When Daphne first acquired her wand, a few months before starting at Hogwarts, her mother and grandmother accompanied her to Ollivander's shop. It was a major event in the life of a Greengrass witch, and she felt the pride of her lineage.
The wandmaker settled quickly on unicorn hair, and after some trial and error, they found the perfect wood. "Laurel and unicorn hair," he declared. "I feel silly for not suggesting it at once, but I feared it was too on the nose."
Daphne felt a thrill as he described its attributes, which she later repeated to her father. "The wood comes from the vale in Greece where the mythological Daphne is believed to have lived!" she said, referring to the nymph she was named for. "But the best part is that the unicorn gave the hair as a foal, which means it's golden instead of white!"
"How splendid!" her father exclaimed. "I've never heard of such a thing. Does it have a special meaning?"
"Hardly anyone can use a goldenhair wand—that's what he called it—and it means I'm exceptionally pure of heart," she said, beaming. "And he said it'll protect me from going astray. He said the witch or wizard with a goldenhair wand has the potential to be a shining example."
All that summer she practised using it, with her mother and grandmother's help. They didn't teach her the spells she'd learn at school—"Some magic is best taught in a classroom," her grandmother said—but instead shared the family magic. By summer's end, Daphne knew how to part the branches blocking her way as she walked through the woods, and conjure a gentle breeze in an otherwise stuffy room. But the most useful spell she learnt was from her father, the week before school began.
"You're a Greengrass," he said, holding both of her hands. "As am I, ever since I married your mother. People wondered why I was willing to give up my own name, particularly when it's so prominent."
Daphne Avery, she thought, imagining the name she would have had under normal circumstances. As always, it sounded wrong to her internal ear.
"But there's a power in not needing to put oneself forward all the time. The witch or wizard who's overlooked is free to make observations of their own. And better decisions, in many cases."
She nodded, knowing he'd avoided serving the Dark Lord, despite family pressure.
"I'd like to teach you a spell," he continued. "But you mustn't overuse it. It's a modified Notice-Me-Not Charm, and it will be particularly useful if you're Sorted into Slytherin."
"If I'm Sorted into Slytherin?" she said, affronted. For nearly a thousand years, the Greengrasses had gone almost exclusively to Slytherin. The Averys had a Ravenclaw streak, she knew, but it had bypassed her father and grandfather, and she didn't doubt where she was headed.
"Forgive me," he said fondly, "I don't want to tempt fate." He explained how the spell would protect her from the enmity affecting Slytherin—both without and within. "You won't be invisible, of course, but you'll more easily rise above your classmates' petty squabbles. And you should use it at full strength around Gryffindors, since their idea of humour is to hex defenceless first years."
Daphne made a face—as far as she was concerned, "Gryffindor" was synonymous with "uncouth."
"When you arrive, use it liberally," he said. "It will give you time to observe your peers and decide who's worth getting to know better. But you should gradually relax it, otherwise you risk becoming a nonentity. Which you most certainly aren't."
She found, however, that she liked the protection it provided. For example, it meant she was free to be friends with Tracey Davis and Padma Patil, instead of dancing attendance on Pansy Parkinson. And when the Dark Lord returned to power, she was able to remain on the sidelines, in accordance with the family's neutrality.
"The neutral family survives," her grandmother had instilled, and Daphne deferred always to tradition—unlike her peers. Pansy, for example, claimed to follow tradition, but her behaviour with Draco suggested otherwise.
"Don't be such a baby," Pansy sneered, when Daphne expressed disapproval. "I'm definitely not the only one doing it. And besides, I'm still a virgin, which is all that matters."
No it isn't, thought Daphne. A well brought-up witch shouldn't come to her wedding night with a repertoire worthy of a fille de joie. She should be innocent, and her husband alone should initiate her; otherwise her marriage might be tainted with memories of another man. Admittedly, wizards were expected to have some experience, but no night in a brothel could possibly compare with the embrace of his one true love.
She'd drawn the line during fourth year, when the Beauxbatons wizard who invited her to the Yule Ball tried for more than just a kiss. "What are your intentions?" she demanded, and he stared as if she were daft.
