Book Two ― A School Divided
Chapter Forty-Two ― Growing Up
Note: This chapter has been beta-ed by user Outliner.
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Daphne had never felt lighter in her life, and the image of the Room of Requirement in the morning following the Yule Ball before she had to go home was one that she would have scoffed at only a few months ago. As had become custom between them, Harry and Daphne used the Room to mimic his bedroom in their makeshift school in Diagon Alley. She was sitting down on the bed with his head on her lap as he read a little blue book with voracious intensity. When he read things with such clear-cut focus, he furrowed his brow ever so slightly, and his eyes narrowed almost as though in suspicion of every word that passed by his brain. She kept his hair away from his eyes, playing with it loosely, enjoying the way it sprung back into place in rebellion, though it still felt light and soft to the touch, like a feather pillow. It was sappy and ridiculously dependent that she felt so warm and compassionate in that scenario, and some part of her was scoffing at the whole thing. But the rest of her body could only feel joy and almost impossible lightness. The feeling was too dominant, ensuring that every color around her seemed more vivid, that every sound seemed more pleasant, and that every smell seemed more enchanting. Daphne knew it would not last, so she clung to this state of euphoric passion for as long as she could.
Before Daphne could tell herself to hold back, she was already bending over slightly to kiss Harry's forehead lightly, right where he seemed the tensest, and grinned as his stress instantly faded away into his relaxed facial features.
"What was that for?" He asked softly.
"You're mine," she uttered briefly, bending over to kiss his forehead again. "I don't need a reason to kiss what's mine, do I?"
"I guess you don't," he said fondly, looking at her with warm emerald eyes that made her heart beat faster. She couldn't stop herself from offering a shadow of a smile when she replied as sternly as she could.
"There's no guessing about it, Potter," she flicked his nose playfully, and when he pretended to be injured, rolled her eyes and kissed the tip of his nose softly.
"We're being disgustingly sweet, aren't we?" He mused after they spent a few seconds like that. She laughed in response.
"Oh good, I thought I was the only one concerned about that," she confirmed, and he smiled up at her. He moved up from his lying position, not sitting up but using his elbows to prop himself up to a point nearer her height.
"I like this," he admitted sheepishly, and she grinned back happily.
"I like it too," she whispered, looking at his lips in the blatant, indiscreet fashion that she used whenever she wanted a light peck. He complied, and she again felt happier, as though the fuel that moved her had been restored by the action. "But I know it won't last forever."
"Yeah, I know that too," he spoke softly, playing with her hair distractedly. Harry liked its smell and picked up a long lock to bring closer to his face. "I wish you didn't have to go home," he whined a bit, and she smiled sweetly at the sentiment, feeling a bit sad herself.
"I'll be back before you know it," she promised him and then groaned miserably, retaining a bit of the non-saccharine variety of her personality even while deeply infatuated. Harry looked at her curiously, and she grumbled. "My mother is definitely going to be able to tell."
"Eleanor, you mean?" Harry teased her, and Daphne just groaned harder, already bemoaning her fate. Harry laughed at her disgruntlement and only stopped when she slapped the back of his head lightly. Even then, he kept chuckling. They stayed in affectionate silence for a while, with Daphne putting her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes until he spoke next. "We already have changed a lot of the way that we act with each other, haven't we?"
"Well, it's only natural that we do, don't you think?" She asked back in place of giving him an answer, still not opening her eyes.
"I guess having a relationship does change things," he thought out loud, and this Daphne did open her eyes to look at him with some surprise, though he didn't notice.
"So we are, then...?" She asked with uncharacteristic insecurity.
"What do you mean?" Harry inquired confusedly. Daphne didn't seem comfortable saying what she wanted to say and was trying to avoid speaking it out loud, but luckily he figured it out after a bit of internal prodding. "Are you asking me if we're in a relationship?"
Daphne didn't say anything, but she did nod shyly, not meeting his eye. It was odd for her to feel so abashed, but the subject of their romance still left her vulnerable, and the openness of having fallen in love was still alien to her. Combined with the uncertainty that had followed Harry around ever since the Tournament began, and it was easy for her to feel defensive of what she had just acquired.
"I've already told you that I'm yours, Daphne," Harry reminded her lightly, with a bit of exasperation bleeding into his tone which brought some annoyance to the Slytherin, who took a deep breath, sat on his lap, enveloped her arms around his neck and forced him to look at her.
"Harry, I don't like to define myself by my House traits. I think it's a reductionist exercise that leads to nothing but division. It's fun for banter, but not for anything serious," she precluded, messing his hair a bit before continuing. "That being said, there is merit to one aspect of me being a Slytherin. I am a possessive person, and I don't mean that I won't give you any freedom. Morgana knows that I'm going to need my space from time to time, regardless of how much I like being around you," she said, already anticipating that he might get hurt by the statement. He just kept looking at her, and she resumed. "I am possessive because that's what Slytherins are, in my book. Before ambition, cunning, or anything else, we're selfishly protective of the people and things we love. To some people, that entire circle is just themselves—"
"Draco comes to mind," Harry grumbled, and Daphne shushed him despite her evident amusement.
