AUTHOR'S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENT:

This is a work of fanfiction written and posted solely for the enjoyment of readers. The author makes no claims and does not receive remuneration of any kind. The characters and places named, if not in the public domain, are taken or derive from the work of JK Rowling.

A Note on this story—The fanon comprises fiction with an array of quirky plot devices, some rational and some not, some with roots in the canon, some that are totally alien and unheard-of in canonical Harry Potter. Marriage contracts feature in many imaginative pieces, some dramatic and others wildly comedic. A seemingly irreducible number of readers really like the idea, judging solely from the reader and reviewer stats. Right then, so here's another one, with no aspirations except making a contribution to the world's net store of fun reads.

And This Is My Beloved

By

Bfd1235813

Heavy silver made clinking sounds on fine china plates, the chandelier that hung over the table sparkled in the light from one hundred smokeless, odorless flames. The tablecloth was silk. In color, it was an iridescent gray that called to mind a misty dawn in some perfect seaside village, with a narrow band of emerald green near the edges. It was a subtle salute to Salazar Slytherin and an indication, if one could read the non-verbal communication within the little community of old magical families, that the occupants of the house remembered their school days.

The host and hostess had attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the school founded by two witches and two wizards who were universally recognized as the first to standardize the curriculum for training British practitioners of magic. They had been sorted into Slytherin House which, like the other three houses within the school, was named for one of the Founders.

Their special guests had also finished the Hogwarts course. They had been members of Gryffindor House. The four had known one another at school. They weren't particularly close when they were students. Neither were any sworn enemies of any of the others. Following their school days they did adult things such as working in some division of a family business, getting to know the family investments and landholdings and getting married.

The magical population was a small minority in Britain and Ireland. That meant everyone had to come to some accommodation with the mundane, non-magical world. People who could not use magic were at the least put off, and at worst, harbored irrational fears of magic that could, in turn, provoke violence. Some magical families tried to make provision for a magical spouse for their children by entering into contracts, promising a boy from this line to a girl from that line, in order to take chance and guesswork out of the selection process.

Cyrus and Isolde Greengrass, the host and hostess of the evening's dinner, agreed they would be open to a contractual arrangement for their oldest child, their daughter Daphne. After Daphne was born, they moved cautiously, consulting runes and listening carefully to friends and relatives for cues that a magical family had a son as yet uncommitted to marry a witch. The considerations were many, foremost being to avoid tempting fate by selecting a closely-related mate.

That was easier than it would seem to a randomly-selected person plucked from the general population. As noted above, the British magical community was small. Any witch or wizard with two magical parents would be likely to have a significant number of cousins in her or his age group. Some magical families had feuded with others over the years. Even if peace was respected the old passions and prejudices were just below the surface. There were shunnings and disownings of family members noted in many family histories. All of those had the secondary effect of removing potential mates from a shrinking pool.

Cyrus and Isolde Greengrass had what they considered an extraordinary stroke of luck: they had learned of a pregnancy in another magical family around the time they themselves became expectant parents. They made some discreet enquiries and became more excited the more they learned. The other couple, James and Lily Potter, were magically skilled. Lily was a muggle-born, coming from a family without magical antecedents. Magical theory held that she had to inherit her magical ability from someone, but the transmission between generations was not fully understood. Still, Lily was admitted to Hogwarts and was the acknowledged magical prodigy of her class by the time she left. James Potter had skills as well as a fine magical pedigree. Better yet, the check of their family trees, going back as far as their third great-grandparents, showed the children would not have one common ancestor in the most recent five generations.

The Potters knew Cyrus and Isolde had gotten married, although they weren't close enough to have attended one another's weddings. Thus they were slightly surprised when Cyrus contacted them and asked if they would be the Greengrass' guests at an al fresco luncheon at Greengrass Manor. James and Lily thought it was strictly social although each kept their own counsel as to the motivating factor. The subject of pregnancies arose, apparently spontaneously, complete with expressions of delight and surprise for the good fortune of the other couple.

Giving due respect to not tempting the Fates, none of the four raised the subject of marriages or even the gender of the babies until Isolde was in her seventh month. She revealed at a private lunch at the Potters' that she couldn't wait any longer and had cast runes, asking the runes if they had an opinion as to whether she was expecting a boy or a girl. The runes thought Isolde Greengrass would be giving birth to a girl. Isolde was delighted but kept the news from Cyrus for a few days because Cyrus very much wanted a son. After Isolde told Cyrus, then the Potters, Lily began sending little girl-baby gifts to Isolde.

Lily, on the other hand, was unwilling to try and out-guess Nature. She attributed her reluctance to superstition, although she didn't show signs of that in other areas of her life. The truth was Lily liked surprises. She had waited all her life for the ultimate surprise and she wasn't going to spoil it. All four of the new parents were thrilled when Isolde gave birth to Daphne and Lily to Harry.

The addition of a boy and a girl to the mix gave the social relations of the Potter and Greengrass families another dimension. There was a disruptive influence at work in Magical Britain, a powerful wizard with dreams of taking over the magical population and using it to conquer the larger society. He worked through a gang of fanatics called Death Eaters and built alliances with the disaffected among disparate magical populations.

Cyrus broached the subject with Isolde on a rainy afternoon in the spring. They were in the library of their home, looking out through the windows at a steady drizzle falling from a dark grey sky.

"Have you given any thought to Daphne's future?" asked Cyrus. He didn't look at Isolde but stood, teacup in hand, studying the water running across the lawn.

"I doubt if I've given any thought to anything but our daughter's future, husband, at least not since I learned the runes believed I was carrying a daughter," said Isolde. "I haven't even thought about you for several months now."

"Perfectly understandable," said Cyrus, seemingly hypnotized by the two or three inches of water flowing over his family's prized turf.

"I'd like to suggest we consider initiating a conversation with the Potters…"

"You want to get our baby tied down to a young wizard you know nothing about? What if he's a squib?" asked Isolde.

"Well, strictly as a for-instance, what if Daphne is? I have a squib cousin, with two magical parents and four magical grandparents," said Cyrus.

"Hold your tongue, Cyrus Greengrass," ordered Isolde. "My little girl is saturated with magic, so I don't know where you're getting your information. She makes the mobile in the nursery turn round and round, just by looking at it."

"Ah, yes, I've seen that," said Cyrus. "The one that moves in the slightest breeze, your aunt explained that when she gave it to us. Isolde, all I'm saying is the pickings aren't that generous right now and we know young Harry and beautiful Daphne are magical and neither show up anywhere near the other's family tree. Just think about it."

Isolde Greengrass did think about it, although not without some internal conflict. She wanted Daphne to marry, someday, and give her grandchildren, preferably female. She went back and forth, back and forth, deciding, finally, that she would have to contemplate Daphne having a physical relationship with a wizard if she were to get a granddaughter. Morgana willing, Daphne could conceive twin girls on her wedding night and then Isolde could put it all out of her mind.

Once she accepted the physical relationship as a necessity, Isolde turned to Cyrus' suggestion. Lily Potter was a highly-skilled witch with no prior connection to the magical world so there would be no concerns about heredity. James Potter was a rounder, true, but a reformed rounder, thanks to Lily. They were both products of Gryffindor House, Slytherin's traditional rival. Their personal network would naturally be heavy with other Gryffindors the same as the Greengrass' had plenty of old Slytherins. Assuming Daphne followed her parents and Harry followed his, each could manage relations according to house affinity to their mutual advantage. Of course, such a couple would be socially-formidable and destined for prominence, like it or not, and would need a mate willing and able to function in a rarefied atmosphere. Isolde knew her daughter would meet or exceed the needs of any competent wizard. Quite honestly, it went without saying.

Cyrus and Isolde invited James and Lily over for coffee and playtime for the babies. Truth be told, the babies didn't actually play, but they did roll around on a baby blanket on the floor and laugh at one another. Lily and Isolde sat on the carpet offering rattles and rubber teething rings and interesting baby toys.