"Mes intentions?" he repeated in French. "C'est évident, non?"
His night ended in frustration, and after a similar experience with an older Slytherin, Daphne earned a reputation for being uptight. But she decided she didn't care, since boys her age were too callow. She would recognise her true love when she met him, and in the meantime she was better off alone.
During seventh year, at the height of the war, she focused mainly on her studies, and on keeping Astoria safe. As pure-bloods they weren't at risk, but staying neutral wasn't easy. Both sisters liberally employed their father's Notice-Me-Not Charm, to avoid the Carrows and other zealots, and they projected aristocratic disdain for something as unseemly as a war.
Neither of them took part in the Battle of Hogwarts, and they finished their school year at home. Daphne sat her N.E.W.T.s in September, along with Pansy, Blaise, and everyone else who didn't return to Hogwarts for an eighth year.
"It sounds unbearable," said Pansy, sipping champagne at Malfoy Manor. "A pair of Mudbloods as Head Boy and Girl?" she scoffed, referring to Justin Finch-Fletchley and Hermione Granger. "I realise the winds have shifted, but there's such a thing as going overboard."
Daphne ignored her, knowing Draco would gladly rant on the topic—and he did. They made a point of visiting him several times a week, since he was clearly miserable under house arrest. She also saw Padma and Tracey during school holidays, but the rest of her social life was dictated by her parents. Which she didn't mind, since they shared her priorities: learning to manage House Greengrass, and finding a suitable husband.
Her grandmother had died the previous winter, which meant Daphne's mother was in charge of her training. They discussed politics at length, and Lady Greengrass cautiously supported most of Minister Shacklebolt's changes.
"People underestimate the value of neutrality," her mother explained. "During the war, House Greengrass either opposed the most radical legislation or abstained. But now we're supporting it—do you understand why?"
"Because there's an uncoerced majority," said Daphne. "And unless our conscience compels us otherwise, we value unity amongst wizards above all."
"Correct. All societies evolve, and if we resist natural progress, we'll be left behind. This is how a family survives and remains influential."
"But why are we influential?" Daphne asked. "We seldom propose any changes."
"Yet our support is essential. And on the rare occasion we initiate a change, everyone takes it seriously. It might only happen once or twice a century, but all England takes note."
Daphne's courtship, however, was proving a disappointment. There had been relatively few balls the previous winter, due to the war, and the first post-war season was tilted so heavily towards Light families that Daphne was largely overlooked.
"I feel like I'm doing something wrong," she told Padma and Tracey, wiping a stray tear. "My mother says I'm being impatient, but she was engaged within months of leaving school, and married the following spring. Whereas I haven't had a single offer."
"You probably intimidate wizards," said Tracey. "Even without the surname problem, you're the full package."
But Padma was silent, her mouth forming a thin line. When Daphne prodded her, she finally said, "You're still really uptight."
Daphne's dismay turned into annoyance. "Are you suggesting I act like Pansy and simply drop to my knees?" she huffed.
"Of course not! But you can definitely loosen up—like with body language." Padma lightly grasped Daphne's elbow and said, "You can touch a wizard without losing your innocence. Or play with your hair, or any of the other things witches do to show interest."
"But that's the problem," she sighed. "I'm not interested. I want to be swept off my feet, and no one seems to know how. Not without being some kind of boor, which I definitely don't want." She wrinkled her nose, recalling the time Ron Weasley hoisted Lavender Brown into his arms while she kicked and laughed. And even though they were in the Great Hall, they began snogging like Jarveys in heat.
She longed instead for someone both polished and passionate, and who desired only her. Late at night, when she let her mind wander, she pictured a dashing, faceless young wizard luring her into an alcove and taking liberties. "I'm not that kind of witch," she'd protest, gasping and moaning all the while. She sometimes imagined a ring on her finger, for propriety's sake, but it was usually tacked on hastily, in case her mother found out.
Her prospects seemed to improve when Harry Potter unexpectedly brought robes back into fashion. At his birthday party, more than one wizard caught her eye, and she even chatted with a few of them. But they'd gone to schools she hadn't heard of, and it was clear they'd never belong in her world.