"But to me, it isn't. Do you remember how fragile I got whenever we talked about—" Daphne's words caught in her throat, and she cleared them delicately before continuing. "About Astoria's condition?"
"I do," he said softly, squeezing her a bit tighter in support, which she greedily absorbed for a moment before resuming.
"Well, you're in that circle now," she said softly, resting her forehead on his, before kissing him for a second and then slapping his arm disapprovingly. "So, don't get exasperated if I feel insecure from time to time."
"I wasn't exasperated," Harry tried feebly, but one narrowed gaze from Daphne was enough to crumble his attempts at resisting the point. "Alright, fine. I'm sorry."
"You should be," she said sternly before eyeing the blue book that he had been reading. "So, that's the one that Bill gave you for Occlumency practice?"
Harry wasn't concerned about Daphne spilling his secrets — she would have done so long ago if she were so inclined — so he just hummed affirmingly.
"It's definitely better than Salazar's approach, but it's still a bit slow. Though, I think there's no faster way to go about it," he shrugged.
"I'm proud of you," she summed up, grinning in his direction. When he smiled back and went to pick it up, she slid forwards, putting her weight between Harry and the book, and smirked at him. "I'm proud, but you can do that later."
"Oh?" Harry asked stoically, though Daphne could tell from such a close distance that his pupils had dilated and his cheeks pinked ever so slightly.
"Well," she pretended to ponder a question, throwing the book carefully to the top of the pouf before looking back at Harry. "I'll be gone for a few days in just a couple of hours, and I want to make the most of that time."
"And how do you intend to do that?" Harry inquired, trying to hide his nervousness and excitement and doing a terrible job of it.
"I thought about a nap," she teased him and laughed when his face fell before he could control himself. He reddened in embarrassment at being caught, but she took pity on him and gave him a very soft kiss, which quickly turned into more.
As Daphne glided through Hogwarts on her way to the train, still happier than at any other time she could remember, Harry returned to the Room of Requirement, enjoying the quiet silence of a mostly deserted Hogwarts. He picked up the blue book and laid down on the bed. Up until now, Harry had only read the introduction to the book, which explained, in more formal terms, the same things that Bill had told him. Now, he was about to begin the questions, and he felt unavoidably nervous.
Serena had once suggested to him, during the summer, that he release stress by training. She was here with him again, taking a nap in between the warm blankets. She might suggest such exercises again, but Harry was reluctant to do so. He hadn't touched Rookwood's book since the First Task, despite how much more powerful he had gotten since first reading it over the summer. That reminded him: he had to ask Salazar about that book of his the next time he went into the Chamber.
The use of magic had become somewhat natural to Harry, particularly when casting in Parseltongue. It felt smoother, like the difference between cutting through cold and warm butter. And yet, he felt a tangible fear of losing himself whenever a dangerous spell came to mind. Harry tried to believe that casting a few Whip Curses was well within his level of control, but he remembered the viciousness with which he attacked the training dummies on Diagon Alley. He was reluctant to accept that any magic would be a slippery slope, but he was similarly reluctant to deny it. This sense of paralysis after the dragon was tiresome, and he knew it could not last.
A training dummy appeared in front of him as he requested it, but his wand wavered. He snarled to himself and waved the magical mannequin off mentally, though it didn't disappear. Much like before, the Room of Requirement obeyed his innermost desire and not his explicit instructions.
The rest of his surroundings vanished, and Serena dropped to the floor with a hissed protest which quietened once she realized how serious Harry was and the fact that they stood in a replica of the training room in Diagon Alley. Silently, the snake climbed her master's leg and coiled around his non-wand arm.
Harry raised his wand to the air, making sure to connect his magic to the boomslang's, and closed his eyes. After conjuring the appropriate images, he hissed something quietly, and light exploded out of his wand.
The image of Daphne and him had brought to life an enormous version of Prongs larger than even the one he had conjured to save Sirius or in the Chamber of Secrets. It pranced around proudly, circling Harry and merrily standing guard over any imaginary opponents. None came, and the wizard allowed his creation to fade away, the lightness and joy he felt lingering briefly after its disappearance. Then his mood darkened, and he hissed something sharply, his eyes sending sparks the same as his wand, as a Lacero nearly cut the doll in half. Part of him sang in satisfaction, and even more worryingly, another one grumbled that he should have been able to cut the dummy cleanly by now.
"What am I?" Harry whispered. He took the blue book in hand and opened it. He still could not see how this would help him conciliate the destructive and the constructive parts of him, but he had no choice.
Bill had neglected to tell him the booklet was magical and not merely printed, as the introduction explained. The parallels to Tom's diary gave him shivers, but he powered through it, not feeling the sense of malevolence which the diary emitted nor the compulsion to handle it continuously.
The first question was enough to make him blink in surprise.
Would you rather be somewhere else? Where?
Harry pondered the question and did not notice the Parseltongue diary opening up in his bag and taking notes by itself, nor did Serena, coiled around his arm as she was.
"I'm not sure," he mumbled after a while, taking a look around. "Isn't this place a representation of my desires?"
