–––CHAPTER 11–––

AT THE END of Diagon Alley, flanking a square behind two rows of stately elm trees, stood Charing House.

It was a grand building from the late 17th century, a fine specimen of the English Baroque, built by Lord Stoddard Withers, the famous breeder of flying horses; but a manor of that name had stood there since the 1200s. It had been the centre of the little village of Charing, back when London had ended at the River Fleet, and Westminster was still a separate entity. Or at least, that was what the ornate text on the menu said – since it was a restaurant, a very exclusive one, called The Golden Cross. The Ministry banquet was held here every year, and by now I knew the page describing the history by heart.

Daphne and I had appeared on Diagon Alley, opposite to Twilfitt & Tatting's; and started to slowly cross the small courtyard, which was illumed by multicoloured floating lampions, as the sky was slowly turning dark pink and blinking with the first stars. The light from the lampions dipped the usually light yellow masonry into dramatic shadows, playing with the rusticated stone and the columns and jutting and turrets.

We were not the only ones to arrive; from all directions, people Apparated and flocked to the principal block with the entrance portal. Everyone who was something, had something or did something would be here tonight. The Minister, the owner of the Nimbus Broom Company, the singer of that new group the Daily Prophet hyped, and of course, all the old purebloods.

In contrast to that, everyone who was not here was a nobody. And for a second, I wondered if I would have liked to be one, like I had so often in the past; and involuntarily turned my head towards Daphne, who was on my arm, elegant and beautiful, looking at me with her enigmatic smile … and only felt resignation, as I realised I no longer could answer that question.

The wizards and witches all drawn to the entrance of Charing House quickly formed a small queue, reaching back to the elaborate cross that stood in the middle of the courtyard; the origin of the restaurant's name. It had been moved here from the Muggle side in the 17th century.

Daphne didn't even pause and walked right past the line of waiting wizards and witches. There were a few angry mutters and glares, and I couldn't hide a grin as she seemed to revel in them, daring anyone to speak up against us and finding that no one would. Well, what a surprise.

In all honesty, I wasn't at all inclined to discourage her. I wasn't here because I wanted to. The very least I could expect if I was forced to attend was no waiting time to enter the damn thing.

o ] [ o

We had already entered the large, drawn-out entrance hall, that always reminded me a little of a cathedral what with the high ceiling and the rows of piers on either side – the cloakroom was beyond them, on the left – when there was a commotion at the entrance. Shouts sounded over from the doors, urgent, alarmed. I craned my neck.

"What's going on there?"

Daphne gave a miniscule shrug.

"They will deal with it, whatever it is, I assume. Coming?"

"I'm curious," I said, already turning around.

She sighed impatiently.

"Is that really necessary, Harry?"

I looked at her.

"I am still an Auror, you know."

She looked annoyed and I didn't care. She seemed to realise that as well.

"I'll wait for you at the cloakroom." Her voice was decidedly cool.

I shrugged and pushed my way back through the constant stream of people still entering Charing House, mumbling apologies where I stepped on shoes. If Daphne thought she had me wrapped around her dainty fingers merely because I couldn't keep my eyes off her, she was in for a surprise. I went along with her whims exactly as far as they were my own. If she took that to mean I was tame, it was her problem.

The noise was coming from outside, and it was shouts, or perhaps chants. "Need help?" I asked one of the servants in their gold-green robes that were placed on either side of the doors to check people's invitations. He was currently setting off some sort of messenger spell and looked up when I arrived, somewhat distracted.

"Oh – Mr. Potter – no, we can handle them. If you would just go inside and enjoy your evening – oh bloody hell –"

He was obviously eager to get me back inside, but at that moment, someone had tried to storm into the building past him. He was thrown back outside by a repelling charm from the second doorwizard.

Curiously, I peeked past him. There was a small group of people with banners and flashing signs, consisting of not more than fifty wizards and witches. The colour on the signs was all I needed to know. Red, they were BMRs, members of the Brigade for Muggleborn Rights.