Robes weren't the only surprise from Potter; there was also the Lydia Travers affair. "Her poor parents!" exclaimed Daphne's mother upon reading the news. "All their hopes and dreams for her, lost forever!"
Daphne shared her mother's horror. How foolish Lydia was, throwing away her entire future for a fleeting affair! Admittedly, Daphne could see Potter's appeal—tailored clothes really suited him, and how had she never noticed his eyes? But Lydia Travers had banished herself from decent society, and she'd pay for it the rest of her life.
And yet, that didn't seem to happen. Only a few months later, Lydia appeared at Harry's drag party with an impossibly handsome young wizard named Marcus Waite, and they didn't even pretend they weren't lovers. Furthermore, Charles and Esme Selwyn were there, which proved she wasn't an outcast.
But the biggest surprise of Daphne's evening was when Harry asked her to dance. She assumed he was trying to seduce her, but he insisted he wasn't, and that he only wanted her to have a good time. "We survived a war, and now we're free to live," he told her. "But you're still on a high shelf. Which is fine, if that's what you want. But I'm not convinced it is."
Later that night, safely alone in her bed, her mind wandered again, and this time the wizard had a face. But Harry was only a placeholder for the man who would sweep her off her feet—which seemed possible now that she'd agreed to broaden her criteria.
"I could introduce you to a dozen different Quidditch players who'd probably fight duels over you," Harry promised, but she'd only needed one: Phil Routledge. Once she overcame her objections, they were a surprisingly good fit. He was dashing, clever, accomplished—he'd won the League Cup, after all—and thoroughly smitten.
"Don't tell anyone, but I used to love fairy tales when I was little," he once told her. "We had these anthologies—paperback reprints—with illustrations of fairy princesses and the like. This was before I knew about magic, so they were pure make-believe as far as I was concerned. But I swear, you're like one of them come to life." He kissed her neck, then her jaw, and said, "A true magical princess, and somehow I get to be the prince."
They were still dating in secret, which felt very naughty indeed. Even his flat felt forbidden, with its Muggle ambiance, and while he hadn't fully deflowered her, she was no longer innocent. In fact, she was ready to yield entirely, but Phil wanted to wait a little longer.
"I want to spend the whole night with you," he said. "I can't bear the thought of taking your virginity, then sending you home an hour later. Let's wait till we can do it properly."
To that end, Daphne finally told her parents about him, the same day he left for Chicago. This would give them time to calm down before meeting him, and also to see how happy she was.
They'd needed the entire three days, but by the end they no longer believed he was a shameless adventurer, wishing only to corrupt their daughter and make off with her fortune. Although they still weren't thrilled about his background—not because they feared impure blood, but because he'd always be torn between two worlds, and so would his children.
"I know that," said Daphne. "But I love him, and we want to make it work."
She was eager to introduce them, but Phil dashed her hopes the night he returned. "I'm so sorry," he said miserably. "I thought I could handle it, but we're just too different. I've lost so much of my culture and family as it is."
"But we'd have our own family," she pleaded. "And you assured me it wouldn't be a problem."
But Phil was resolute, and she spent several days in tears. Her mother delicately asked whether she was still a virgin, and Daphne assured her she was. By a thread, she didn't add, and she mourned their lost intimacy.
Next, her hurt turned to anger—both at Phil and Harry. And anger turned to fury when Phil's photo appeared in the Prophet, cavorting with another witch.
The only reason she confronted Harry first was because Phil was still at Quidditch practice. But her fury turned quickly to sorrow, and Harry was surprisingly sweet. She felt safe with his arm around her, and even a hint of desire, which gave her hope she might find love again—with someone else, of course.
And then he tried to kiss her! There she was, at her most vulnerable, and he assumed she was his for the taking! It made her feel cheap and common, and her positive feelings towards him vanished. She seethed about him to Tracey and Padma, and they agreed she should cut him completely.
"You can still go to his parties, since everyone else does, but give him the cold shoulder," Tracey said. "He's an arrogant twat and deserves to feel bad for even trying."
She didn't reply to either of his apologies—written or on the air—and she doubted they were even sincere. I've seen through him, she thought, remembering the selfish gleam in his eye.