Yet, he was still in the training room, and it was not where he wished to be. Perhaps it was where he would get his answers, but that was not where he wanted to be the most. And what did the question entail? The place he would feel the happiest, the most accomplished, or the most satisfied? Those were all different questions. What did he want to feel, then? Accomplishment, happiness, satisfaction?
"Bill said he didn't seek happiness anymore," he spoke, looking at his serpentine companion calmly. "Do I?"
He remembered the Patronus he just conjured and how he felt with Daphne merely a few hours ago. He did want to be happy. He knew that freedom was how he felt the happiest. He disliked constraints, but if he had to choose between blissful confinement and harsh autonomy, what would he pick?
"And this is just the first question, huh?" He snorted quietly to himself before taking a deep breath and trying to imagine life in a perfect ivory tower, with no concerns or pain but no choice either. One pampered, protected existence, where no need or want went unheeded, but with no sense of purpose, direction, or ambition. The notion sent a shiver down his spine and repulsed him. He had his answer. "Choice," he spoke quietly. "Having a choice is what I want."
Where would he have the most choices? The liberty of being his own master, of being autonomous and without shifting behaviors to not catch the eye of the chess masters around him? Harry was getting frustrated with the secrecy around his life. He felt horrendously guilty about lying to Hermione. He longed for a maskless life but also knew it was untenably foolish to try and do so now and would only lead to him being chained stiff against the tallest quarters in that ivory tower.
"My place, in Diagon Alley," he stated with certainty, and something inside him clicked. The diary shifted to the next question.
Are you obsessed with the past?
Harry's mind went to his parents, and he felt a familiar, muted twinge of pain at the thought. Ever since that day where he thought his father had come to save him, but it turned out to be himself casting the Patronus across the Great Lake, he hadn't spent much time thinking about his parents. He wasn't entirely sure why the memory of a lost past hurt him less than it did just a few months before, but it did. Lily and James would forever be a much-cherished, but ultimately empty part of his soul. He didn't think himself capable of stopping the mourning process of being an orphan, but it felt harder and harder to remain in that shell as the problems of the present and the anxieties around the future became more prevalent in his day-to-day life.
"If anything, I'm more obsessed with the future," he said, but the words immediately felt flat. Was he? He didn't have much in the way of a plan, just goals. Was a person who so ardently wished for the future to come brighter and shinier be so callous in not forming a plan, or on staying reactive and not proactive to things?
He furrowed his brow and sighed somewhat tiredly. "I'm wistful of the future," he corrected himself, and something else clicked inside his brain. It felt odd to feel nostalgic about a thing that was yet to come, but it was the most adequate way of describing his feelings on the matter, at least to himself. There was a sense of golden, shining, pristine fondness attached to an imaginary future, where he could be free and happy to make his choices and mistakes without supervision. A more realistic part of his mind reminded him of the dangers of attaching such dream-like perfection to a thing that would be inherently flawed and human, but the persistence of the purity of his imagined future did not waver. "But I'm certainly not obsessed with the past."
The diary shifted to the next question, and this time he flinched.
Are you in love?
Harry could almost hear Bill's amused chuckle at his reaction and looked at the book accusingly, half-tempted to ask for the following question to come up. But something stopped him, and he considered the problem at hand head-on. His first conversation with the oldest of the Weasley sons came to mind, about love coming not from a flash of great significance but just a reflection that suddenly dawned on someone at a seemingly inconsequential moment. Harry didn't know what love was, not entirely, anyway. His childhood was bereft of it, and though he certainly felt a great deal of fondness, even fraternity, towards some people in Hogwarts after his first brush with the magical world of Great Britain, could he honestly call it love?
"There are different kinds of love too, aren't there?" He brushed his head against Serena's tiny head and grinned at her pleased hiss. They hadn't spent much time together, and while he didn't feel the same affinity for the boomslang as he did for Hedwig, he still felt very fond of his companion. He ought to spend more time with the both of them.
That brought an interesting question. What about Hedwig and Serena? He felt a companionship with his owl that dwarfed any that he held with his friends, even Hermione, at times. Hedwig had been the one to suffer through hunger with him in his first summer after Hogwarts, the one who was caged as cruelly as him. He would feel incomplete without Hedwig and her sassy attitude.
He compared it with the idea of being without Daphne in his life and was a bit surprised to note that he did not remember as well as he should how life was before he met with Greengrass, let alone when she turned into Daphne. Things had more defined boundaries after she came into his life, as though her presence was enough to make his eyesight magically restore itself beyond the capabilities of his glasses. He was sure that he didn't want to see the world in muted, blurry colors after witnessing it with such clarity and vivacity.
Was that love?
"I guess?" He asked uncertainly. "How can I know? Does it matter if it is love or not, if I cherish it?"
He tried to think it didn't matter, but it did. It was a mark in the sand, an admittance that he did love someone for the first time, that he could love fully and without missing pieces scattered around as he mumbled his way through making deep emotional connections. If that sense of fraternity he shared with his closest friends for the first years of his life in Hogwarts, and that he was developing with Neville and Tracey in more recent days, could be called some type of love, shouldn't what he felt for Daphne be much more?
