had filled with tears at the pain, but she hadn't even flinched, and he had nodded as though satisfied. You are more than you appear, he remarked. And I am here to ensure that that remains the case.
He teaches her to dance, then. They spend countless afternoons in the room on the top floor of her father's house, and Master Snape drills her until she can turn on a pinhead, until she can dance every dance that she's ever heard of and then some more, and Daphne is willing to learn – eager, even – because every time she masters a dance he teaches her more magic.
At first Daphne isn't sure whether she should call it that – it is a word that has come to hold a weight of fear in it, a measure of terrified awe, and when she has heard it whispered by people in the streets, thundered by the priests in church, or murmured behind fluttering fans by women in the stalls at the Opera, it has always come freighted with distaste.
"Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself," Master Snape says to her when she tells him this, and his black eyes glitter dangerously, as though daring Daphne to argue with him. "There is magic in your blood, Lady Greengrass, and though I would advise you not to make the fact known, you should not be afraid of admitting it to yourself."
Daphne nods, grits her teeth, and focuses on splitting the light that drifts through the window into its constituent spectrum. Rainbow colours bounce around the walls, and Master Snape's eyes follow them, his mouth pursed in consideration.
"That will do for today, I think."
His dark robes flutter around him as he descends the stairs. The summer blazes through the city, but it seems to Daphne that he carries winter with him wherever he goes.
oOo
The years pass, spinning their way through the Ca' d'Erbe in a flurry of suppers and lessons and new gowns and sibling rivalry.
Soon enough Daphne is twelve years old, neither too tall nor too short, her spine straight and her hair a fall of spun gold. Men look at her now, when she accompanies her father on his outings; she can feel their eyes upon the shine of her hair, the sweep of her cheekbones, the delicate bow of her lips, and she keeps her own gaze directed to the ground.
It is Astoria who lifts her chin and stares back, and so the people say that it is Astoria who has run amok in the absence of a mother; Astoria, with her dark eyes and hair, who must be a burden to her father when he thinks of having to arrange a match for her.
They do not realise that Daphne's eyes are cast downwards so that the people who stare at her will not see the wildness in her soul, the sharpness at the core of her being.
Your face is a mask.
Hide behind it.
She is old enough now that her father expects her to play hostess when they have guests, and Daphne excels at little flatteries, artless smiles, and demure half-glances.
At her father's Midsummer party she notices Lady Malfoy watching her closely, and Daphne forces herself to swallow her mouthful of wine, to not let her hand tremble as she replaces her crystal glass on the fine lace linen.
She isn't all that surprised when Draco appears at her elbow after dinner, when he makes a show of bending and pressing his cool lips to her knuckles. Everything that he does is a study in arrogant elegance, Daphne thinks to herself, as Draco straightens up to stare boldly at her down his nose, despite being barely an inch taller.
Her father watches her over Draco's shoulder, and when he sees that she has noticed, Hyperion gives her a slow, subtle nod.
So, Daphne thinks to herself. It begins.
She could do much worse, of course. The Malfoys are rich and influential, and for all that Draco can be a hopeless bully he is also clever, and Daphne knows, even at twelve, that this will prove important if they are to forge a successful union, though she recoils from the idea.
Really, the problem isn't being Draco's wife. It's being anyone's wife at all.
But for now she knows that she has a duty, and it would not do to anger her father unduly. Her dancing lessons would be the first to go, and Daphne knows that she has not learned nearly enough to continue to pass unnoticed if she is left to do so alone.
She lets Draco pull gently but firmly on her arm. Lets him, as the musicians play and the guests drift from the the dinner table to dance and drink and politic, steer her out of the room and onto the balcony overlooking the Grand Canal. The Ca' d'Erbe is not nearly so magnificent as the Malfoy Palazzo, but it is her home, and it is charming, and from her bedroom window she can hear the cathedral bells and -
"Daphne," Draco says, and though he is obviously trying to be charming there is a bite of impatience in his voice that tells her that this is not the first time that he has said her name.
She turns to him, catching a glimpse, in the minutely petulant set of his mouth, of the boy who laughed at her when she asked to play with a sword. Draco must see something in her face, because his grey eyes sharpen as he looks at her.
"Daphne," he says again, and his voice is gentler this time, more solicitous. "My father would like me to sue for your hand. I find that I have no objection to the idea -"
You need to work on your flattery, Draco, Daphne thinks to herself, and her amusement must soften her expression because Draco appears emboldened.
"- and I wondered if I might - may I kiss you?" he asks.
His expression is confident and expectant, but beneath it she catches a flicker of nervousness, and it is this that makes her smile, that makes her whisper, "yes," and tip her chin up towards him.
The feeling of Draco's lips against hers is not unpleasant. They are smooth, soft and dry, and though his mouth is by no means plump there is a pleasant give that makes her think that she would not mind, so very much, having the duty of kissing him.