They shouted their anger against the purebloods that held all power into the night, and the guests stopped for long enough to look at them scandalised and shake their heads. And one of the restaurant staff went outside, to try to get them to leave without force, while they simply shouted him down, when he informed them that they were welcome to visit the restaurant anytime, just not today since it was completely booked, and he missed that this was their point, and they missed that they were standing on private ground, and one shouted: "We have just as much right to be here!"

There were cheers; and then, the first uniformed wizard pushed me back inside, and I didn't resist.

"This was what Harry Potter fought against," shouted another from the crowd, behind me. "This pureblood supremacy –"

And perhaps it was and perhaps I had, and perhaps I failed. Or perhaps they all were wrong and all I ever wanted was Voldemort dead for no other reason than that he killed my parents. So perhaps I should have fought harder, or perhaps not at all, or perhaps who the fuck knew.

And inside Daphne commanded the staff around like servants to take her cloak and take care not to wrinkle it, and they, in turn, did likewise with the House-Elves whom they handed the garments, sparing them no thoughts beyond their work, and so it continued, nothing had changed; and outside declared the people that I would never have stood for this, and if anything, all either did was making me want to just leave and never look back. Harry Potter would not have stood for this.

My life in a sentence, or was that as a sentence? – and perhaps I was tired of being responsible for it all, and trying to change a world whose majority did not want any change.

So failure had always included lure, and so it was standing next to me, feminine, beautiful and waiting. Who would dare accuse me? And perhaps I had fallen for it and perhaps I did not care. Not now – or not anymore?

Or perhaps who the fuck knew.

And when she extended her hand, and it gripped mine and I felt her fingers weaving through mine, all soft and smooth leather from her gloves, I turned around, and walked inside with her, amidst the other purebloods and dignitaries.

And if that was failure, it had never felt so sweet.

o ] [ o

"Your cloak, sir?"

The voice was quiet, unobtrusive. One of the liveried servants had appeared on our side, out of nowhere like a shadow, moving with quiet efficiency, the kind you only get after years of practice. I looked at the green cap on his short sandy blond hair, at his face, at him. He couldn't have been older than thirteen.

Some children went to Hogwarts when they turned eleven. He started to work.

He repeated the question – polite, just the right inflection, conveying warm welcome and his willingness to help, that it would be his pleasure, if only we told him how. A first class restaurant with a well-trained, well-mannered service.

I gave him my cloak and he slunk away again, still and obsequious. My eyes tracked his small form until he vanished between the milling people like a House Elf in human form, never drawing any notice to himself, and of course far too polite to even mention my neon pink attire. I needed someone else. He would never do anything else. Maybe he'd be chief cloak-fetcher in a few years.

I scanned the crowd for a better target, while Daphne shook hands. People came up to say a few words, thank me for my defeat of Voldemort. They didn't work either, because they were trying to suck up to us, although they did stare. The solution came in form of Lysandra Yaxley. I steered us straight into her path, and leant back to watch the fireworks.

o ] [ o

Lysandra Yaxley was a brainless ditz and happy to be useful for me, even if she didn't know it. She looked horrified at my robes – and turned to Daphne.

"What is he wearing? Pink? And is this a pointed hat?"

Her friends started to titter. There was no movement on Daphne's face, only her hand started to clench my arm, catching it in a grip of steel.

"Entirely Daphne's choice," I said helpfully. "Especially the hat. I have no fashion sense whatsoever. Do you like it?"

Yaxley covered her mouth and looked at Daphne, shocked. Daphne's look was pure venom. The other girls were chattering away in delight at this new revelation, and for me, all that was left were her stormy eyes in all their unmitigated grey, trying to skewer me, trying to hide her seething fury and failing. I was pretty sure she entertained murder fantasies currently. It made me happy.

Revenge, bitch.

My perfect little moment was cut short when she jerked me to the side.

"This isn't over yet, Harry."

Her voice was strained, uneven, and if that wasn't enough to speak volumes of her efforts to control herself, there were still her fingers that clenched around my wrist tightly enough to bruise and wished it'd be my neck instead. I smiled at her and extracted myself from her grip, leaving to get some Champagne. I deserved a reward. Plus, I'd paid for it with my taxes so it was mine. Goddamnit.

o ] [ o

For a while, I simply watched Daphne from the corner, observing the fruits of my labour.