"Have I fallen in love with someone I first kissed less than a day ago?" He grumbled to himself, feeling a bit exasperated at the sentiment, despite recognizing the truth of it. He sighed fondly at Serena, who seemed to be smirking at him, at least in his mind.
"Just say it," the snake hissed. "You look at your mate like you want children."
Harry coughed in startlement and looked at the boomslang. "I do not want children," he responded sharply. Harry was a teenager! He wanted kids, but only significantly after he graduated, and only after this mess with Riddle and Dumbledore was resolved. He was not going to see his children targeted by Voldemort. And although he still did not believe that Dumbledore would ever oppose him magically, he was unsure that the Headmaster wouldn't use his children against him, somehow.
"But you do not deny she is your mate," Serena gloated, pleased with herself, and Harry had to concede the point. Daphne felt possessive about him, which was flattering and a bit endearing if he were honest. She considered him family, not to the level of her actual family, but in the same vicinity. Harry had no family, and it felt stupid and premature to think of Daphne as a substitute for what he never had. It would be years before she would be his proper family. But she still felt like home. His room in Diagon Alley, the one he always shared with her whenever they were together in the Room of Requirement, felt incomplete without her presence, and he didn't feel comfortable being alone there without her.
"I do love Daphne," Harry spoke softly, and something else clicked in his head.
The book flipped to the next question.
Can someone be completely evil?
Harry sighed, his mind going to the mystery of the apparent dissociation between Tom Riddle and Voldemort. This exercise was going to take a while. The Parseltongue diary continued to write, unbeknownst to him, and Salazar continued to read.
Daphne embraced her mother as the train arrived in London.
"Where's Father and Astoria?" She asked casually before getting concerned for their absence. "Is Tori okay?"
"They're both fine," Eleanor smiled at her. "Astoria was just a bit tired, so your father is there with her. She's not in any pain; it's just a precaution."
"Oh, that's good to know," Daphne breathed out in relief and looked at her mother. "Shall we go?"
"We shall," Eleanor declared and offered her arm. A twist and a crack later, they were near the Greengrass estate. Daphne's mother was always excellent at Apparition, more than even Cygnus, much to her dismay. Eleanor took a look at Daphne's beaming smile at being finally at home again but also saw some wistfulness shining in her eye. "So, something happened to you."
Daphne's smile faltered slightly, and she felt herself flush ever so slightly, which was infuriating. Daphne Greengrass did not like blushing. It was a lack of control she abhorred. But Eleanor just smirked at her daughter, the same smirk that Daphne herself threw around whenever she wanted to tease Harry, and she knew that trying to hide what had happened was beyond her.
"I guess you can say that," Daphne admitted shyly, and her mother gushed happily.
"So, Harry Potter, huh?" Eleanor asked teasingly, and Daphne felt herself flush brighter, which infuriated and embarrassed her in equal measure.
"Mom!" Daphne whined. "Don't do that!"
"What, tease my oldest daughter?" Eleanor questioned, still smiling her brightest and widest smile as they slowly made their way to their home. "I'm the only one who can tease you, and we all need a little teasing to keep ourselves in line," her smile turned into a smirk, and Daphne dreaded the following words. "Or can he tease you too?"
Daphne's face warmed up, and her heart beat faster at the memory of what had happened between them in the Room of Requirement, and she walked away from her laughing mother in a huff.
"Alright, alright, calm down!" Eleanor called out for her, still giggling at her daughter's sudden bout of embarrassed, indignant bad mood. "I'm sorry, I'll stop, I promise."
"I don't like losing control of my emotions," Daphne grumbled petulantly, sending a stink eye to her mother who vaguely thought that she much preferred this version of Daphne, how she behaved around family and sometimes Tracey. A small smile appeared on Eleanor's face as she concluded that Harry was surely on that list as well.
"Daphne, you love Harry, don't you?" Eleanor asked her kindly, and though Daphne looked away, she did nod. Her mother very softly turned her daughter's face towards hers and saw the bright happiness in her eyes, as well as the embarrassment of admitting the love she felt. It was a bit sad, Eleanor thought, that a person so young would feel flustered by feeling earnest love, but growing out of it was part of every teenager's life, and words would not make Daphne mature out of the idea that love made her vulnerable. That was something she needed to realize on her own. "Loving someone is losing control of your emotions, to a point, Daphne. No one is the master of their emotions all the time. Be your own person, but there's no reason that you can't be that and fall in love at the same time."
"I know that," Daphne said in a small voice. "But it's hard. I had never fallen in love before. It's a risk, isn't it?"
"Of course it is," Eleanor agreed indulgently. "But have you felt happier than right now?"
"No," the younger Greengrass admitted, half-ashamed and half-awed about the intensity of the feeling she felt for Harry Potter.
"Then wasn't it a risk worth taking?" Eleanor asked kindly. "Daphne, you are still young. Don't worry so much," the mother's eyes dimmed a bit with concern and fear. "Enjoy the time you have, Daphne. We don't know what the future might bring."