"James?"

"Yes, Cyrus?" answered James.

"Do you like to fish?" asked Cyrus.

"What kind?" asked James. "My uncle had a beat up north and took me a few times. I don't remember catching anything."

"Well, a business friend introduced me to a muggle with a boat we can fish from," said Cyrus. "It's a trawler design but he has it set up for offshore sport fishing. A couple of chairs back by the stern. I've gone out with him. He's a capable seaman. I was going to book a trip one day next week. Do you think you'd like to go?"

The charter trip was just the thing for discussing their childrens' futures, James and Cyrus discovered. The captain and one crewman stayed out of their way most of the time leaving them in the rumble of the diesel engine. By the end of the fishing trip they'd used up all of their bait, caught nothing big enough to keep and come to agreement on the significant points each wanted included as conditions of the betrothal contract between their families.

Lily Potter had the same objections as Isolde Greengrass had, initially, but honest answers and James' assurances that magical families had countless examples of successful marriages resulting from such betrothals gradually brought her around.

"He can't be forced into something that doesn't suit him," said Lily.

"Lily, I know, and Cyrus agreed," said James. "In fact, he wants to give Daphne the same leeway."

"What?" asked Lily. "Why would that girl turn down a chance to marry my son?"

"Well, what you were thinking about Harry and the possibility he wouldn't want a—ahem—girl for a life partner, couldn't the same be true of Daphne?" asked James.

"I wasn't thinking exactly that," said Lily. "Maybe he would just prefer bachelor life and a series of loving significant others who made him happy and were polite and respectful toward his mother."

"And would you recommend that for his father?" asked James.

"That is DIFFERENT and you know it, James Potter," said a suddenly-forceful Lily Evans Potter.

As James expected, Lily did come around and the stipulations were negotiated and agreed. The day of the signing ended with dinner at Greengrass Manor. The signing took place, purely by chance, on July Thirty-first, Harry's first birthday. More than one person present observed that must be a good omen, pointing to years and years and years of happy and fruitful marriage for the blessed toddlers.

Cyrus and Isolde agreed, when news reached them on November First of the murders at the Potter residence in Godric's Hollow, that it was a good thing so few people knew about the betrothal. At first, it was unclear whether Harry had survived. Later on, it sounded like he had, although there weren't any reported sightings. Isolde and Cyrus kept their own counsel. They had another baby, a girl, whom they named Astoria. Daphne and Astoria grew up together under the loving gaze of their mother, who seldom had a thought featuring Harry Potter in any way.

When she did think of Harry, there was a little pang. Isolde liked the Potters, especially Lily, with whom she had shared a number of Harry-Daphne play dates. Then the Potters disappeared. Rumor held they and Harry were in the States or Canada or one of the more obscure islands in the Caribbean, waiting for the Voldemort situation to resolve.

Then came the murders.

As Harry, Lily and James receded into the past, Isolde focused on her daughters and rarely thought of betrothal contracts at all. As a result, eleven-year-old Daphne stood on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters unaware that she was a principal in an agreement between her parents and the late parents of Harry Potter, the mythical Boy Who Lived, who had somehow contrived to defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort at the age of fifteen months. Isolde, Cyrus and Astoria stood around Daphne, waving to family friends and acquaintances. Every now and then Isolde would reach around Daphne to pass on a compliment or some advice along with a gentle squeeze for her arm.

"So proud of you…"

"You're going to do so well…"

"If you get stuck on something, ask for help…"

Isolde stood directly across from one end of a passenger car and the steps that one climbed to get from the platform to the corridor and the cabins. A boy pushed a luggage trolley to the steps, then stopped, looking between the large trunk on the trolley and the set of steps he would have to climb.

"Let me," called Isolde, leaving her family and crossing the platform.

Isolde looked at the name stenciled on the trunk.

"Potter," it said on the side, and "HJP," on the end.

"That's a lot for someone who's just eleven," said Isolde.

"Oh, I guess I'm supposed to learn," said Harry.

"I'll give you a bit of help, then," said Isolde. "It's the least I can do."

With that she took her wand from inside her sleeve and made a little motion. Her lips might have moved but Harry didn't hear anything. The trunk came up off the trolley and floated onto the train, settling gently to the floor.

"That was magic, wasn't it?" asked Harry.

"It was," said Isolde. "Have you seen a lot of magic before this?"

"Hardly any," said Harry. "My aunt and uncle don't believe in magic."

"Surely you've noticed some magical things happening, now and then?" asked Isolde.

"Well, one of my teachers got angry with me and her hair turned blue," Harry said. "My cousin fell into a snake's terrarium at the zoo and that was supposed to be my fault. Somehow."

"Right," said Isolde. "Think you can handle things from here? I have another student to get onboard."

"Yes, ma'am," said Harry, then he stuck out his hand. "My name is Harry Potter."

"Greengrass, Isolde Greengrass," said Isolde. "I'd better go."

Isolde, Cyrus and Astoria dined together that evening. Somehow, Isolde kept her mouth shut until Astoria had taken her bath, donned pajamas and listened to a Bathilda Bagshot story. By the time she returned downstairs, Isolde was fuming.

"Cyrus Greengrass!"

Isolde's commanding voice was the first clue Cyrus had that he had somehow gotten onto probation, at the very least.

"Dear?" he answered.

"That young lad I helped today, did you notice him?" asked Isolde.

"Seemed like a nice young fellow," Cyrus tried.

"Notice anything in particular?" Isolde demanded.

"Kind of short…" Cyrus began.

"Not for someone who's eleven," said Isolde. "Needs to be fed up a bit."

"Black hair, if I remember, or dark brown," recalled Cyrus, chin resting on his knuckles.

"Keep going," ordered Isolde.

"Ahh…"

Cyrus tried but he was out of words.

"What?" he asked.

"His trunk was stenciled with his last name, did you notice?"

"How about this—you tell me what it said, and then we'll both know?" asked Cyrus.

"O-KAY!" said Isolde. "On the large panel, where people put their surname, it said 'P-o-t-t-e-r.' And on the end there were three initials: 'HJP.'"

"Do you think it was Harry?" Cyrus asked.

"Well, I suppose there could be a magical eleven-year-old running around London introducing himself as Harry Potter with the same birth year as our daughter's betrothed. There must have been dozens of those in or around Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters today, catching the Hogwarts Express!" exclaimed Isolde.

"Ah," said Cyrus, hoping his single syllable conveyed something along the lines of, "Brilliant as always, Darling."

"Cyrus, my brain is worn out," declared Isolde. "We have reached the part where yours begins to do some work. I will now retire to my bath where I will soak and read Witch Weekly until I feel ready to go to sleep, knowing I will wake up tomorrow and my noble husband will tell me what we are going to do now that our daughter and her beloved are going to be at boarding school together for the next six years. 'Night!"

"Well, like you say, nothing can happen for six years…" said Cyrus, the words following Isolde upstairs, but not generating enough of a reaction to cause her to respond.

Cyrus couldn't answer Isolde's question the next morning but she was in a much better mood after her soak, reading of Witch Weekly and good night's sleep.

"I'll need to consult," said Cyrus over breakfast.

Isolde gave him a squinty-eyed look, preparatory to delivery of some highly skeptical response, from which Cyrus was spared due to the arrival of a post owl.

"Dear Mum, Dad and Astoria," Daphne's note began.

"Last night was our sorting and Beginning of Term Feast. Guess what? I'm a Slytherin! Yep, a Snake. How many generations have we been Snakes? I know it is lots. So are Tracey and Millicent Bulstrode. We're already pinky-sworn to stick together. Some of the wizards aren't to my taste."

"Eleven and she's 'Not to my taste?' Merlin and Morgana!" Isolde mused, interrupting her own reading before returning to Daphne's letter.

"Harry Potter is here. Gryffindor. There is an entire family of redheaded wizards in Gryffindor, the Weasleys. Potter seems to know them. Also Neville Longbottom, the one everyone thought was a squib? Got to go.