But then he leans away, and smirks at her. "We're each other's first kiss," he whispers, his tone conspiratorial, and Daphne smiles, demurs, and casts her eyes to the ground once again. She remembers playing, kissing another set of lips, and the strange spark that had passed between the two of them.
How long since she last thought of him? Her cheeks flame abruptly, and she glances up to see Draco watching her with smug satisfaction, clearly under the impression that it is her modesty that makes her blush.
Let him, Daphne tells herself. It would not do for him to know the truth.
oOo
It is the summer that Daphne turns fourteen, and she is tired, and fractious, and Master Snape has picked today to drill her on theory, which she hates. Daphne stretches her neck, feels sweat beading beneath the stiff gown that she wears in spite of the heat; little droplets of it pool in the shallow channel between her breasts.
"This is irksome," she sighs, tossing her quill down and resting her chin on her hand. In this room she is neither demure nor dutiful. In this room she returns Master Snape's stare boldly.
His face remains impassive, though one eyebrow twitches slightly. "What would you rather be doing, Lady Greengrass?" he asks, his voice lethally quiet.
There's a subtle irony in the formality of the address, and in any case Daphne is bored enough to disregard his tone, so she tips her head and blinks slowly at him. "I'd much prefer it," she says, letting the words come out as a purr, "if you could be persuaded to find something more diverting -"
"Stop that." Master Snape snaps his fingers, and Daphne jumps as a spell nearly connects with her nose, halted only at the last moment by a hurried motion of her hand.
"I am not one of your father's friends," Master Snape says, "to be flattered by your attentions."
"I didn't -" Daphne starts to say, but the words die on her lips when he shoots her a quelling glare. Because she did; of course she did. She has a power, and she tried to use it.
"You will find me immune to that sort of thing," Master Snape says sharply. "And if you wish to continue to learn you will not try my patience."
Colour floods her face, and this time it is shame that paints her cheeks. Master Snape gives her a long, level look. "Enough," he says quietly. "We are done for today." She stays frozen in her seat as he sweeps past her, burning with humiliation.
It's only when she hears the creaking slam of the great doors downstairs that it occurs to her that he may not come back.
oOo
"My Lady Greengrass."
He makes his customary jerking bow, and Daphne sinks into a curtsey, as she always does, though her relief is so acute that she feels she might faint from it.
He follows her up the stairs but pauses just outside the door to the room where he usually teaches her.
"I thought we might try something less...irksome, today, my Lady," Master Snape says, and Daphne could swear that there is the tiniest light of amusement in his dour face as she stares at him.
"Put these on," he says, "and let me know when you are decent."
She takes the bundle of clothes that he passes to her, and closes the door. It is the work of mere moments to persuade her tight stays to unlace themselves, to step free of the prison of her gown and pull on the rough linen shirt, leather jerkin and breeches that Master Snape has given her. There is a length of cloth that she realises is supposed to bind her breasts, and she does so quickly, reaching under the shirt to pull the binding tight before shoving her feet into a pair of worn boots. Finally she picks up a soft wool cap, and coils her hair up into a knot before tucking it carefully underneath.
When she looks at herself in the glass Daphne is forced to swallow. A boy - admittedly a very pretty one, but a boy nonetheless - stares back at her, and she finds that her heart is skipping with excitement as she opens the door and goes out to Master Snape.
"You will do," is his only comment, before he moves his hand in a complex motion and Daphne feels something cool settle about her shoulders. "To ensure that your footmen do not make difficulties," Master Snape says, before he leads the way downstairs and out to the boat landing, where his gondola waits.
The footmen do not spare Daphne a single glance.
"Sir," she asks, once she is seated in the boat and Master Snape's servant has started to row them away. "Where are we going?"
He regards her with his black eyes, and Daphne feels brutally self-conscious.
"You live in a gilded cage," Master Snape says finally. "And there are many such in this city. However there are cages also made from other, baser materials, though their inhabitants are trapped just the same."
"I see," Daphne says uncertainly, though it is patently obvious that she does not, and there is amusement in his face again as he watches her, perched on the seat, dressed as a street-rat but with the posture of a queen.
"No you do not," Snape says. "But you will."
It's at the tip of her tongue to ask him what, exactly, he is going to show her, but then something makes Daphne glance up towards the servant who is sculling with slow, neat strokes. She takes in the fine features, the suntanned skin, and the springy curls that seem to make a bid for escape from beneath a woollen cap similar to her own, and realises that she is not the only one in disguise.
The girl returns her stare boldly, and Daphne feels small and silly under such a knowing gaze. They must be about the same age, but the girl has a compact wiriness to her that tells Daphne that their lives have been very different.
"This is Miss Granger, Lady Greengrass," says Master Snape. "If the two of you are amenable, she will be helping with some of your more...practical lessons from now on."