"I know," Daphne nodded more firmly, looking thankfully at her mother. Eleanor knew her daughter, and she didn't need to receive any verbal appreciation. That happy light in Daphne's eyes was enough to fuel her for a lifetime, and her eldest had taken after her father. Prideful and fiercely protective. She wished that Daphne could be the youngest of her duo of daughters, sometimes, so that she would enjoy life more and worry herself with adulthood later. Eleanor hoped that this blooming romance with Harry might bring Daphne some much-needed levity in life.
"So," Eleanor stopped Daphne from opening the door to the Manor with her hand, looking at the gardens. "Why don't you tell me more about what happened with Harry?"
Daphne looked at the door for a second and then back at her mother, who looked at her with loving, though undeniably taunting eyes, benevolent as the taunts might be. "Are you going to keep teasing me?" She demanded, full of suspicion.
"Me? Tease you?" Eleanor smirked. "I would never."
Daphne groaned a bit but couldn't resist the happiness she saw in her eyes, and if she was honest with herself, she did want to talk to someone about what happened. She didn't have the chance to speak with Tracey in private about it, anyway.
"Fine," she rolled her eyes dramatically but smiled as she saw the discreet whoop of satisfaction that came from her mother at the agreement.
A good hour later, Daphne and Eleanor entered the Manor, happy to be home and glad to have spent time talking with one another.
"Why don't you talk with your father first?" Her mother smiled at her. "I'll take a look at how Astoria is doing."
Daphne nodded and made her way towards her father's office as her mother went to look at Astoria's room. The oldest of the two Greengrass daughters felt the familiar anxiety regarding her younger sister's health but decided to trust her mother's words that she was fine and marched up the stairs to the large doors behind which her father was working. She knocked on the wood and waited for permission to come in. When her father instructed the knocker to come in, she gingerly opened the door, stepped through as fast as she could to not disturb him, and then immediately bowed when she noticed that her father was looking at her.
"Hello, Daphne," he greeted her warmly, and Daphne smiled through the bow.
"Hello, Father," she spoke back, happy to see him again. He waved the bow off and rose from his chair to hug his daughter, who accepted the embrace fully. Then he circled back around the table and sat on his chair, motioning for her to sit down in front of him.
"How are things in Hogwarts?" He asked her calmly, and she immediately stood firm, mentally reviewing all the events that had come and passed in the school.
"The student body is very divided over Harry's performance in the First Task, still," she reported in an analytical, dispassionate manner. "The Yule Ball seemed to calm down some people, and with the report of Snape's attack due to appear on the Daily Prophet soon, I'm sure things will stabilize a bit. But I still expect that many students will continue to resent Harry for his actions every time they're reminded that he's powerful for his age. Things in Slytherin are under control," she furrowed her brow. "Though Draco seems to be moving from beneath his shell a bit, and has provoked some people to his side by talking against Harry."
"Daphne," Cygnus started slowly. "What is the most important thing that I am?"
"I'm sorry?" She asked, not understanding the question, surprised by the line of inquiry. She looked at her father's eyes and was taken aback by the light exasperation and slight disappointment she found there.
"The most important thing that I am is not Lord Greengrass, nor is the most important thing that you are the Heiress Greengrass. I am, first and most importantly, your father, and you are my daughter," he claimed kindly, though the shade of disapproval that Daphne thought she heard was enough to make her heart sink. More than anything, she hated to not meet her father's expectations, real or imaginary. "When I ask you what's going on in Hogwarts, I don't want a report, I just want an answer from my daughter."
"I'm sorry, Father," Daphne said, looking to the ground dejectedly. Cygnus lightly tapped the table between them, which made his daughter look up from the floor to see him grinning.
"Don't mind it, Daphne," he instructed her, and she nodded reluctantly, still mulling his words on her mind. He then leaned over the desk with an excited gleam on his eye and asked her. "So, is it true that the Red Alchemist is your new Potions lecturer?"
"Oh, yes!" Daphne confirmed excitedly, instantly taken over by her father's enthusiasm. "I wasn't there for her first lecture, but I've gone to every single session since then. She's amazing!" She gushed and started to tell the tales that Amèlie had shared on the Beauxbatons carriage about her deeds as an Alchemist, and about her apprenticeship under Flamel. The stories were numerous, and it took several minutes to tell them all, as Cygnus interrupted to ask follow-up questions, mused about this, that, or the other, and made excited or confused expressions as the anecdotes unfolded.
"What an amazing opportunity," Cygnus finally spoke, in awe of the idea of learning from an Alchemist as famed as Amèlie.
"I know," Daphne spoke with an excited nod, and for a flash, Cygnus got a view of his oldest daughter from years ago, before the news that the malediction that afflicted their family had returned to plague Astoria. Daphne noticed his sudden sorrow and asked with great concern. "What is it, Father?"
"It's nothing, Daphne," Cygnus reassured her, marveling at her perceptiveness, as he always did. He took a long look at his daughter and then looked at the papers on his desk. He had always believed that Daphne would grow up to make an excellent Lady Greengrass, better in many ways than he could ever be. She certainly had the highest potential but was always held back by her fidgety, almost obsessive desire to be among people much older and more experienced than her, which would only spell doom. He wanted his daughter to enjoy her life, to not bow down to the many responsibilities of being the Head, and to grow even more cunning and perceptive under his wing, protected from the ruthlessness of men like Lucius Malfoy, before assuming the post of a fully-formed woman. Daphne was eyeing him warily, expecting counsel or anything, really, but what was he to do? He didn't know how to communicate what he felt towards her, and at this point, he believed it to be a lost cause. "Daphne, I have a question for you."