Love, Daphne"

Isolde laid the note paper flat on the table, her hand flat on the paper, her eyes locked on Cyrus.'

"We don't have to do anything for six years, did you say?" asked Isolde.

Several days passed before Cyrus brought up the betrothal again.

"I think I might go see Grandfather Macmillan," Cyrus said at breakfast.

"Think again," said Isolde.

Grandfather Macmillan, Cyrus' maternal grandfather, was a veteran of the Muggles' First World War, a renowned magical travel writer, the author of a salacious magical romance revolving around a polyamorous wizard from the early decades of the Second Millennium who seemed to be based loosely on Merlin, and the distiller of a highly-prized private label whisky. By tradition, Isolde did not sleep in the same bed with Cyrus for several nights after he returned from a visit with Grandfather Macmillan. He stank of whisky-sweat, she said, and she suspected him of harboring adventurous ideas until she was positive he had cleared his system.

"It's for Daphne," said Cyrus. "Grandfather's very wise. You must admit that, Isolde. He has a unique perspective. I respect the elders."

"He is definitely an elder," Isolde replied. "Even for a wizard."

"Good, then," said Cyrus. "I'll go and be back by tonight."

"Uh-huh," Isolde said as she pressed an herbal cigarette into a goblin-made silver holder. "You'll be back in five or six days, or a week from now, your clothes will reek and you will be sweating out Grandfather Macmillan's home brew from every pore. Be safe. I may even let you back in our bed after I've scrubbed you raw a few times."

Cyrus sent an owl ahead to his grandfather's because that was always a good idea. The old man wasn't exactly crazy but he did see things that weren't there, from time to time, including diabolical werewolves who had learned to temporarily enchant themselves so they looked like men, thus drawing to themselves two barrels of silver shot from Grandfather Macmillan's fowling piece.

Cyrus' grandfather dwelt in a very convenient location for a wizard and distiller of private label whisky. He inhabited a rocky peninsula that jutted out into the Sea of the Hebrides before sinking into the water that seldom warmed up to decent swimming temperature regardless of season. Casual hikers who walked out a short way would reach a rock with fractures going this way and that and edges that looked cruelly sharp. They might spit in the sea or they might take a look around before unzipping and making a contribution to their watery surroundings, then reverse course and hike back to civilization. What they didn't know was that a crotchety old wizard lived just a bit further out on the peninsula, if one knew how to get there.

Magical people could work their way around the rock with little difficulty, beyond which there was a feature of several hundred acres of beautiful green turf, high and dry, mostly, on a granite foundation already eons old and probably good for a few eons more. A man could make himself a home there, laying up stone and thatching a roof (or importing a craftsman or two if he had some galleons in his pocket). He could build some outbuildings, for such things as a shelter for hobby sheep or an unlicensed distillery. Cyrus had spent summers with his grandfather. It was a magical boy's Paradise, an Eden conveniently devoid of Divine oversight.

"So?" asked Grandfather Macmillan.

He sat on a wooden bench with his grandson Cyrus, backs against the sun-warmed, South-facing wall of his little stone house.

"It's Daphne," said Cyrus. "We thought we were being responsible, reserving her a fiancé, back when they were both just a year or so, but her betrothed's parents were murdered by you-know-who and we lost track of the boy. Now he's in her year at Hogwarts. Isolde spoke to him on the platform at King's Cross. Seems alright but he's been raised by muggles, it appears. We haven't spoken, ever, except Isolde's few words, like I said. Train platform talk."

"Right, so what does Daphne think of her betrothed?" asked Mr. Macmillan.

"She doesn't know anything about it," said Cyrus.

"Ah," said the old man. "Are you ready for just a tablespoon of the Old Formula? You'd might as well get comfortable."

Cyrus knew better than to object so Mr. Macmillan did, indeed, tip a jar over a tablespoon and poured the full measure on into a short, heavy glass.

"That ought to sharpen your wits," his grandfather assured Cyrus. "It's the only whisky in the world that has that effect. Don't remember if I ever told you that. Now, who's the boy?"

When Cyrus was done his grandfather sat, staring into his face.

"You and Isolde betrothed your daughter to a school chum's son? When they were a year, each?"

"Yes. On Harry's first birthday, as a matter of fact," said Cyrus. "Ten years ago this July Thirty-first. Makes it easy to remember."

"And Daphne is betrothed but doesn't know?" asked the old man, his eyes flicking to the framed photo of Daphne and Astoria that sat on his mantle.

"No, we didn't know what to say, or how to say it," said Cyrus as Mr. Macmillan tipped another tablespoon full of Old Formula into his glass. "Thanks! It didn't affect her because she's grown up, not knowing she is betrothed. We didn't know where Harry was. Apparently, arrangements were made for his foster care that kept him out of sight, at least to our people. Then he showed up on the platform on the First of September and Isolde and I were kind of stunned. That's why I'm here. To ask what you think we should do."

"Why me? I'm long out of the child-raising game. Your grandmother's gone and she'd say my instincts are all wrong, anyway. You know what she'd say to you? She would tell you to figure out what I'd do and then do the opposite. What are your parents doing these days, are they there with you at the Manor?"

"No, they left that to Isolde and me and bought a sailboat," said Cyrus. "They send the girls these beautiful post cards from the islands they visit."

Mr. Macmillan took some time to think.

"Any chance Daphne will find out somehow? Accident? Find a copy of the agreement?"

"I don't see how," said Cyrus. "It wasn't widely known. The Potters were gone just a short time after we finalized the papers."

"Be careful with that 'not widely known' part. Keep it that way as long as you can. There are still some of those kind around," said his grandfather. "Followers of the lunatic. They can't know, at least not until she is a lot older and knows how to fight. How you and Isolde decide to do it is your business. You'll have to make the best decision you think you can make, for Daphne. I think you may be fine for a year or two. Eventually, you will have to face the music and tell her. What kind of penalties did you write in? Loss of magic? Spinsterhood?"

"Nothing for straying before marriage," said Cyrus. "That's medieval. Anyone's emotions can run away with them. Afterwards, it escalates. Hives, boils, loss of magic. I don't know why you're looking at me like that, Grandfather. It was for form's sake, more than anything else. They can even have an outside arrangement as long as both are in agreement. They have to think of that ahead of time, of course. Merlin, at least a third of the noble marriages I know about work that way."

Cyrus went to bed soon after, judging he'd had too many tablespoons of the Old Formula to trust himself to take the floo home to Greengrass Manor. The next day was sunny and crisp and the sea air was invigorating, so he stayed on another day and night, sitting up late, handing a guitar back and forth and singing folk songs with his grandfather. The Old Formula had a number of side effects, prominent among them the enhancement of a man's singing ability, in direct proportion to the amount consumed.

Cyrus pondered his dilemma a third day and then a fourth, clearing his morning head with exercise in the blustery winds blowing in from the sea, and on into the fifth day that was much too wet for outdoor exercise but ideal for sitting inside by the fire, cutting long shavings from a chunk of wood with a pocket knife, sipping from a glass of the Old Formula. At dinner on the fifth day Cyrus noticed that the sour smell of mildewed clothing had been in his nose all day.

"When did I start to stink?" Cyrus asked his grandfather.

When he got up the morning of Day Six, Cyrus remembered Isolde's prediction that he would not be able to return by evening of the day he left and that he would be back, stinking, in a week and they would not share a bed until he was again a presentable wizard.

"Grandfather, thank-you for your hospitality, as always," Cyrus said over breakfast. "I'm sure to be in trouble now, but it was definitely worth it. I learned a lot."

"Glad to have you," said Grandfather Macmillan. "I'm in the middle of some distilling at the moment or I'd come down with you for a visit. Say hello to Isolde and kiss the girls for me after you've stopped stinking. If I have some deliveries nearby I'll take a little holiday with you."