Lysandra and her friends had swarmed out and so had the news; creating the first scandal of the evening. People whispered and pointed and were scandalised. You did not dress up in anything but the latest – or at least, generally accepted – fashion trend set by Glennine Gladrags or one of the other renowned dress-makers to the most anticipated event of the year. The looks I, and more importantly, Daphne, received were plain as day.

This reaction had been as easy to predict as the addition of porcupine quills to a potion before turning off the heat. Both simply exploded. The trick had been to direct it towards Daphne. And that, I thought while glancing in her direction gleefully, had worked like a charm.

Daphne was surrounded by people. Well, she usually would be, I guess; she seemed certainly used to it, and she was definitely the type to like occasions like these, with their typical mixture of politics, personal power plays and the same old Vanity Fair you always had when the entire high pureblood society was gathered in one place. She was in the thick of it, always the centre of attention, seeking it, thriving in it – the spoilt child that grew up but never stopped wanting for the limelight, the little princess that stood there so pleased and asked Am I not beautiful?

Fortunately for her, maybe, she had the means to expand on it and the talent to exploit it. She was one of those people that created a presence the moment they entered a room, she drew all of us to herself immediately, almost by an invisible force; and if the reasons were different, the outcome was the same. Wherever she moved, people would crowd around her, basking in her presence, and she, in turn, would be entirely vain enough to like and even desire still the most mindless admiration. I'd seen it all before.

The difference now was that the attention had nothing to do with her charms and was entirely negative. The erstwhile admirers readily turned around and left her, and where she went herself, she had to endure remarks about her deplorable fashion sense. She had been thoroughly embarrassed. Short of deftly kicking her out of these circles entirely, I don't think there was something that would cut her more. I mentally congratulated myself.

Of course, she didn't leave it at that. She wouldn't have been herself if she swallowed the jibes just like that, especially not after I'd unleashed her fury already with the scene I'd made before. The people were paying for it now. Her tongue was vicious; she cut through the groups of wizards and witches like a carving knife, venting her rage on anyone unlucky enough to catch her attention. Conversation with her became an assault of pointed remarks, barbs that were always just a bit too malicious to be funny, with their unerring aim and her calculating delivery.

She had a talent to both find the spots that really hurt and wrap her venom in honeyed politeness, to present it with the sweetest of smiles, so that it never broke decorum yet conveyed her message quite clearly. Their failures, weaknesses, flaws – Daphne became a gleaming golden, merciless mirror of inadequacy.

It certainly didn't endear her to anyone; but then I doubted she had been much liked – in the meaning of the word absent around here – before. She was nice, because anyone of wealth and status was nice by definition, and she had friends, because no correlation between friends and people you liked beyond the fact that they were nice was needed or even expected. She didn't have people that seemed particularly close to her, and I was certain she had never wanted any, because she held a casual disregard for almost everyone that spoke volumes of how she considered herself above them. Friends, for Daphne, were people that were useful. That was all.

Much rather, I thought while watching her converse with a tight-lipped, stately wizard, whose mouth could only have formed a certain word with b when she turned away, she was bound to have lots of enemies, especially among her friends – people on whose toes she'd stepped one too many times, people she'd pushed out of the way while rising up in the social order, people that envied her the success, her looks, or both, people that simply couldn't stand her; as it usually is. You weren't in a position like hers, and with her character, without having made enemies.

But something told me she was quite aware of that and I honestly wondered whether she cared. In fact, she seemed to enjoy the dislike and jealousy, as much as she did the admiration – maybe it was the look in her eyes I caught now and then, the curious gleam indicating something like excitement as she parried the attacks born from resentment and pure hate; she was never better, in any case, than when high pureblood society became a dragon's lair.

Her response was to ride and poke the dragons; she created a sheer firework of gross insults delivered as polite, backhanded compliments, always ready to respond, never at a loss for an answer, testament of her wit and her quick mind.

It was a game. It was her game.

