London
October 31, 2006
Daphne stood still at the front of hundreds of mourners gathered for Harry's funeral in the WEA Memorial Cemetery on the outskirts of London. Her long blonde hair, blown left and right by the thick wind, lay in stark contrast to her conservative black dress and matching umbrella. She blinked away the tears that threatened her, willing herself to remain stoic until she finally got away from the press.
She felt her father inches to her right, his left arm draped over her shoulder in an act of comfort. Daphne seethed internally, wanting nothing more than to rip his arm off of her and scream. But that wouldn't do, not with the hundreds of "close family and friends" within the barricade and the hundreds of thousands watching live on national television. Her father, ever the businessman, was using this moment to ensure that the WEA always thought of the Greengrasses when they thought of Harry Potter.
Like that matters now, Daphne thought as she watched the non-magical bishop speak words that meant nothing to her about the person who meant so much. She looked to her left where James Potter stood alone. His glasses lay crooked on his face, and his hair – ordinarily tamed – stood askew as Harry's always had.
Daphne wished to comfort the man, for surely, as much as she grieved, he grieved more. But her father's grip kept her planted firmly in place. She tried to focus on the bishop's words, but at that moment the clouds decided to open up and let out another torrent of rain. She dared look up, the storm clouds gathering, the grey skies reflecting her bleak spirit.
Suddenly, voices and shuffling shocked Daphne from her reverie, and she realized the service was complete. A headstone stood – no body, since they could only find the barest remnants of hair, blood, and skin. She felt a new wave of grief hit her as she walked up to the grave stone; this is all that's left, she thought. She fell to her knees, ignoring the way her black stockings sank into the muddy grass, and gently placed the single white rose she had brought on the grass in front of the gravestone.
"Harry," she spoke softly, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. There's so much I never got to tell you. You were - the best friend in the world. I won't let them take your spirit." She closed her eyes for a moment, mentally trying to reach out to him, but the only response was the rumbling of thunder.
"Daphne." Her father's voice was unusually soft. Daphne took a deep breath before standing and spelling her stockings clean.
"I'm ready father." She accepted his proffered elbow and gave a small nod to Mr. Potter on her way out. A limo sat waiting for them, the driver immediately racing out to let them in. A charm on the car door dried them off as they entered and Daphne, looking at her dry knees, felt like the magic cheated her out of her misery, giving her a warmth that was inherently wrong.
"Daphne, we need to discuss your future," Anton stated bluntly the moment the limo door closed.
"Really father?" Daphne reprimanded. "We just buried my fiancé – can't you give it a rest?"
"Oh, he's your fiancé again is he?" Anton snarled. "Just last week, you two came to me telling me you had ended it. So, which is it?"
"Father," Daphne breathed, "he was my best friend. I'm sorry if I can't just 'turn it off'. We're not all so good at burying our emotions."
"You're young," Anton drawled, "and perhaps I've spoiled you. But unfortunately, politics waits for no one. The English Parliamentary Delegation wants to find a replacement for Harry's seat immediately. I think it should be you."
Daphne whipped her head around in surprise. "Me?"
Anton smiled in such a way as to suggest this was precisely the reaction he was hoping for. "Yes, dear. You've always been the brains behind Harry's charisma. You're well-liked by the magical world. And as you just reminded me, the world still thinks he died your fiancé. I can't imagine it would be a difficult sell."
Daphne found herself dubious. A part of her had always wanted more of an active role in politics, but her father's prodding made her – uneasy. She responded as unemotionally as possible. "I'm not sure I want that. Perhaps I've lived enough of my life in the spotlight."
"Daphne, you're grieving; try and think with your head for a moment." Anton's patronizing voice grated her. She wanted to scream at him but had the wherewithal to simply nod.
"I'll consider it."
"If you don't take his seat, it could go to anyone," he threatened. "Can you imagine? An isolationist getting Harry Potter's seat? What would be his legacy?"
She narrowed her eyes, wondering how much influence her father had in such matters, and resolved to speak to James Potter at the earliest possible time. Harry was his son, after all; he would most likely have an invested interest in his legacy.
The limo stopped, and the driver came around to get the door for them. She opened up her umbrella and walked up to James Potter's townhouse in East London, ignoring the flashes of cameras, magical and non-magical alike, and the rush of her father's footsteps behind her.
Upon entering, she was immediately thrown by the cacophony of conversation surrounding her. The townhouse was magically altered to fit hundreds. She found herself wandering, room to room, unsure of where she was going or what exactly she was looking for. Though everywhere she went, it seemed someone was looking for her. Oh, Daphne, I'm so sorry, they would say and, like some sort of automaton, she would give them a brief hug or hold their hand and give a light smile and say thank you, his loss was a loss for us all, and excuse herself.