And yet she saw it again, late at night, when her mind began to wander. It no longer looked selfish—single-minded, perhaps, but focused entirely on her. It's only a fantasy, she thought, letting it continue, and the idea of giving him the cold shoulder flooded her with warmth.
"I'd like to state for the record that I'm doing this under duress," said Walter, pulling up his sleeve.
"I know, and I'm sorry," said Lucinda. "Meanwhile, I'd like to state my opposition to having to buy this syringe, but I lack the glassblowing skills to make one myself." She paused to admire the delicate runes, etched in crystal, and said, "Although you have to admit, it's a work of art."
"I admit nothing. But go on, get what you need."
She pressed the tip of the syringe to a thick blue vein at his wrist, then drew back the plunger. "And there it is," she said, watching his blood fill the chamber. "Needle-free extraction at its finest."
"Small mercies," he said dryly. "At least one of us won't have to experience pain."
Walter had been furious when she told him her plan to suppress her own magic and test remedies on herself. But really, what choice did she have? "Use your logic," she argued. "It's a classic trolley problem—five minutes of pain for me, compared to hours or days for you."
"That's what you claim, but you know that's not how it'll work. Suppose you're working on a burn remedy. How long will you wait before deciding it isn't effective? Maybe it'll take a minute, maybe it'll take an hour. Meanwhile, poor Hermione is there—watching your agony, smelling your charred flesh—and waiting for you to take off the amulet so she can actually heal you."
"We'll start small," she insisted. "If I can't heal something quickly–"
"You always start small!" he snapped, and their fight continued for the next half hour.
Lucinda finally won by invoking his relations. "Imagine if Zoe were in an accident," she said, referring to their niece. "You'd have me move heaven and earth to help her, wouldn't you?"
He closed his eyes, and before he even spoke, she knew he would drop his objections. That was one of the things she loved about him: he fought like a tiger for what he believed in, but when faced with a superior argument, he backed off completely.
"But please, know your limits," he urged. "Magic can't fix everything, and neither can you."
Once she had Walter's blood, Lucinda was keen to finish making the amulet, but it was Hermione's idea and she'd promised to wait. They'd already shaped the wood—a piece of rowan struck by lightning—and Hermione had performed the arithmancy for braiding the cord. The penultimate step was to magically inject Walter's blood into the tiny channels left by the lighting, and then they'd finish by carving the runes.
But when Hermione arrived the next day, she was frowning. "I made the mistake of looking up the regulations around this kind of amulet," she told Lucinda.
"Let me guess—it's a Dark artefact." Hermione nodded, and Lucinda said, "Does that bother you?"
"Yes and no. Obviously our intentions aren't Dark, and that's what matters the most. But I hate to consider what Dolores Umbridge would have done with this sort of thing."
"Oh dear," said Lucinda. "She'd have embedded it in your skin and made it unremovable."
Hermione nodded again, and together they worked out a protocol for preventing the amulet from falling into the wrong hands. It would require more blood magic: a protective box that would incinerate its contents after both of them were dead. But there was nothing illegal about a box like that, and Hermione agreed they could finish the amulet without delay.
An hour later, they had their Dark artefact. Holding it up, Lucinda said, "Who should try it first?"
Hermione grimaced. "Good question. I don't know if it's an honour or a punishment."
"I'll do it," said Lucinda, pulling the cord over her head. In an instant, all the projects on the table disappeared as the house snapped into "Muggle mode," and Lucinda chuckled. "I'm pretty sure it worked," she said.
"What is it like?" asked Hermione. "Do you feel different somehow?"
"Same as always, I think. Do I look any different? My hands look the same," she said, looking down at them.
"No obvious signs of ageing," said Hermione, writing in her notebook. "What about your senses? We should really test your eyesight and hearing."
"Yes, add it to the list. And when we try it on you, we can test whether your Occlumency still works."
They continued brainstorming, and as Hermione took notes, Lucinda paused to appreciate having a partner. She and Walter collaborated, of course, but that was different, and not merely because he lacked magic. His thought process was dissimilar to her own—more grounded and logical. And Ryan was like his father, despite their vastly different educations.