"Of course, Father," she spoke with uttermost seriousness, being cautioned by his long silence just a moment ago into believing this to be an extremely important question and not just the prodding of an anxious father.
"The power play that you and the Black Heir are making at Hogwarts," Cygnus started slowly, the title of Heir reminding Daphne of Harry's future importance to the Wizengamot. "Why are you doing it?"
Once again, Daphne was confused by the line of inquiry, but this time the answer came quickly and more certainly. "For our family, Father," she claimed after barely a moment's consideration. "And to make sure that we can change things for the better."
"Yes, that is a valid answer," Cygnus nodded, approving of her priorities, "but not exactly what I was looking for." He searched for the words in his mind before continuing as his daughter looked on in apprehension. "I meant to ask; you are accumulating power in Hogwarts to do what with it, exactly?"
"I—" Daphne began but then couldn't continue. Cygnus observed calmly as his daughter's clear blue eyes began to fill with anxiety, to look around, trying to anchor themselves to something which would ground her answer, and soon some light level of panic began to shine in them. He had decided to wait patiently as she mulled over the question, but he noticed that she was fighting a losing battle with her fear of disappointing him and intervened before she could think herself into a frenzy.
"Daphne, calm down."
"I don't know," she admitted, full of subdued self-loathing and a sense of dread. "I'm not sure why we were aiming for more power or what we want to do with it. We just thought it was a good idea, which I guess it is because it protects Harry and me, as well as Astoria, but I'm not sure why—"
"Daphne," Lord Greengrass spoke authoritatively, making his daughter instinctively quieten and look at him with deference, but the anxious light on her eyes hadn't diminished. Cygnus sighed sadly, regretting his questioning. It was necessary, but he was always fearful of triggering that fear in Daphne and unwittingly did things to trigger it anyway. Knowing that any visual sign of the self-loathing that he currently felt for his blunder as a parent would be interpreted as disapproval by Daphne, he went through some quick Occlumency exercises and kept his expression as neutral as possible, allowing only calm, paternal fondness to shine through. "Daphne," he repeated in a quieter, more welcoming tone, and he saw with satisfaction that some of her anxiety melted away. "It's fine. You have more potential than anyone your age, but you're still young. You're allowed to make mistakes."
Daphne's anxiety was replaced by sadness and disappointment, not at him but herself. Cygnus panicked a bit at not being able to comfort his oldest daughter, but the only solution he saw to the problem would conflict with his desire to have her grow at a more sedate pace. But even as the seconds passed by, her face did not lift with determination, and her eyes remained distantly distressed. Finally, Cygnus relented, and the last chord of resistance that he felt to the desire that Daphne held above all snapped, though he did feel immense anguish, feeling that he had failed the younger Daphne, the one he had witnessed briefly when she gushed about the Red Alchemist.
"Daphne, swing your chair over here," he instructed her firmly. Daphne was confused at the request and furrowed her brow lightly.
"Why?" She demanded though she was already carrying it to sit next to him.
"Because we are going to make a plan," he explained. Initially, her response was not positive, but to fall even further into the realm of self-loathing. However, he had anticipated this and calmly spoke. "You misunderstand. I am not taking away your autonomy."
"Father?" She asked, confusedly.
"I have always claimed that you have a lot of potential, and I've always allowed you to do as you pleased, to make mistakes in a safe environment, to grow and be your own woman," he said, looking at her in the eye. "I have only provided you the education necessary to be a good Lady Greengrass, and you have excelled at that. However, the game that you and Harry Potter are playing will no longer be safe, and I cannot in good conscience allow it to continue as it is."
"Father?" She repeated, unsure of where her father was going with it, and feeling wary of the consequences his words implied.
"Well, we've gone through your formal education in the past," he spoke strongly before pointing at the papers in his desk. "Now, we will begin with your political education."
Daphne gaped at her father for a second, trying to process what he was saying. "Do you mean...?" She trailed off. When he nodded, her eyes widened slowly, and her expression brightened. "My notebook," she murmured beneath her breath. "I need my notebook."
She then ran off to her room to get the same notebook she used to use when Cygnus taught her how to be a young lady, the one she kept in the miniaturized box she took with her everywhere during the summer she had spent teaching at Diagon Alley. Cygnus watched fondly as she did not do any of the formalities required, and just bolted off, completely taken by the excitement of it all, but soon he allowed his expression to sour, and he teared up slightly. He knew instinctively that doing what he was about to do would forever mark an ending to the young girl who lived with no concern for impressing anyone and was enormously fond and protective of her family and closest friends. He hoped that the young woman that would come on the other side of the process would retain some of the youthful joy he knew Daphne was capable of, but he did not feel very optimistic. He heard her steps running up the stairs back to the office, closed his eyes with a shaky breath, and did some quick Occlumency exercises.