Everything came out pretty much as Isolde and Mr. Macmillan said in their separate outlines. Isolde banished Cyrus, but only for two days, although she did make him admit she had been right and he had been wrong about his self-discipline in the presence of the Old Formula. Mr. Macmillan's observation concerning unreconstructed Death Eaters resonated strongly with Isolde, who also agreed they needed a coordinated approach to informing Daphne of the betrothal agreement between her family and Harry Potter's.

Daphne's letters home were mostly concerned with academic subjects she liked along with bits of news about her friends from Slytherin House. She mentioned Harry Potter only when Severus Snape seemed unduly harsh with him or when Harry got detention for some reason.

Cyrus and Isolde decided the evening of Daphne's twelfth birthday would be a good time for their family conference on the subject of betrothals.

"Potter?"

Daphne was not, technically, speechless after her parents delivered the news for she'd gotten that one word out.

"Yes, they were a wonderful family, before…" said Isolde. "Sorry. Before they were attacked. There in Godric's Hollow."

The last few words were barely audible. Isolde had enjoyed socializing with the Potters. They were a nice family. James and Lily had easygoing dispositions. They were obviously comfortable while not flaunting wealth or status. Daphne would be marrying into good people. After that, it would be up to Harry and Daphne to get off their very advantageous starting position in life and make what they could of their opportunities. Then, that Halloween Night, everything turned upside-down.

Harry Potter sent Voldemort away, somewhere. No one found a body at the scene so the Dark Lord's disposition could not be considered final. Theories were plentiful. Proof was non-existent. Daphne related her observations of Harry to Cyrus and Isolde, the condition of his non-school-uniform clothing, ignorance of magical culture and odd choice of friends. The situation was ironic in the extreme. Harry Potter rid the British Magical world of a deadly menace and then was diverted from growing up in the peaceful environment his sacrifice made possible.

"Well, Daphne, we will all have to do the best we can for Harry and hope we reach the point where we can have a conversation similar to this one, but with him present, do you see?" asked Cyrus. "It could be dangerous for you both if the wrong people found out they could get to Harry by hurting you. Silence is best for everyone's security, at least for now."

Daphne returned to Hogwarts for her second year with a complete change of attitude and outlook. She was a girl counting down to her teen years while carrying the knowledge that she was in an archaic form of engagement, promised to a boy who barely knew she existed. They were both subject to a contract with rules and prescribed penalties for infractions. At some future date she would sit down with her mother, father and her betrothed and they would read the contract together and chart a course. Until that day came she would carry the cruel burden of information day and night, alone, whatever she was doing. Her betrothed would be ignorant of their secret relationship.

The new term commenced.

Hogwarts had a celebrity Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, a replacement for Professor Quirrell who had gone missing under mysterious circumstances near the end of the previous term. Daphne wrote home about witches who got a little bit silly in Professor Lockhart's class. Soon enough, Yule was approaching and Isolde met Daphne at King's Cross and whisked her home to Greengrass Manor to begin her break.

"Can I speak to you, Mum?" Daphne asked.

She had just taken her things to her room, leaving everything on her bed, then returned directly downstairs and sought out her mother.

"Of course, nothing wrong, I hope?" asked Isolde, acutely aware of the myriad things that can go terribly wrong for a young witch of twelve and a bit more, especially one who seemingly became more beautiful by the hour.

"I don't know if I can do this," Daphne began, before breaking down in tears.

"Oh, darling come here," said Isolde, opening her arms. "There isn't anything you need to cry over, your father and I are right here, tell me what's got you so upset and we'll try to deal with it."

Daphne bawled like a baby in Isolde's arms. After some minutes she did get control of herself and eventually told her story.

"Harry Potter," she began. "I've tried to be positive. I nod when we meet. I'm polite. I don't get in stupid conflicts with Gryffindors. But he spends all of his time with Ron Weasley and that Granger witch. She is some kind of magical prodigy even though she's a Muggle-born and he seems quite taken with her. I think I could tolerate her if we did something together that involved our subjects but that Weasley boy is hostile. He doesn't even try, so Potter has this protective coating around him all the time."

Isolde forced herself not to laugh at Daphne's use of 'protective coating' even if it did sound like an apt description of the situation. Besides, Daphne's loss of composure when they got to the subject of Harry Potter held layers of meaning. It was serious business, doubly so for Daphne.

"So you have been trying to break the ice just a little with your Mr. Potter and he's not in a position that favors good results?"

Daphne took a few moments to think over Isolde's question.

"Exactly," she said. "I have to go through every day, thinking about what we talked over with Dad, keeping what I know to myself, watching Potter drag Weasley and Granger around. Then there is this thing he and Draco Malfoy have, like permanent hostility. I don't know what that is all about and I can't ask either one because there isn't a reason I'd be interested unless something else was going on so I've just been keeping it all inside."

"What do you think of him, now that you have observed him up close for a year and a half?" asked Isolde, hoping she wouldn't have to listen to a long complaint about the two elder Greengrass' misapprehension of Daphne's requirements in a husband.

"Well, he played seeker for Gryffindor as a first year, did you know that?" said Daphne. "I'm not a huge quidditch fan, not like some, but it's fun going to the matches with the banners and the cheers."

"No, sorry, I didn't think to study the quidditch columns," said Isolde. "I'll start today."

Daphne snickered at her mother's attempt to make up ground.

"He's scary-good on a broomstick," said Daphne. "That's really all that he does that sticks out. Otherwise he seems a bit dull. Nice enough, though. Not hostile."

"That's good," said Isolde. "We are going to have to talk this over with your father, though. As you say, you don't need to go on, carrying it all alone. I don't know what the solution is but there has to be one. How's your Yule, so far?"

"Happy! Thanks, Mum," said Daphne as she favored her mother with a heartfelt hug.

The students returned to Hogwarts and the madness of petrifications and bloody graffiti impugning mudbloods and extolling the Heir of Slytherin. Of course the acknowledged disagreements between Salazar Slytherin and the other Founders was added to the obscure reference to an Heir and put all of Slytherin House under a single cloud.

"This sucks," said Tracey Davis as she sat cross-legged on top of Daphne's bed in the Slytherin witches' dorm.

"What? You always said you wanted as little to do with the other houses as possible," said Pansy Parkinson, sitting on a white bearskin rug as she painted a toenail. "You just got your wish."

Tracey huffed some inarticulate sounds.

"That doesn't mean I don't want them to stop wishing they could socialize with us," she said. "That is the whole point in being part of the elite, looked up to from below by those in the more common classes. The pullers and bearers and the muckers-out of stables and such."

"Trace, honey, they're witches and wizards, same as us," said Daphne. "What fraction of humanity can work magic? Even if it's completely simple, like levitating or summoning something?"

"I don't think Hufflepuffs can do any of that," argued Tracey, bringing on a wave of laughter.

"My point, Tracey, is Hufflepuff, and the others, are in the elite, right alongside you," Daphne came back. "Magicals are the elite and we could work together on this Heir crap and maybe we'd figure it out faster."

"True," said Pansy Parkinson, "Still, there isn't any reason that occurs to me at the moment that says we can't have gradations of eliteness. I'd put Slytherin right at the top, wouldn't you all?"

Daphne gave up. The laughter was Pansy's answer. She'd won that night's house debate.

The web of mystery caused by the references to an Heir of Slytherin made the Slytherin students wary of outsiders and the other houses wary of them. Slytherin was even cut out of fresh gossip and products from the ever-helpful Hogwarts rumor mill until nearly the end of term. The stories that circulated had a single common element: Ginevra Weasley, known as Ginny, the lone sister in the houseful of Weasley brothers, had gone missing. Details were seldom in agreement and some were completely contradictory.

Daphne was feeling off. She didn't think anything was wrong with her, to begin with, she just had a feeling of anticipation. She didn't know of anything she'd ought to anticipate. Time passed and she didn't get better. In fact, she experienced a feeling of dread. Doom approached. The End of Days, the winking out of the stars and onset of the last, ultimate Great Winding Down of Everything. She lay, curled-up, on her bed, waiting for it all to go blank.