But Hermione was somewhere in the middle: methodical like Walter, but mercurial like herself. It's like having a daughter, she thought, not for the first time. She'd never felt that way about Ryan's other girlfriends, as much as she'd tried to be welcoming. But they all fell short—some by overlooking Walter, and others by shying away from lively debate.
"She doesn't have any opinions of her own," Lucinda complained to Walter, after meeting the witch Ryan dated before Hermione. "Every time I asked her a question, she just looked at Ryan as if he had all the answers."
"Not every time," said Walter. "She answered when you asked if she liked olives, but you jumped on her."
"I did no such thing! I only said she was woefully misinformed, but she'd come to her senses soon enough." Walter raised a single eyebrow, and Lucinda said, "Surely that wasn't rude!"
"Put yourself in her position. She's meeting her boyfriend's parents, whom she wants to impress, and you immediately scold her."
Lucinda threw up her hands. "Is no one familiar with hyperbole anymore? Or do I need to hang a card around my neck that says, 'This is how I talk—don't take it personally.'"
Fortunately, Hermione was made of sterner stuff, and Lucinda recognised a kindred spirit. "Walter, can we keep her?" she asked after they met. "She was always my favourite of the Golden Trio, you know."
"I'm shocked," said Walter. "Who could have foreseen you'd identify with the hyper-intelligent schoolgirl turned freedom fighter?"
"I was never a freedom fighter—I had my hands full with Ryan the first time around," she said sullenly. There was no need to mention the most recent war—and the murder of Walter's parents, which would haunt her for the rest of her life.
She was awoken that night by a klaxon. "Walter!" she cried, recognising it at once—it was linked to his blood and indicated he'd been grievously harmed. He was in Belgium for an engineering conference, and she frantically rang his hotel.
When she heard his voice on the line, she nearly wept with relief. "I'm fine," he assured her. "Just a touch of indigestion, but surely that's not enough to trigger the alarm."
"No, it's tied to your blood. Your DNA even," she said, puzzled.
"What about Ryan?" he said urgently.
"Impossible—he has my blood as well, so he wouldn't be a match." They were silent for a moment, then it hit them both at once. "Your parents!" she exclaimed. "Oh my god, it would have to be both of them!"
"Go!" he said, and after quick words of love she was gone. Clad in pyjamas and an anorak, Lucinda Apparated to their back garden, where the green, sickly light overhead confirmed her worst fears. She charged inside, not even considering whether the attackers were still present, and found her in-laws' bodies upstairs.
They were still clothed, thank Merlin, but that was the only consolation. The unmistakable signs of torture—rigid muscles and agonised expressions—tore an unholy wail from Lucinda's breast. Then her emotions cut off, and she ran to the phone and called Ryan.
"There's an emergency," she said, her voice crisp. "Go check on Uncle Jack and Aunt Betsy, and ward the house. Don't let them see you, if you can avoid it."
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you and Dad all right?"
"We're fine—I'll check on Aunt Louise. Come to the house when you're done."
He didn't ask the obvious question, to her relief—there would be time for that later. She went next to Walter's sister's house and quickly determined they were safe. After hastily raising wards—so simple, why hadn't she done it before?—Lucinda returned to Walter's defiled boyhood home.
The Dark Mark was gone, and a team of Obliviators was making their way up the lane, in search of witnesses. Lucinda was Disillusioned, and she cast a stealth charm before entering the house, where two Aurors were nosing about.
"Muggles, by the looks of it," one said, nodding towards some photos.
"Let's hope so," said the other. "Less paperwork that way—just tick a few boxes, and it's a Secrecy problem."
Lucinda held her breath and dug her nails into her palms. They aren't a Secrecy problem, they're my family! her mind screamed, and she longed to tell them so. But she had to be silent—they worked for the Ministry, which made them collaborators at best, and Death Eaters at worst.
She followed them upstairs, where they discovered the bodies. "Oof, that's not nice," said an Auror, seeing their obvious agony. "Better relax 'em before rigor mortis kicks in." He cast the charm to unclench their muscles, and a foul smell filled the air.