When he opened them again, Cygnus Greengrass was gone, replaced by Lord Greengrass.
Back in Hogwarts, Harry was more or less living in the Room of Requirement, dividing his time between reading Bill's blue book, enjoying the progress he was making in answering the questions, and talking with Daphne via their magically connected notebooks. Though he still slept at the Gryffindor Tower, he spent most waking moments in the Room, only leaving for meals to not arouse the suspicion of the Headmaster or any other attentive eyes. A larger than usual share of the school remained behind after the Yule Ball, as well as the entirety of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang contingents, so his presence there was necessary. He sometimes ate with Fleur, Cedric, and Viktor, all of whom spontaneously decided to share a meal one day and to talk about anything except the Tournament.
One day, he ate alone as fast as he could, hoping to get back to the Room of Requirement quickly after he had left a question in the little blue book unanswered. However, he was interrupted in his way by a tap on his shoulder. He instinctively turned already in a pivot, as taught by Flitwick, only to find Amèlie studying his defensive stance amusedly.
"I see someone taught you some dueling, Mr. Potter," she said, examining his footwork. He relaxed his posture and somewhat embarrassedly rubbed his neck with his left hand.
"Sorry," he grinned and then asked. "Do you duel, Professor?"
"I believe I told you all not to call me that," she reminded him lightly. "Call me Madame if you don't wish to call me Amèlie. But no," she dismissed his question with a musical chuckle. "I am not much of a dueler. I couldn't do a tickling charm against a good opponent."
Harry looked skeptically at the woman. She certainly exuded the calm, cool confidence of exceptionally powerful people, and he didn't think that Flamel would privately tutor anyone less than very powerful. Amèlie noticed his reluctance to accept her words and sighed with some chagrin.
"Why do people not believe me when I tell them? You don't need to be powerful to be an Alchemist, Mr. Potter. You need to be lucky and clever." She advised him, ushering him to follow her outside to the Beauxbatons carriage. Intrigued, he followed her.
"Lucky?" He questioned, and she looked back at him over her shoulder, not breaking stride.
"Luck is a necessary element of any great achievement, academic or otherwise, Mr. Potter," she spoke before returning her gaze forwards. They reached the carriage in silence, and she opened the door for him to pass. Some French students looked at Harry with suspicion, while others barely glimpsed at him, accustomed to the presence of the Hogwarts students by now. Fleur was still in the Great Hall, but some of her group of friends eyed him as he passed, and Harry was sure she'd receive word of his private meeting with the Red Alchemist before long. They entered her lecture room, and she manually carried one of the chairs used by the students to the closer side of her table, sitting on the chair opposite it. "Sit down, Mr. Potter," she instructed, and he did.
"What did you call me for?" He asked politely.
"To chat," she shrugged.
"Lots of people have been doing that this year," he deadpanned, and she smiled minutely.
"I do have an ulterior motive that I will preface before we start this conversation," she spoke, and he blinked back in surprise at the openness of the statement. Before he could assent or deny, she was speaking again. "I am using this talk as an indication of whether I should or shouldn't be lecturing at this school the following year."
"And you are using me for that?" He asked skeptically.
"There's no need to be so cynical of your own importance, Mr. Potter," she raised an eyebrow, looking at him critically. "It's unbecoming."
"If I'm the key for your permanence or otherwise, aren't you being cynical of your importance?" He demanded.
"Witty!" She applauded him verbally with a small smile before assuming a neutral expression. "But no, not at all. I have equally important paths before me, regardless of the outcome of our conversation. I just want more information to make a proper decision."
"Okay," he accepted her words warily. A question nagged him, and he had to ask it. "Is Flamel...?"
"He's dead," she confirmed with no visible hint of sadness, though her features softened. "He died happy, with Perenelle, and accepted death as an old friend," her eyes flashed a bit with the last sentence, though Harry did not know why.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Harry spoke honestly, and she hummed her agreement.
"But never mind all of that," she affirmed, taking a look at the great pile of books around her table and pointing to a big leather tome in the middle of one of the far-away piles. "Can you be a dear and pick that up for me?"
Harry began to rise, but she stopped him with a gesture. "Magically, if you please."
Harry acquiesced, though suspiciously, and raised his wand, murmuring beneath his breath to levitate the books above the targeted book, float said book to the woman's desk, and then deposit the rest of the pile neatly back in place.
"Fascinating," she whispered, looking at him curiously.
"I don't get why that's so fascinating," he raised an eyebrow before frowning. "Or why you didn't do it yourself."
"That's quite simple, Mr. Potter," the woman spoke softly. "Because I can't."
"Excuse me?" Harry asked, confusedly, and the woman smiled.
"C'mon, Mr. Potter," she smirked at him. "Surely you've noticed something odd about me and my lectures."
She leaned back and watched as he mentally reviewed her lectures, trying to find something odd. He initially didn't find anything, but her calm expression encouraged him to continue mentally searching. He tried to envision her lectures, employing so much effort that he began to feel a headache. His Occlumency was still very rudimentary, but he could feel those clicks in his mind as he concentrated.
After thinking and unknowingly applying magic to the issue to the point of giving him a low fever, he turned to her with surprised, wide green eyes.