"They found her," said Tracey as she breezed into the room, making no effort to respect Daphne's funk, or nap, or whatever she had going.

"What?"

Daphne came awake and sat upright, then put her feet on the floor.

"Who?"

"The Weaselette, Potter and her brother, what's his name? The Weasel?"

"Uhh…I think that is..Ron?" answered Daphne.

"Yeah, Ron Weasley," said Tracey. "She was abducted and Potter and her brother Ron got her back somehow. They're all up in Dumbledore's with her parents."

Daphne picked up a book on runes and some parchment, as camouflage, and headed for the communications center, also known as the Great Hall. She sat at the Slytherin table and waited. By four in the afternoon she had learned enough. Daphne went back to her bedside table and removed a small brown paper bag.

"Miss Greengrass?" said Madam Pomfrey.

It was actually a challenge, the medical equivalent of 'Halt! Who goes there?'

"I was hoping Granger could help me with something," said Daphne, raising the rune book, "But I see…"

No Granger was in sight.

"Give the potion another day or two," said Pomfrey.

"Oh, I will!" said Daphne. "Could I?

She had seen Harry, sitting next to a bed in his shirtsleeves, one of which was rolled up. She gave him a little wave. Harry got a puzzled look on his face but still waved her over.

"Madam Pomfrey? Would it be all right?" Harry called out, adding, "I feel fine, really."

The phoenix tears had fixed everything but Madam Pomfrey claimed medical necessity required she be allowed to keep Harry Potter in captivity.

"As long as you keep it short," said Pomfrey, giving Daphne a stern look.

"Of course, Madam Pomfrey," said Daphne, adding a very modest smile for additional effect.

"Greengrass," stated Harry as she approached, making it sound almost like an announcement.

"Potter," Daphne offered in response.

She looked over at a nearby bed surrounded by portable screens. Several red heads showed over the top of the screens. There was just a flash, as someone moved aside, of a witch she recognized as the Weaselette, Ginny Weasley. She was sitting up in bed looking shaken, but normal. It appeared her mother was spoon-feeding her soup from a bowl. Daphne had to peer between screens to look further between people but that was still what it looked like to her. It was all a bit much, in Daphne's opinion.

"I came to see Granger," said Daphne.

Harry looked at her, neither hostile nor excessively gleeful in her presence.

"I see," Harry said, shifting his eyes to take in her rune book.

"Runes," Daphne explained.

Harry nodded agreement.

"For Hermione," he said.

"NO," said Daphne, realizing immediately what she had done and trying to correct herself with, "I mean YES!"

"Anything else?" asked Harry.

Daphne reached into the pocket where lay the bag of licorice.

"Do you like licorice?" she asked.

"Very much," said Harry. "Too much, perhaps. I'd be a whore…"

"I'm sorry?" Daphne demanded.

"I do apologize, Miss Greengrass," said Harry. "Thoughtless. I forgot myself."

"No harm, Mr. Potter," said Daphne. "We'll just paraphrase for the record. You do like licorice. Why don't you take these?"

She held the bag out for Harry to take. His fingers grasped the bag. He felt the tips of Daphne's under his. They both gave a little start, then they both felt themselves blushing and looked elsewhere. At some point, Harry took the bag, which he opened and offered to Daphne.

"Perhaps just one," she muttered, taking a piece and popping it into her mouth. She felt her eyes drift up under her lids as she tilted her head back, giving herself up to the ecstasy the licorice lover feels at such moments.

Daphne's ritual embrace with the licorice was mirrored by Harry's.

"Mmm. Oh, ahh, delicious," Harry said as he allowed the ancillary sensations from the tasting of good licorice to wash over him.

"From home," Daphne spoke around her sweet. "My mother…there will be plenty more, as soon as I arrive, so you keep the lot. Now—lean over here and tell me what went on."

Harry snapped upright. Daphne's little head-wobble said she noticed Harry had not followed the instructions to lean close. She reinforced her request with a head tilt and an accompanying stern look.

"I can't really talk about it," Harry whispered, when he did lean her way. "There is a rational explanation. Oh, it's a magical explanation so maybe it isn't all rational. Maybe later?"

Daphne leaned back in her chair. Madam Pomfrey was looking their way, her expression saying, 'Keep it short.'

"Fine," said Daphne, adding a little snort for emphasis.

"Wait!" said Harry.

It was a bit louder than he intended.

"I should get out of here soon. Maybe we can…?"

He let the sentence dribble to a close.

"Maybe we can," said a smiling Daphne, leaving Harry with a wink as she turned for the door.

Harry wondered what connected the sensation so similar to an electric shock to Daphne Greengrass and that wink.

They did manage to meet but Daphne had to settle for getting the story of the basilisk and the chamber of secrets out of Harry, in archaeological shards and fragments, over a period of several years, something she told herself was just punishment for knowing and keeping secret that she was Harry's betrothed, a situation he knew nothing about. He had been advised by Albus Dumbledore to guard his privacy lest he become a subject of wild speculation. The longer he lived, the more Harry came to believe that was the most helpful advice anyone had ever given him.

Daphne perceived their conversation in the hospital ward as sufficient justification for sending Harry a birthday card for his thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth birthdays. She seldom knew his whereabouts over the summer break but owl post wasn't subject to such concerns. When they got to school he always remembered to thank her. Little social niceties such as birthday cards were a very big deal for a youth who'd grown up as Harry had. When he got one he conveyed his appreciation.

That is, until the return to Hogwarts following Harry's fifteenth birthday. The Hogwarts Express pulled out of King's Cross right on time. Harry made sure to arrive early and claimed a cabin as soon as he boarded. He asked Hermione and Ron to go elsewhere for a little while as he had some personal business that required attention. Daphne was in the corridor with some Slytherin friends and her sister Astoria when she saw Harry Potter standing in a cabin door, glowering.

"Greengrass!" he hissed at her approach.

"Potter?" Daphne snarled back.

"We need to talk," he said.

"Oh, we most certainly do," said Daphne, a robust challenge implicit in the way she read him as easily as he might read a book.

"When did you find out?"

Harry gave his head one shake and stepped back into the cabin.

"Not. One. Word," Daphne growled to her companions as she sent them off with a wave.

"It has come to my attention," Harry began.

Daphne sat on the bench opposite Harry, trying unsuccessfully to hide the series of smirks that he kept inducing in her throughout his opening diatribe. She let him go on, mentally organizing and reorganizing her responses. She also resolved to cast the muffliato, which Harry Potter had forgotten all about when he began his soliloquy of mistreatment. In time, the heat in his boiler went down and he was obliged to cede the floor until he could rebuild steam.

"Done?" she asked, her smile as sweet as ever.

Harry had listed his grievances, which were all quite predictable, a condition that added to her annoyance with Daphne's betrothed. He nodded. Yes.

"Muffliato!"

Daphne gave her wand a little wave and savored the sight of the great Harry Potter turning as red as a ripe tomato.

"Slytherins can be very nosy, did you know?" she asked. "I don't want any statements I might make in an emotional moment becoming the talk of the Snakes' common room."

Harry felt sick to his stomach, but, with a nod he conceded her point.

"How did you find out?" Daphne wanted to know.

"Gringotts," said Harry. "My account manager called me in on the thirty-first. My birthday. Fifteenth birthday, orphan wizard gets a meeting with his Gringotts account manager."

"And then you…?" asked Daphne.

"Waited. Until I saw you," said Harry.

He didn't like the look on Daphne's face. It said he hadn't handled the situation very well and was getting in deeper every time he opened his mouth.

"You grasped the importance of what your account manager told you? Good. Did you wonder what I thought? What the past month has been like for me? From the beginning of August it seemed likely you had your meeting and learned what we both now know. I was eager to get your note and begin working together to get to some understanding of a joint path onward, yet you kept everything to yourself until you could ambush me here on the train. Not even an owl."

"Those are merely my personal feelings, though, so let's set those aside for the moment."