"Do you think you should clean that?" asked his partner, covering her nose.
"Nah, it might fit whatever story the Secrecy team comes up with. Elexecution or something."
Lucinda was too stricken to cry, and when the Aurors were gone, she Vanished the mess beneath her in-laws and kissed their icy brows. "This is all my fault," she told them. "I should have known this might happen. I should have protected you."
At least they looked peaceful, as if they were sleeping, and her tears began to flow. "You welcomed me from the start," she continued. "My own parents rejected me, but you opened your hearts. You loved me, and this is how I repay you."
She belatedly remembered Ryan was still waiting, so she went home and told him the news—omitting the part about torture. He doesn't need to know, she decided, since he too would feel responsible.
But she told Walter—she couldn't lie to her own husband—and they hastily crafted a plan to protect his other relations. It made her sick to cast so many Compulsion Charms, to convince them terrorists were to blame, due to a top-secret project of Walter's. They were rushed into protective housing, which Ryan warded to the hilt, and only after the war ended did they finally come home.
Of course, Ryan blamed himself. "It's because I'm on the Cannons," he repeated. "If only I hadn't publicly stated which kind of half-blood I am."
"It wasn't wrong to tell the truth!" Lucinda argued. "Your father and I are proud you've never lied about your heritage. Really, you're not the one to blame—those murderers are."
But that was another lie, she knew. I was selfish to marry him, she told herself constantly. I should have just broken things off—he'd have moped for a couple weeks and moved on. She tortured herself by imagining Walter's life without her, with more children and no Memory Charms. But then Ryan would never have existed, which was the most horrible thought of all.
Not wanting to burden Walter with her feelings of guilt, Lucinda used Occlumency to tame her own mind, and her equilibrium slowly returned. And with it came the deep desire to train as a Healer—ostensibly for Walter, but also to spare his family further suffering. I can't change the past, but if I can cure someone's cancer, or reverse the damage from a stroke ...
"What do you want to test first?" Hermione asked, when they got the amulet working.
"Something mild," said Lucinda. "Walter is afraid I'll start with boiling oil, or maybe a meat grinder accident."
Hermione chuckled. "Ingrown toenail? I know a hex."
"Perfect," she said, and they began brewing the potion to treat them. "What should our next experiment be?" she asked as they worked. "Maybe I should prepare the cure while you're away." Ryan was on the Continent with the national team, and Lucinda knew he was keen for Hermione to join him.
"While I'm away? I'm not leaving until Saturday." Lucinda expressed surprise, and Hermione said, "Oh, you mustn't have heard—I've postponed till the weekend. Lydia Travers wants me at her salon Friday night."
"Poor Ryan, marooned in Rome without his sweetheart. How ever will he survive?"
"Italian cuisine might help," said Hermione, and they joked about Ryan's capacious appetite.
"As long as you join him eventually," said Lucinda. "I confess I'm rather attached to your relationship. I'm terribly fond of you, after all."
Hermione blushed a little. "It's mutual," she said. "And don't worry—I'm very happy with Ryan. I still don't know how I found a Quidditch star with an academic streak. Not to mention his Muggle heritage."
"It's no small thing," said Lucinda. "Except for the magic, he's really a Bellamy through and through."
"Whereas I seem to be part Spoonwocket," mused Hermione.
Lucinda's mouth quirked at the sound of her maiden name. "I suppose you are," she said, stifling the urge to reach across and squeeze Hermione's hand.
"Lydia, stop worrying! It's going to be perfect," said Douglas. "Brett, tell her I'm right."
"Douglas is right—it's going to be perfect. And his mum throws parties like you wouldn't believe."
"But this isn't a party, it's a salon," Lydia pouted. "And those were Muggle parties, right?"
"Of course, but the principle's the same. You need the right mix of people, the right food, drink, and decor, and a sparkling hostess. Which you are."
Lydia studied the two young wizards, whom she'd met through Hermione. "You're not just flattering me, are you? I don't need flattery."
"If you needed flattery, I'd record what Douglas says behind your back," said Brett. "Just last night he called you the most captivating woman he's ever seen, and he once met Princess Diana."