She watched as friends of her father schemed, and the socialites and teenagers treated this as some high society social event. She wasn't quite sure what made her do it, but she found herself climbing to the second floor and entering Harry's childhood bedroom.
"Oh!" She startled upon seeing James Potter, sitting on Harry's twin bed adorned with a quidditch themed comforter. A relic of a bygone era, she thought sadly. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean to disturb you."
"It's alright." He waved her off. She wandered to the other side of the room, running her hand against Harry's desk and imagining him writing essays while on the winter holidays or playing video games.
"How are you doing?" Daphne asked and winced. "I'm sorry; that was insensitive."
"I'm not sure to be honest," the older man responded, removing his glasses and rubbing at his eyes in a way so like his son. "I just – how could this happen?"
Daphne stilled, her eyes falling on the man as he now cradled his head in his hands. Broken, she thought.
Before she had a chance to respond, perhaps give false platitudes, he continued. "Everything I did, everything, was so that Lily's death wouldn't be in vain. But now -," he paused, tears clearly streaming down his face, causing Daphne to instinctively look away - "what was the point of it all? Who cares about legislation and factions and the Corps and any of it?
"I just wish I could go back and be supportive of him, as a father. Actually talk to him about things that mattered and not just vote counts and all the other minutiae. I just always assumed there'd be time for that. That – we would get the world back to normal."
Daphne crossed the space and sat next to the man, opening her arms to comfort him as Harry had done for her so many times. She watched clinically as this man, this quiet, impassive, political genius, had what could only be described as a breakdown. He clung to her, sobbing, and she berated herself over the fleeting thought that her dress was being ruined.
After minutes of this, with her rubbing his back and shushing him, he finally calmed down. "Thank you," he told her. She nodded and left the man alone in his grief, taking one last look around but not seeing her Harry anywhere in this place.
She reluctantly returned to the artificially enlarged first floor, a thought lingering in the back of her mind, as much as she tried to ignore it. James Potter was disabled by his grief; she couldn't imagine him having the ability to protect Harry's professional legacy. She knew she would have to do it, despite her reservations and the fact that her father seemed to have some political agenda that had yet to reveal itself.
There were already whispers spreading throughout the wizarding community: calls for vengeance and anger at what happened to Harry. The isolationists and the separatists spread the vitriol like poison, creating a skewed narrative of the truth, blaming all non-magicals for this madness. It felt unnatural – like the world forgot everything Harry fought for. The distrust between the magicals and non-magicals was starting up again amongst the older generation; the whispered words Muggle and freak began permeating the populace.
As much as she oftentimes didn't like this part of herself, she was a shrewd political operative. She wanted to hide from the politics, but she didn't see an alternative. So she re-entered the crowd downstairs, putting on her most sympathetic face and continuing with the 'Thank yous'; because she would need these people's support if she wanted to preserve Harry's legacy. In a way, James Potter was wrong. Harry had a gift with people, a way of connecting that made cooperation and a long term peace seem not only possible but inevitable. Daphne was determined not to let his death be in vain.
"Daphne!" She almost cried in relief at the voice.
"Pansy!" She turned and stood still for a moment, looking at the brunette before running and enveloping her in a hug. "Thank you for being here."
"Of course you dimwit." Daphne could hear Pansy's smile and felt her muscles relax for the first time that day.
Daphne broke the hug and pulled Pansy onto a nearby couch, clutching the woman's hands. "When did you get to London?"
"I apparated in this morning. I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner." Pansy squeezed her hand.
"I'm just so happy you're here at all. I feel like I'm surrounded..." The words 'by frauds' remained unspoken, but Pansy nodded, understanding her meaning.
"How have you been?" Pansy asked.
"Oh, as well or terrible as can be expected, I suppose." Daphne chewed on the inside of her cheek. "It's been – never ending, between the media and everything else. But you just got here from Paris, so please, distract me with stories!"
"It's not quite what we dreamed when we were children," Pansy said with a hint of sadness. "It hasn't revitalized quite like London. But a few shops have opened, and it's glorious." Pansy smiled.
"You know, two weeks ago I went with Harry to a pick-up football game." Daphne smiled at the memory. "Dozens of men and women, just playing football like it was perfectly normal." Her smile faded as she recalled Harry that night, talking about football and Quidditch and a future he would never get to experience.
"It gets easier." Pansy held her hand, looking her in the eye. "I promise." There was something in her gaze that made Daphne wonder what Pansy had been through to make such a promise. But the look disappeared as rapidly as it came, and Daphne knew it was not the time.