It was what she liked and what she was like, and she certainly wasn't going to change merely because it repelled people in secret. Having been ridiculed made her simply more obnoxious than ever, vain, spoiled, arrogant, vindictive, supercilious towards her peers, and cruel to those beneath her, as if to taunt them with the fact that despite it all, despite her unpleasantness and ugly behaviour, they still came to her, even now. People were there, charmed by her elegance, by her beauty or charisma, or maybe attracted to her forceful nature that whispered this is the way I am and I don't care what you think and wouldn't you like to be half as self-assured as I am; drifting over like a Siren's song and creating this strange force that affected all all of us and blinded not too few, when they really should have known better.

The servant boy with one of the floating trays, for example; a desolate figure, staring at this woman, hopelessly out of his league, and trying to gain her attention so desperately in spite. And so he did it in the only way he knew how, offering her something to drink, trying to catch a smile, a look; a short little instance where he was allowed to dream that she was looking into his eyes and the smile meant for him only. I knew she had noticed him when she laughed – at him, not for him – and then proceeded to set him up, nurturing his hopes, in order crush them minutes later with a vicious smile.

Yes, that was Daphne. It was there for everyone who wanted to see it. And I recalled what I knew about her, what Sterling Greengrass had told me, finding a perfect match; and wondered how many of them truly knew what she was like and ignored it or didn't care, and how many were just blind.

And I wondered if I truly belonged into the former category, or if I might have a blind spot myself.

o ] [ o

All those people seemingly still hadn't been enough to cool her rage, though. I pushed myself away from the wall, meandering over slowly as I saw her approaching another couple.

The girl looked pretty, in a very fragile way; like a Chinese vase maybe, one of those crafted out of porcelain so thin you could almost look through it – and not actually useful for anything besides looking at it. She had fine blonde hair, which she had partially braided, the braids artfully looped around her head into a crown. It suited her, the way her light blue eyes suited her – topaz blue, I thought, like the colour of a shallow bay during the clearest days in summer.

He was two heads taller, dark hair, handsome enough, but with a small scar on his cheek. They looked happy together.

But when she laid eye on Daphne – just for a second, her expression became hateful. Her posture stiffened, screaming aversion. And that was what Daphne was heading for purposefully.

"You!" the girl hissed. Her escort looked at her warily, putting a hand on hers, in a placating way. I noticed the thin golden ring on her left hand ring finger and the lack of a matching one on his. Apparently Daphne had as well. She arched her eyebrows.

"Engaged already?"

He nodded pleasantly, if not a bit warily.

"Just the other night. The wedding will be held in October."

"Is that so?" she purred, offering her a predatory smile as the young woman bristled visibly at her tone, but held her tongue. "A wedding is it now, really. Aiming rather high, are we, little girl?"

That had been too much. The girl clenched her fists and shrugged off his hand, taking a step towards Daphne. I thought her eyes lit up as she got what she wanted.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Her outburst turned not a few heads. Her partner put his arm around her shoulder again, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"It is alright, love." He tugged at her sleeve. "Come, Sarah."

He turned around, walking off with her, but she was having none of it and tore free.

"How can you just walk away when that snake insinuates Merlin knows what, Eugene?" Then she rounded on Daphne. "And you – that you even dare speak to us – after – after –"

"Yes?"

Daphne looked at her, but the girl spoke no more. Her blue eyes, clouded in anger, glanced at her fiancé, standing quite a way off, clearly not wanting to have any part in the argument. Not exactly the most gallant behaviour. She noticed it as well, and in the end, faltered. She stared angrily at Daphne, who eventually gave a short, elegant shrug and a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her look at Sarah was cold and contemptuous.

"Nothing? A piece of advice, then. Things are different here. It is a large step from the daughter of a muggleborn shop assistant to the wife of a notable pureblood family. Take care not to stumble."

She turned away from the enraged girl, whose pretty face was twisted in anger. The fiancé was backing away even further.

"You are a horrible, hateful creature," she hissed. "I hope you choke on it all."

Daphne turned her head and stared at her, lips slightly curled in condescension or disgust, before a razor sharp smile appeared on her face.