"Now, I will tell you what my mother and father told me about how this all came about. How they worked this out with your mother and father," said Daphne. "Why you and I are having this conversation."

"The four of them were expecting at the same time. They were vaguely aware of one another, all having gone through Hogwarts. My parents were both in Slytherin, yours both in Gryffindor. That's a promising starting point, care to guess why? Finding a spouse among the magical population can be difficult if one is related to too many local families. Lots of British witches and wizards have to travel around—Europe, Canada, Australia—to avoid inbreeding. You and I have no common ancestors in the last five generations."

"Really? Merlin," said Harry.

"Yeah. They checked. Mum and Dad told me," said Daphne. "They were very thorough. You and I as a couple starting out ought to have an advantage. Two Hogwarts house networks, cordial relations with the other family, no taking chances on conceiving a disadvantaged child with one's cousin."

Harry wondered if he actually turned green at that thought. It felt like it.

"Then there was the unsettled political situation," Daphne went on. "One way to protect one's child from being targeted for involuntary conscription into some powerful person's family is to betroth them to a member of another family that is personally known and trusted. A family you went to school with. A family also looking for a safe place for baby to land when he or she is all grown up. So they did it. They took magical measures and built in some protections for us that are listed in the fine print which you definitely must read, if you haven't already. Our parents made a deal because they believed they had a duty to give us the best possible chance in life. They considered all their options. Don't you dare look at me like that, Harry Potter! Your mother hugged my mother and said, 'This is going to work, Isolde, I know it.' You and I played together on a blanket on the floor with our mothers sitting right there, watching us, talking witch-talk. Mum told me about it. All four of them believed they were doing the best they could for us so I don't judge them and neither will you."

"But I'm being forced by some contract…"

Harry caught himself but the words wouldn't come back. He knew those had to hurt. Harry saw it in her eyes.

"You aren't, Potter," sighed Daphne. "You aren't, not at all. The heads of the houses of Greengrass and Potter can cancel by mutual agreement, at any time before our seventeenth birthdays. It's written in. Read it for yourself. Cyrus Greengrass assures me he will do whatever I, his daughter on whose behalf he made this deal, want to do. All he asks is that I can assure him I know my own mind and it is what I want. You are fifteen and can function as head of the House of Potter for certain things, including this. You and my father can make our betrothal go away. Next week! Go see him. If that is what you want, then it is what I want."

Daphne stood up and crossed to the cabin door. She took two or three deep breaths before speaking. Harry thought she might be trembling a little.

"I know everything changed that night in Godric's Hollow, Harry. Everything. My mum and dad saw yours just a few weeks before. Then they didn't know where you were for ten years, until we were all at King's Cross for our first-year trip to Hogwarts. Of course you don't understand a lot of the magical folkways and customs. How could you? I don't think less of you because I'm still learning, myself. We can talk, anytime. I think that might help you. Whether you want to send me away or not."

The last few words were choked out and Harry had the feeling Daphne managed to escape just in time, before she broke down in front of him.

Harry felt the cloud of depression falling, falling, falling, his muscles suddenly slack, except for the abdomen, which was knot upon knot. White noise, warbling in pitch, filled his head. He thought of the dementors and what they did to him, forcing him to relive the worst moments of his young life. What had he just done? Had he just given her something for her personal worst moment collection? Daphne was a nice girl. Regardless of their odd relationship, she had brought him licorice in the hospital wing. She showed interest in his condition. It was a prelude to concerned questions about whatever had put him in Madam Pomfrey's care—this time.

He thought about the last two years. After the dementors came for him and Sirius, Daphne had sent him chocolate, via Hermione. That was nice. The chocolate really did work. He couldn't remember her wearing a Potter Stinks button. She'd even owled him a note after the final task of the Triwizard. He could close his eyes and see it: 'I believe you.'

He returned those favors by reacting with anger when he learned of the loose agreement between their respective families. Then he'd made such an impression she voluntarily told him, step by step, how he could put her out of his life, if that was what he wanted. He realized what Daphne really meant but left unspoken.

Daphne Greengrass had spirit and confidence and would not be a party to betrothal or marriage to any wizard who did not want her. She knew her worth. A prospective husband had best make his peace with that.

'Damn,' thought Harry.

He assumed Daphne had gone looking for Slytherins. Were their places reversed it is what he would have done. He wondered if he had the nerve to walk into the car at the end of the train and ask if she would come back. He probably oughtn't. The gesture, both romantic and dramatic, would get Daphne too much unwanted attention. Harry was a controversial figure at present and certain Slytherins were already mobilizing for the next campaign between the Voldemort insurgents and the magical establishment. His hand was on the handle so he slid the door back and looked out. Daphne was still in the car, alone at a window, one hand on the rail, watching the countryside pass. She made him walk all the way there before conceding that, yes, she would look his way.

"How?" Harry asked.

How—to work together, to protect one another, to face what was coming, to keep friends with divergent perspectives, to stay focused on getting to that still-unknowable point where they would be free of outside considerations.

Daphne snapped her head around and looked into his eyes.

"A good start would be to invite me to your cabin, Mr. Potter, so that we can speak privately."

Admonished, though not harshly, Harry nodded his obeisance.

"Oh, of course," he said.

Harry turned. He noticed that, at some point, he'd plucked Daphne's fingertips from the railing. He hoped he hadn't squeezed them in his enthusiasm.

"Please come in," he said, stepping out of the way before closing the door behind them.

He stood, waiting for her to sit.

"Miss Greengrass, I want to apologize," Harry said.

"For what?" asked Daphne.

"For how I spoke to you earlier," Harry said. "You did not betroth me to yourself. That was done by our parents and neither of us had anything to do with it, so, no blame. I admit I became angry when I learned about our—our arrangement. Expecting you to contact me and talk it over and answer all of my questions was wrong. That isn't your job."

Daphne's mood seemed to be improving. At least her expression was softening.

"I accept your apology," said Daphne. "In return, I offer you my own, for any offense I or other members of my family may have given. We were trying to do the right thing at each step, without guidance, of course."

"Nothing to apologize for if you gave your best effort," said Harry.

Daphne inclined her head, then raised back up.

"Do you mind if I ask when you learned about…well...us?"

"After my twelfth birthday, before our second Hogwarts year," answered Daphne. "Mum and Dad decided I needed to know. Normally, families work together and the children grow up aware. That is what made this so complicated. I admit it is very regrettable that you were taken by surprise, although I don't know how else they would have adapted to the changed situation."

"Can I ask you another question?"

"I was under the impression that is the reason for my unchaperoned presence in your railroad cabin so why don't you just go ahead?" said Daphne.

"Sure," said Harry. "How will this work?"

"My mother thinks, and I agree with her, that we should keep the betrothal between ourselves," Daphne began. "No deviousness. Just be friends. Getting too cute could call attention to us and in uncertain times, one can get in enough trouble without that."

"She got that right. Okay," said Harry. "The lessons you mentioned? I know I need them."

"I'll see what is in the library and make some suggestions. We'll have time. IF you can stay out of trouble," said Daphne.

"About that," said Harry. "I swear I've never gotten in trouble all on my own. Malfoy is usually involved, somehow."

"Avoid contact," said Daphne. "Don't react when he tries to provoke you. You have bigger fish to fry. Lots bigger."

"I'll try to remember," said Harry.

"Now I have to go make an appearance," said Daphne. "Otherwise people will talk."

She left, pulling the door closed behind her. There were still several hours of train travel ahead before they would reach Hogsmeade so Harry found Ron, Hermione and Neville and convinced them they'd all have more room to spread out in the cabin he'd claimed.

"Can't believe this is still here," Ron said when they got to the cabin.

"I've learned a very underpowered notice-me-not charm," Harry explained.