"Thank you." Daphne looked around and noticed the crowd had finally started to clear out. "I hate to say it, but I'm quite relieved your father isn't here."
Pansy actually laughed at this. "Oh, trust me he had every intention to come. I had to blackmail him to stay away."
"Do I want to know?" Daphne was intrigued.
"Just father and me, more alike than I ever realized," she said with an amused look.
Daphne nodded, not understanding but nevertheless appreciative. "Well, thank you."
"Of course."
Daphne was finally back at her apartment, exhausted from the morning, when an unwanted knock disturbed her.
"I'll get it," shouted Pansy from the kitchen, where she had been obsessively cleaning. "Oh, hello," Pansy stated as she answered the door. "She's quite tired; it's been a trying day. Perhaps you can come by some other time? Or better yet, reach out to her solicitor."
"Who is it?" Daphne got up from where she had been lying on the couch nursing a headache. She patted her hair down as she stood next to Pansy. "Oh. Mr. Robards and Mr. Fox. I'm sorry, but I was not expecting you today."
"Ms. Greengrass," Robards began, taking his hat off and holding it in both hands in a sign of respect. "We are very sorry for your loss. I understand the timing is – not ideal. But we would greatly appreciate a few minutes of your time."
Pansy gave her a curious look, and Daphne responded with a brief head shake. Pansy gave a cold good-bye to the detectives before leaving the room.
"Please, come in." Daphne opened the door further and gestured for the pair to sit on the couch. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"No, thank you." Fox gave her a sad smile.
"And what can I do for you?" Daphne asked, taking a seat on the adjacent chair.
"We wanted to ask if there is anything you noticed in the days leading up to Mr. Potter's death: anyone watching him, anything unusual. Particularly around your home," Robards asked her succinctly.
"I wasn't paying attention," Daphne responded, her voice cold. "We'd been told you had solved the attempt on his life."
Robards and Fox looked at one another, a silent conversation playing between them. "Of course," Fox stated, his typical charisma dulled. "We just ask that you consider the few days – particularly the time between when the arrest was announced and the second bomb."
Daphne cocked her head to the side, curious. "I thought the French fundamentalists took credit for both bombings."
Robards gave Fox a nearly imperceptible nod, and the younger man continued, "We have reason to believe that your fiancé was the target of a conspiracy – the specifics of which we are investigating."
This got her attention, and she felt the last of a fog that covered her mind clear. "I'm sorry – what?"
Fox watched her reaction carefully. "We would appreciate it if you would keep this information confidential. But if there is anything that you can tell us, it could potentially help us uncover the conspirators."
Daphne shook her head but paused as she thought about breakfast the morning of Harry's death and her sister's departure, and about her father's overall strange behavior these past few weeks. But she couldn't bring herself to say anything – at least not without something more substantive than her father acting a bit dodgy.
"Daphne?" Fox asked her, and she realized she must have been in her own head for a few minutes.
She shook herself. "I'm sorry, it's just been – quite a day. I can't think of anything out of the ordinary."
Robards nodded. "Of course, we won't disturb you further. Would it be possible for me to use your bathroom before we go?"
"Of course, it's the second door to your right." She pointed and returned to her own thoughts, giving the detectives a polite nod goodbye as they let themselves out.
"Daph?" Pansy was at her side almost immediately after the detectives left. "What was that all about?
Daphne shrugged. "They just wanted to know if I saw anything unusual the days before Harry died."
"Hmm. I thought they caught the guy?" Pansy questioned.
"I think they're just crossing their T's and dotting their I's so to speak." Daphne shrugged, keeping the detectives' confidence.
"What else is bugging you?" Pansy asked, sitting on the couch the detectives had vacated.
"I was just thinking about the Corps Officer who was assigned to protect Harry," Daphne started, staring at a random spot on the wall. "I just realized she wasn't at the funeral today; it's just – surprising."
"Why?" Pansy asked.
Daphne wasn't quite sure how to respond. "Well she was with us all the time the last three weeks; we grew close to her."
Pansy shrugged. "I'm sure the Corps sent her on some other assignment."
"Yeah." Daphne felt itchy on the chair, in this apartment. "Pansy, can we go somewhere?"
She perked up. "Oh, I like this. Where exactly?"
Daphne had an idea. "Harry went to this club once – Weasleys. He said no one knew him there, and it was brilliant."
Pansy laughed. "Sounds positively pedestrian. I love it!"
Daphne smiled and texted Ginny for the address, part of her realizing she wouldn't mind commiserating with the other woman.
A/N: Thank you to everyone reviewing - your comments/theories are always much appreciated!
Also a big thank you as always to my beta ElizColl for her amazing help.
You can also find me trying to figure out Tumblr at canttouchthis87