"You had best follow him. After all, you are not yet his wife. It would be a pity if you displeased him and he changed his mind now, after all that work you put into it, yes?"

Sarah flushed scarlet in embarrassment, and Daphne left her standing there, walking over to me.

"There you are." She came up to my side and smiled at me. "I almost thought you'd deserted me."

"I was busy watching you degrading a stupid servant and tearing down a little girl. Feel any better now?"

"You have an uncanny ability to be highly irritating, Harry." She put an arm around me, and we continued roaming through the foyer. "So don't blame a girl for a little stress relief." Her smile was too satisfied and I wondered what I was missing. "What I find far more interesting is that watching was all you did. You sure have changed, Harry. You'd been all in my face about it, once."

"I also thought it would have made a difference, once."

"Yes, and today you're only cynical," she sighed, and stopped walking. "I'll need to have something to drink, I think."

"The waiter is over there."

I pointed to one of the floating trays the emerged from the stone wall, the waiter following suit behind it, leaving the tray to hover inches above the palm of his hand. Daphne darted me a sidelong glance through her dark lashes, artfully curled in a way that told me all about how well-practised that look was. "Get me a glass?"

It was the one look to send half the population on the planet scurrying.

"Go get it yourself." I stared impassively at her outraged expression. I might not have cared much about her behaviour regarding others, but she sure as hell wasn't going to try it with me. "Do I look like your personal servant?"

One of the men next to us turned around, throwing me an reproachful look.

"Allow me fetch it for you, Madam."

He was fairly young, well-dressed in dark robes with a silver trim and a small beard, neatly groomed around his mouth. He signalled to the waiter and returned moments later with a glass, which he handed her with a small bow.

"There you are."

He received a smile for his trouble and then was all smiles himself, before he finally nodded, and slowly walked away. I saw the amusement in her face. He missed it. I had no problems helping him out.

"Well, there's another loser."

"Don't be so hard on him, Harry," Daphne tutted. "He's just a man."

"He's the proverbial doormat. If you asked him to, he'd probably polish your shoes. With his tongue. So where the hell is the difference between him and that servant earlier? I see none."

Daphne threw her head back and laughed loudly. It was a genuine laugh and she was one of those people that managed to still look beautiful all the while.

"Oh, this is why I wanted you here." Her eyes glinted in amusement. "That was the son of the undersecretary you just insulted."

She took a sip and stared mirthfully at the boy, who now sported red ears, and hastily moved away from us.

"Yes, admittedly, it does get boring after a while. Another reason I am quite pleased with you, my obnoxious barbarian escort. You are an extraordinarily intriguing exception to the rule. So far."

I chose to ignore the last part and the gong signalling the imminent dinner came to my rescue. She placed the glass she'd barely touched carelessly on one of the floating trays where it vanished instantly, and we made our way to the back of the queue that was slowly forming in front of the broad doors leading into the dining hall.

o ] [ o

I stood in the queue, bored. There was no skipping line this time, because we were required to enter last. We were the guests of honour, the stars of the evening. The war hero and sponsor-in-name-only of this event, and the beautiful and rich high-society pureblood. A match made in heaven for the papers. I was pretty sure I'd already seen Rita and her Quick-Quotes Quills around, and that girl from Witch Weekly had been staring at us with big eyes as well. It'd be the topic for weeks.

Finally, the doors opened for us. Our names were announced, we stepped inside, the chamber orchestra played a march and there was a thunderous applause. Flashbulbs went off.

The dining hall was draped with velvety green curtains; behind the tall windows blinked the lights of the park that surrounded the manor. All throughout, tables for about a dozen persons each were dotted, covered by white cloths, with goblin silverware and candlesticks. The floor of the room was chequered marble, but of some magical kind – the black was so deep it looked as if there literally was nothing under your feet, while the white looked like blocks of stone rising up from the middle of the earth itself; causing people to inadvertently step solely on the white planes, the first time they were here. I hadn't ever seen marble like this anyplace other than in this room. It ended at a large floor-length curtain, that currently separated the far half of the hall from this one, which would later be used to dance.