Fifth year was a challenge for everyone. After dodging expulsion between terms, Harry stood up to Umbridge and got scars on his hand for the effort. Daphne was given a choice of joining the Inquisitorial Squad or falling under suspicion of being a Dumbledore sympathizer. Harry was in a vise. He taught Dumbledore's Army Defense Against the Dark Arts. The Inquisitorial Squad, working for Umbridge, pursued Dumbledore's Army. Harry received a few timely tips during the period of peak activity. The anonymous tipster was obviously an Inquisitorial Squad insider but there were never any clues to his or her identity. Harry didn't ask.

Harry went into deep depression following Sirius' death, for which he blamed himself. He spent the first weeks of the summer break brooding until the morning a small envelope arrived by owl, addressed to him. He took the envelope to the garden shed to open it and pulled out a small card with a complicated monogram on the front. There were so many swirls and curlicues he wasn't sure who'd sent it but the large, center initial looked like a 'G' so he assumed it was Daphne.

"Meet me in your park for lunch."

That was the entire message. He should have known better but he did wonder how he'd get free to go to the park for a picnic. Then the regular post arrived with another invitation for 'The Dursley Family' inviting them to a free luncheon that very day at a big-name restaurant in a well-known downtown hotel.

"Even if it is free sandwiches, their sandwiches are going to be incredible!" Dudley argued.

"Well, we CAN just make it if we leave now," said Petunia. "I say we go."

Thus the Dursleys left in pursuit of a free lunch and Harry was able to meet the mysterious 'G' at the park.

"Potter."

Harry looked in the direction of the sound to see a young woman as she appeared to materialize, sitting there on a swing. She wore a white shirt with buttoned-down collar tucked into blue jeans.

"You shouldn't do that!" he said. "We're underage!"

"Or, perhaps I know something you don't know," said Daphne. "It's worth considering. Let's walk."

She took off for the far side of the park without waiting for a response which made Harry run to catch up. That side had several park benches and was popular with young people who were in charge of children strapped into strollers, as well as seniors who enjoyed sitting with their peers and commenting on the traffic.

"Sit," said Daphne, sliding her wand hand under her opposite arm so she could let the wand tip stick up and out just a few inches.

"You're not," protested Harry.

"Do shut up, Mr. Potter," ordered Daphne. "I've had enough of your block-headedness and I've come to put a stop to it. It is against my nature to administer a sound smack to anyone, but you, sir, are leaving me no choice."

Harry was still sorting syntax when the Knight Bus rolled up.

"In," ordered Daphne.

"Ma'am," conceded Harry.

"Up," directed Daphne.

Harry began to climb.

"All the way," amended Daphne.

Harry went up to the third level. There was no one there.

"Sit."

Harry chose a seat.

"Not there," Daphne clarified. "Sit across from me so I can see you."

"Miss Greengrass, what can I do for you today?" pleaded Harry.

He found an acceptable seat and sat, Daphne sitting down opposite.

"You can get yourself in a better mood and stop with the gloom and doom," said Daphne.

The bus swayed a bit, the effect exaggerated by their place on the third level.

"Sirius was killed!" Harry protested.

"Yes, I know, Harry. I am terribly sorry, genuinely, terribly sorry. I know enough of what you have been through already in your life to feel your pain in my own heart. When I think of how you were still getting to know Sirius and how he was a connection to your parents, it makes me think of my own and I grieve in my very soul. That is the betrothal. It's traditional. We're developing empathy for our future mate, in theory," said Daphne.

"They can do that?" asked Harry.

"Oh, yeah," said Daphne. "Can and did."

"Last year, on the train," Harry said, like he'd just had a revelation.

"What?"

"Well, after we spoke, there in the cabin at the beginning, you left. Were you feeling well?"

Daphne's eyes were on fire.

"I felt like dragon scat, Mr. Potter. Thanks for bringing it up," she said.

"I just meant that I felt bad, too," Harry explained.

"That's the betrothal," said Daphne. "Just a taste. What did you think?"

"It's ingenious," said Harry.

He sounded oddly enthusiastic. Daphne shot him a questioning look.

"As a magical thing, I mean. If you're feeling bad," Harry said.

"Even just down in the dumps," said Daphne.

"Of course, even that, especially that, then I can…"

"What? What will you do, Mr. Potter?" asked Daphne.

"Cheer you up?" Harry offered.

"Would you?" Daphne asked.

"Of course."

"To make yourself feel better," Daphne said.

"No!" objected Harry. "I don't want you feeling bad on my account. I want you to be happy."

He had no idea why he said it, just, in that moment, he meant every word.

"Well alright then," said Daphne, all bright and cheery. "You're home."

Harry looked out the window, then back to Daphne who was already out of sight, having descended the steps down to the second level.

"This is…what? Where?" Harry asked.

The Knight Bus was gone. Harry and Daphne were standing in front of an elaborate house set in a jewel of a park. Out of habit, Harry scanned the surroundings for signs of stray dementors.

"Greengrass Manor," said Daphne. "Ancestral seat of the Greengrass.' Come and meet the family."

The next hour was a whirlwind beginning with formal introductions to Astoria, Cyrus and Isolde, complete with more thanks for Isolde's help when Harry took his first ride on the Hogwarts Express. There followed a tour of the manor beginning with the public rooms in the main house then the gardens and some smaller cottages with names like 'The Tinker's Demi' and 'Gladiolus Shed.' They reentered the main house through a sun porch that opened onto a hallway with the breakfast room on one side and opposite, a room whose name eluded Harry but functioned as the space used for the buffet tables when the family held a reception.

Harry broke out of his mental exercise, trying to remember what Isolde called that room, when he noticed an ancient, almost wraith-like presence standing still, inspecting Harry Potter.

"This is a very special guest, Harry, my Grandfather Macmillan who's spending a few days with us," said Cyrus. "Grandfather, it is my pleasure to introduce Mr. Harry Potter."

Harry shook with the old man, being very careful not to squeeze the hand which appeared to have the substance of uncooked fusilli under a drape of well-blotched sausage skin. The old man had no such compunction and gave Harry's hand a very respectable, crushing grip.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir," Harry assured him.

"Pleased to make yours, Mr. Potter. I was at Hogwarts with your great-grandparents, I remember them well. Glad to see how you're coming along. Excuse me while I go get something out of my bag, a small memento for you to take home," Mr. Macmillan began until Isolde laid her arm across his shoulders.

"A half-pint of Old Formula," was all Harry heard before the old man's voice faded as Isolde steered him away.

"And now," said Cyrus, looking at the time hanging in the air from his temporal charm.

"Time to go," agreed Daphne as she began herding Harry toward the door.

"How will I…" he managed before he saw the Knight Bus was coming to a halt exactly where it had let them off.

"Sorry, your relatives will be finishing lunch and starting for home and you need to be there," said Daphne.

Harry noticed she looked back to confirm there weren't people close by.

"One more little tip," said Daphne. "It would be a good thing if you thought to drop my mum and dad a line or two from time to time. Just to establish yourself as a polite, well-mannered, rich young wizard."

"Who said anything about rich?" Harry protested.

Daphne switched to a stage whisper, apparently because they were nearing the bus, Ernie, Stan, the other passengers and the shrunken head.

"Shush, and don't be ridiculous," said Daphne. "I said I'd help you with the culture and whatnot, so there you go. Culture. A nice, civilized note now and then. Now get on the bus and no, I shan't be offering a chaste kiss good-bye while you hold onto your option of putting me away."

"Aw, Daphne…" he began but she had already turned and was trotting back to the house.

Harry noticed the jeans that could have passed in any Muggle neighborhood with a population of mid- to late-teens, except Daphne's seemed to move so much more elegantly with each stride, especially those two hemispheres. Harry, shocked at his own crude thought, felt guilty for ogling his own betrothed's bottom while also thinking, from a strictly aesthetic standpoint, that she had just about the most beautiful one of those he'd ever seen. Once on board and seated, he acknowledged how happy she made him feel, not just THAT, although it was a very nice conclusion to his first social call on Daphne's parents, and he wondered if she was feeling good because he was so very pleased right then.