"You've never used any magic," he whispered. "You're not a Muggle, are you?"
"Of course not," she dismissed the thought. "I'm a witch, of a different kind."
"But still, you haven't ever used any magic," he repeated himself, leaning closer to her. "Not even for convenience, or for anything minor. You always carry books physically, you erase the board manually, you actually write in chalk instead of the thing that McGonagall and Flitwick do."
"You are correct," she nodded serenely. "I do not use magic."
"Why?" He demanded.
"Because I cannot," she informed him succinctly, confusing him completely.
"And yet, you're not a Muggle," Harry spoke slowly.
"No, I am not," she said, smiling serenely at him.
"Can you please explain?" He demanded, feeling frustrated, the fever making his temper feel all the sharper.
"In Alchemy, unlike in many branches of magic, there is the prevalence of a sense of proportionality," she said, assuming the more professorial one she used in her lectures. "To achieve a result, one must divulge the same amount of energy into it that you expect to receive back. It's a very self-sacrificial science. The Flamels had lost much for their immortality, which is why they died peacefully and with few fears," she spoke more softly, staying in silent mourning for her former master and his wife, just for a second. Then she continued, in the same academically-minded tone. "Many alchemical by-products can be achieved by inputting rare elements, which contain unique properties—"
"Is that why?" Harry unknowingly interrupted her, commenting before he could control himself. Amèlie looked at him inquisitively, and he explained a bit sheepishly. "A friend told me you are a bit infamous with the goblins for asking for very magical, very rare materials."
"Did your research on me, did you?" She asked with twinkling hazel eyes, smiling amusedly. He shrugged a bit awkwardly and she laughed shortly at his reaction before shaking her head and resuming her explanation. "Anyway, the use of those rare elements is vital for the amplification of certain magical effects, sometimes not necessarily because the ingredients themselves are magical, but because they are rare and valuable, and impart a sense of sacrificial equivalence necessary to boost the magical effects of your alchemical product."
Harry, thoroughly bewildered by the explanation, just nodded, but the dazed way in which he did so may have made the witch realize that she had spoken something that was far above his understanding.
"Alchemy is complicated," she grinned at him.
"I noticed," he responded dryly, and her grin widened into a smile.
"At any rate, the point I'm trying to make is that Alchemy, at least high-level Alchemy, is a closed-system. Meaning that in order to achieve great things, one must use—or sacrifice—things of equal importance," she informed him, and he came to a realization that horrified him.
"You sacrificed your ability to perform magic?" He asked her, completely aghast, trying to think of a life in which he would be without his magic permanently. To his surprise, he couldn't, it having become a key part of his identity and horrifying him even further. "Why would you do that?"
"I sacrificed my ability to use spells," she corrected him kindly and gestured to the classroom at large. "But I am still a witch. I am, after all, an Alchemist."
"But why?" He continued to demand. "What did you gain?"
"I can see magic," she explained. "I can see its interactions, its effects, its expanding and diminishing, the way the elements work together, their latent capabilities. That may be meaningless to you," she anticipated his forthcoming argument, "but it is beyond valuable for an Alchemist. And I was never the strongest witch, to begin with."
"That is..." Harry tried to find the words, but the idea of not being able to use magic in exchange for that was so anathema to him that he couldn't even begin to describe it.
"Insane?" She raised an eyebrow in his direction. "Is it? I have found a way to greatly amplify my domain over magic, despite not managing to cast any spells. I wanted to learn more about magic, and this allowed me to do so. The alchemic calculations deemed it a reasonably equitable sacrifice, but in my estimation," she shrugged, "I came out winning, and not by a narrow margin."
"I see," he spoke weakly, and she shook her head.
"You do not, because you make the mistake of believing powerful magic to largely limit itself to the realm of spells, curses, and charms," she accused him, and he could not deny the claim. "Well, I am a vivid reminder of the contrary, and one that you should keep in mind, Mr. Potter. Magic has many forms, many of which make even the most powerful spells seem vague and ineffective. I have found my way of achieving greatness through a peculiar sacrifice," Amèlie spoke authoritatively, looking at Harry defiantly. "Is that all that different from what all people do?"
Harry couldn't answer the question. He wasn't sure of it himself. So he asked something else. "Is that why you wanted me to come here? You wanted to... see my magic?"
"Contrary to what some myths would have you imagine, there's no such thing as a pool of magic within you," the woman informed him. "I can only see your magic when you use it. And after hearing about your performance about the First Task, I wanted to see it up close."
"And that's why this conversation is so important for your staying here or not?" He inquired harshly, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the woman, whose serene smile did not waver at the tone.
"Yes, yes it is," she spoke uncaringly, her bluntness once again taking him by surprise.
"And?" He demanded further.
"I think I'll stay," she smiled more widely than before.
"Why?" He demanded between gritted teeth, the fever he had accidentally caused himself making itself known as his irritation flared up. He took some deep breaths to calm himself down as the woman looked at him in open amusement.
"You'll find out later," she proclaimed, getting up from her chair and motioning for him to leave. "Now go. I have work to do, Mr. Potter."