Daphne looks back at the girl and sees that a tiny frown has appeared on her face. She swallows tightly. "Very good, Master Snape."
oOo
'Practical lessons' turns out to mean a number of different things. There is the charming of locks to fall open. There is walking across the rooftops: learning the sure quick-footedness required to leap from one to another. There is the climbing of walls without ropes, with only the barest whisper of magic to buoy them upwards. There is slipping a hand beneath a gentleman's cloak to relieve him of his purse, and there is swimming in the lagoon waters.
All of these things together, Miss Granger ("call me Hermione, I beg you") tells her, form something that she calls, with a little twist of a smile, the "freedom of the city."
Daphne can feel it, making her heart sing and her cheeks glow and her fingertips tremble. Freedom; the keys to her cage.
It doesn't take long for her and Hermione to learn that, with their magic, they have more than enough in common to become friends. While her lessons with Master Snape continue as before, Daphne finds herself sneaking out almost every other night to run across the city with Hermione, and as the years pass she learns more and more secrets.
The priests - those severe, starched pillars of black - hide gold in their private halls, and their feasts are lavish enough to make even Daphne's eyes widen.
The gondoliers will gut you as soon as look at you, but if you earn their loyalty they will fight for you to the death.
The island of San Marco, which emerges from the mist each morning, is haunted by so many ghosts that to learn all their stories would take another lifetime.
And then there are the secrets of how a girl like Hermione, whose mind is as quick as her thieving hands, but whose magic is an awesome thing to behold, has managed to survive so long without being caught and taken to the Ministero.
"Swords are for gentlemen and soldiers," Hermione sniffs primly. "A knife is much better."
She produces one with a plain wooden handle - nothing special, though Daphne can see the keen shine of the blade as Hermione balances it in her hand.
Soon Daphne can wield a knife in close quarters, and can throw one to hit a target twenty feet away. Hermione rounds on her unexpectedly one night when they are both sixteen, and the two of them whirl through a series of movements that seem more like a dance than anything else - the neat choreography of feet and hands, the bend and twist of their bodies. It is an improvisation, a daring call and response. This is what Master Snape has been teaching her all these years, Daphne realises, as her breath comes short and her blood sings.
To fight.
When Hermione knocks the blade out of her hand and grazes the point of her knife over her ribs, Daphne laughs, and sketches a mocking bow to concede the victory. There is more laughter, and a light smattering of applause, and the two girls turn to see that the whores have crept out of the shadows of the bridge to watch them spar.
"Well done," says one, whose name Daphne thinks is Rosmerta. "I haven't seen you at Hogwarts before, I don't think?"
From the corner of her eye Daphne sees Hermione shake her head very slightly, and she smiles blithely at the woman. "No," she says, "you haven't."
Hermione takes her arm and turns her away. "Goodnight, sweet ladies," she calls over her shoulder, and another wave of laughter follows the two of them as they wander away across the piazza.
Daphne rounds on her as soon as they are out of earshot. "What's Hogwarts?" she demands. "What was she talking about?"
Hermione chews her lip, and as her dark eyes size her up Daphne is reminded of the day that they met. "It's an orphanage," Hermione says eventually. "Near the Arsenale. It's run by nuns but it's where Master Snape takes the magical children that he finds before the Ministero can get them."
"It's where you live?" Daphne asks, and is rewarded with a slow nod. They have stopped in one of the narrow calle, and are leaning against opposite walls. Hermione's mouth lifts on one side. "One of your lessons with Snape will feed an orphan for a week," she says, and Daphne wonders suddenly about this girl that she has known for years now; wonders about her instructor, Master Snape, whom she has known for more than half her life; and realises that really she knows almost nothing about them.
There's something that Hermione said though, something about Master Snape finding magical children… and Daphne looks up at her friend, and whispers, "What about Harry Potter?"
Hermione's eyes widen, and she raises a finger to her mouth, shushing Daphne just before a well-dressed gentleman sweeps past and they both instinctively tuck their chins to their chests. His hand is on his purse, and his stride is purposeful enough that Daphne has no doubt he is on his way to visit the ladies who make their living around the bridge.
"How do you know that name?" Hermione whispers once the man's cloak has fluttered out of sight around the corner, and Daphne blushes.
"I remember him," she says. "We played together when we were children. He - I -" she falls silent, unsure how to put into words what she wants to say, and Hermione gives her a peculiarly searching look.
It is a tiny paring of the secret; a sliver thinner than the crescent moon whose insipid light does nothing to combat the dark that fills the calle; but apparently it is enough, because eventually Hermione sighs, and pushes herself away from the wall. "Sister McGonagall would kill me for telling you," she says softly, "But we call him the Boy Who Lived for a reason." Daphne feels her heart leap, and knows that something of her excitement must show in her face, because Hermione smiles slightly, and rolls her eyes.
"You should get home," she says, but her eyes dance as she whispers, "I'll tell him you asked after him."
A/N: The title of this chapter comes from the Latin for "Know thyself" (a translation generally attributed to Cicero from an earlier Greek aphorism).