The difficulties of Sixth Year began a short while later and did not let up. Death Eaters were emerging from the shadows, paying night-time calls on magical households, conscripting witches and wizards, extorting money. It was a time of open challenge to the Ministry and an ineffectual Ministry response. Harry and his allies were physically close to assassination attempts inside Hogwarts, which just a short time previously would have been an unthinkable affront to magical propriety.

Finally, near the end of term, Harry witnessed Severus Snape kill Albus Dumbledore. The school community was in a confused state for days, although to many, the days seemed more like weeks or months. Leaders among the faculty drew on experience from other conflicts and worked together to calm the agitated, close out the term and send the students off to their families. They put their breakdowns off until they'd done their duty.

Harry could not get control of the chaos inside his head. It could mime being wrestled into submission while it sank out of conscious thought, resting up for a guerilla raid on the first real sleep he'd achieved for forty-eight or seventy-two hours. Worry for Ron and Hermione crowded everything else out of his mind. Daphne would become a thought only to wrench at his heart for the knowledge that he could not do anything to call attention to her.

Conditions got worse and worse as the Death Eaters sought to force every witch and wizard in Britain to choose a side. Voldemort did not publicize his long-range policy goals while the pattern and targets of the Death Eaters' attacks were a chart that could be extended with a bit of logic. The news of the attack on a wedding and the assassination of Minister Scrimgeour demonstrated all anyone needed to know, that Voldemort held a dagger he intended to thrust into the magical heart of Britain, then Ireland, then either the Continent or North America.

Harry had his ups and downs. He tried to moderate them because he and Daphne each affected the other's disposition via their moods and emotions. Going on the run was actually an improvement. Doing something felt better to Harry and his companions than being in limbo, paralyzed by uncertainty. The semi-successful raid on the Ministry and recovery of Slytherin's locket were a huge morale boost. Harry experienced hallucinations that night in the Forest of Dean, giving in to sleep only to see Daphne's face manifest in front of his closed eyes.

When his turn on watch came, he paced in circles around and around their tent, lecturing himself on discipline and focus, on how critical it was to trust Daphne to handle her affairs while he did what could not be put off. He resolved to remember the details built into their betrothal, the ones Daphne referred to on numerous occasions, invariably recommending that he take the time to read them.

Then, the climactic battle, the duel with Voldemort and the end. He felt he could lay down, close his eyes and will himself to die. They never did agree who found whom.

They sat together. All was hush, except the wailing. Voldemort was dead, among too many others. Harry had fixed his holly wand and had the elder wand in his mokeskin pouch. Daphne had been helping Madam Pomfrey with the wounded.

"Someplace private?" he asked.

She just tilted her head and took him to find a classroom. She took care of the door-sealing and silencing charm because he was as likely as not to forget.

They sat on a long wooden bench.

"You're well?" he asked.

"I am, considering," she said. "You?"

He shrugged.

"A bit worn, as is said."

She leaned over from the waist and pulled up the skirt that ended well below her knees. Harry saw she was wearing boots of the sort Muggles wore riding. She undid a wrap of some sort where a boot met the top of her calf and pulled something from a pocket. Then she dropped the tail of her skirt and put whatever it was in the slash pocket of her jumper.

"We're both seventeen," said Harry.

Daphne shook her head.

"I'm eighteen," she said.

"Merlin," said Harry. "I didn't even send you a card."

He shook his head at his own incompetence.

"I felt you this year," he said. "In here."

Daphne nodded.

"How long do we have, before, you know, penalties?" he asked.

"Next year," said Daphne. "My next birthday."

Harry wasn't up to calendar analysis right then so he just bobbed his head.

"We didn't do anything before we were seventeen, so, I guess everything must still be in place," he said.

"It is," agreed Daphne.

Harry sighed.

"What kind of a wedding do you want?" he asked.

"What did you say?" Daphne demanded.

"Well, big, little, indoors, outdoors, church, registry, dressy—I don't know, what else is there? You're the one who knows all the customs. I'll treat it as one of the learning experiences you owe me," he said.

Daphne giggled at his floundering, then some tears leaked from her eyes so she stamped a foot on the classroom floor.

"Mr. Potter!" she said, not shouting, exactly. "Here's a custom for you! You can ask a girl if she wants to get married, just as a general proposition before you begin talking as you were. Then for some real romance you could ask if she is interested in getting married to you. Then for the really, really big one, you can say, 'Will you marry me?'"

"Oh, but the betrothal…I thought…don't we have to? Even if we don't have a choice it could still be special, couldn't it?" asked Harry.

Daphne's face fell. Harry wondered what he'd done. He was well aware his mind and mouth weren't coordinating well and needed a long rest.

"What do you want, Harry Potter? Out with it, now. If there is someone else, say so and I will walk out that door and never bother you again. You can work it out with my father. There are some options the two of you can initiate. Just say that is what you want," Daphne told him.

Harry knew he had messed it up again. He didn't have any ready ideas for fixing things and wasn't sure Daphne would want them fixed if she had to endure his flailing-about as a condition. Still, he had to try.

"NO!" he protested. "Nothing like that. I couldn't let myself think of you since September because I got furious and sad all at once at this stupid situation. You were in danger, here or somewhere, just because of me. I held onto hope that it would be over with and then we could do whatever the betrothal requires and then that would end and we would be married and then, whatever. I didn't actually fill anything in after that point."

Harry looked puzzled, as if the latter part ought to be filled in now but for some mysterious reason it wasn't. Daphne started to laugh.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Your face, that's all," said Daphne.

They sat, silent, thinking their thoughts. Eventually, Harry moved over to sit close to his betrothed. He reached around her back and let his hand rest where her ribs ended.

"Oh, I have to ask those questions," he said. "Hope I can remember them. Let's see—do you want to get married?"

"Yes, I do," said Daphne.

"Good," he said. "Would I be, what—suitable?"

"Yes, I believe you would," she said. "Would I?"

"Of course! You're beautiful, smart, obviously very brave. You'll teach me all those customs…" said Harry.

"Such an articulate young man," Daphne muttered to herself.

"Well, then," Harry said.

He stood, then got down on one knee.

"Would you marry me then so we can get out of this annoying betrothal?"

"Yes, yes I will, Mr. Potter," said Daphne. "If you like you can return to your seat as my fiancé."

Harry laughed as he sat back down.

"Yes. I am. And you're mine."

"For better or worse," Daphne noted. "Now. Our first actual secret as a couple."

She withdrew her hand from the pocket of the jumper and pulled a cork out of a small, flat bottle. It made a little sound like 'thunk.'

"Since last autumn, so many times I thought I'd get into this, but I brought it for the two of us. If you lived, we'd share. If the worst happened, I would drink it all by myself. Then I would get up and go live the rest of my life as a revenge-driven murder bitch."

"To us," she said and handed Harry the bottle. "Go easy."

Harry thought he followed instructions but he swallowed an actual slug before realizing what he was holding.

She took the bottle back.

"To us," she repeated before raising the bottle back for a dainty sip that she followed up by tilting her head back and letting her eyes close.

She put the cork back in the bottle and the bottle back in the pocket of the wrap she wore around one calf, covering everything up again with her skirt.

"What?" Harry gasped.

"Family recipe," said Daphne. "Grandfather Macmillan makes it. We refer to it as the Old Formula. Because it's so old it is traditional that it isn't produced in a licensed and permitted distillery."

"I can see why," Harry managed to cough out from beneath his distress.

"So it's just between us? Think carefully before you make the commitment," Daphne advised.

Harry twisted and put both arms around his fiancée.

"Do you want to call yourself Daphne Potter?" he asked.

"Our stationer has the designs for my various papers and envelopes ready to go as soon as I give the word," she said.

Something about it made Harry very happy, there in the midst of the waste and destruction.

They left the room and returned to the Great Hall. Respect for the fallen meant keeping their new status private. They accepted the additional year of education the Ministry offered, married at Yule and finished their magical educations as commuters from their first home together in The Tinker's Demi at Greengrass Manor.

The end