Across the curtain, a large banner was fixed, reading in broad, gold lettering:

4th Anniversary

Defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named

August 19th

Yes, they had written He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named onto that thing. While we crossed the length of the room, every eye was on us. People were standing and staring, some bowed, others cheered; yet others clapped politely and looked decidedly cool. Not everyone was happy to see me walking into this room on this date, possibly in Voldemort's stead.

Sarah had transferred her glare from Daphne to me. Most likely because I was the Harry Potter and here with her personal enemy. Well, tough luck. I didn't give a damn about what most people thought, and she could fight her own battles. I had, too.

My place, and thus Daphne's, was at the table directly under the banner; where the most important of the important were seated. I could only imagine the bitter fights that had to have taken place behind the scenes to get one of those twelve places. For people that were not me, this was the highlight of the year. My look roamed the across the already occupied chairs. I knew all of them, didn't care about most, and felt like greeting none.

Somewhere down the way I also saw Kingsley, his face with far more lines than I could remember. He looked aged; worn down and weary, like a man who had fought too many battles. His term as a Minister had been a constant struggle, and it had left marks. I respected him more than ever. He did the best he could, every day anew.

But I didn't want to end up like him.

We sat down, and the eating stuff part was finally about to begin. The chairman of the organising committee, who more likely than not would have found himself at the business end of my wand four anniversaries ago, glanced at me, trying to see if I wanted to say something.

No, I didn't.

So he spoke a few words of his own, thanked me, thanked himself, and then an army of servants stepped forward, each carrying a small velvety cushion.

No wands at the table. It was the old customs that were kept alive here, of course, but I think there were a few people that weren't sad to see my wand go. Not that it mattered, because I was entirely paranoid enough to place a transfigured stick on my cushion, one that I always carried with me. I wasn't about to be caught wandless in between ex-Death Eaters and their relations.

For that was where I found myself. Down the table to my left sat Stewart and Selena Selwyn, nephew and niece of the Death Eater who told everyone who wanted to hear it how he had started to fight the Imperius Curse of Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts, where no one had seen him. Then there was Lysandra Yaxley, diagonally opposite from us. Her old man had already fought in the first war for Voldemort, and since he'd suffered a heart attack meanwhile, he spent the rest of his days in comfortable house arrest instead of Azkaban.

And, of course, somewhere to my right was the old Avery, Malcolm, the deputy editor at the Prophet, who as opposed to Yaxley was very vigorous and never had been one of the first followers of the young Tom Riddle.

Yes, that's where we were seated, here on this table in my honour – twelve people from the most notable families of Britain, among them ex-Death Eaters and more relatives, sitting together with me and celebrating my victory over Voldemort. Some were decent. Others were not. All of them were conservative purebloods. No one tried to kill me.

They sat here, and I sat there, and everyone knew what they and their relatives had done, and what I'd done to them, and nobody mentioned it. We ate Diricawl breast and drank elf made-wine, talked about Quidditch and recent developments in Charms. And I had stopped minding in any other way than that it was kinda boring, because fuck, I was tired of worrying, for the world, for the poor Sarah's, for my life.

Maybe that wasn't as surprising as it sounded. Maybe this should have been what anyone should have expected as the best of all possible outcomes, in the best of all possible worlds. Voldemort was gone. His followers were not. His ideals were not. And yet, the world was different from when he was there. A tiny little bit. No one tried to kill me. As I said.

In this world, it was in vogue to praise the Boy-Who-Won, and so this table praised me. A small price to pay if everything else remained the same for those who wanted it to. Their influence. Their wealth. Their ideology, blood fanaticism and prejudices.

So three cheers for everyone's new world. Everything is better, except it's still the same. A couple of speeches and an idealist's dream that shattered on the rocks of reality later, they're back where they started, and that wouldn't ever change, for even a new world is still made up of the old people.

Because there aren't any other.

Review!

Sorry for the long absence, by the way - a mixture of this chapter having a scene I needed to rewrite and RL stuff getting in the way of that. We're back to schedule now, though, next update is Saturday :)