"For only a second," Douglas clarified. "But it's true. And you have heaps of brains, which I'm not sure was true for Lady Di, sad to say."
"Blasphemy!" cried Brett, and Lydia smiled. She couldn't always follow their conversations, since they frequently referred to Muggle culture, but she loved how irreverent they were.
"Thank you," she said sincerely. "I suppose I'm just nervous since this will be the biggest group I've invited. In the past the only Dark Arts practitioners were Esme and Charles, but now I'm inviting some of their mates." She pouted again and said, "I wish Simon could come."
"Your tutor?"
"Yes, but Friday nights he teaches Harry, who has the prior claim."
"Did you even ask?" said Brett. "I'm sure Harry would have swapped nights."
"No, I refuse to be in his debt. It's bad enough he's sponsoring Marcus." She felt herself tense, as she always did when Harry came up, then said, "Be sure to tell me if anyone's rude to you. Because they won't be invited back!"
"What if we're rude in return?" asked Douglas. "Or, better yet, what if we toy with the closet cases? I'm sure they'll be easy to spot, with Marcus in the room." Douglas gazed adoringly at an unseen figure and said, "Yes, I'd love to hear all the Ministry minutiae. Oh look, there's an eyelash on your cheek—let me get it."
Lydia beamed—she always enjoyed hearing praise for Marcus. "Definitely toy with them, especially if it's my brother-in-law."
"Brett, you handle him," said Douglas. "Twinks adore you—and I would know."
They were in Edinburgh, at Brett and Douglas's antiques shop, which Lydia visited often. It was an easy Floo trip from Manchester, and she loved having friends her family wouldn't approve of. She also enjoyed their company—they were terribly funny, and she admired their playful, loving relationship.
Sadly, she'd seen very few healthy relationships. Her parents presented a united front in public, but otherwise they barely tolerated each other. Mother relied on Calming Draughts, and Daddy spent far too much time at Pratt's. Meanwhile, her grandparents were a cypher—both sets. Her mother's parents had little in common besides ambition, and her father's parents had nothing in common at all. As for Esme and Charles, the less said, the better.
What troubled Lydia the most was that all four pairs had once been madly in love. She herself was mad about Marcus, and he would readily marry her if she asked. But she insisted they wait until she felt sure they were compatible, since the last thing she wanted was decades of conjugal contempt. To this end, she had a cluster of family wedding pictures on display—on the surface they were romantic, but to Lydia they were a reminder that infatuation doesn't last.
It also scared her to realise she would have married Harry if he'd been willing. They'd frequently joked about never marrying, but if he'd turned to her and said, "Fuck it, let's go to Scotland and tie the knot," she'd have done it in an instant. And then she'd have to worry about his roving eye for the rest of her life, not to mention all the witches who threw themselves at him.
Admittedly, Marcus had his share of admirers. He was shockingly handsome—he looked like Gregory Peck in "Roman Holiday," which Simon had taken her to see—but he didn't encourage women the way Harry did. For all Harry claimed he wanted privacy, he clearly drank in the attention, whereas Marcus seemed almost embarrassed by his looks. He seldom wore fitted robes, for example, and he preferred when Lydia drew the spotlight.
Conveniently, she liked the spotlight, which was obvious in hindsight—otherwise she'd never have ruined herself so publicly. But until then she'd been so demure that she'd assumed it was her nature, when in fact she was just a good pupil. And what she really wanted was far more primal: to be a goddess.
But not in the ordinary sense. She didn't crave power or adulation, which smacked of Dark magic. No, she wanted to wake people from their slumber. She herself had been asleep for nearly eighteen years, and she'd blindly supported an unjust war. She'd sided with a regime that forbade people like Douglas from using their magic and would have condemned Hermione to the Dementor's Kiss.
In her own case it was ignorance, but she knew others were driven by fear. Her father, for example, insisted Muggles were a threat, and that wizards needed to unite against them. And her brother-in-law Charles feared a loss of status—he seemed to realise he was born at the top and how precarious that was.
If pressed, Lydia would admit their fears weren't entirely invalid, but they didn't touch her somehow. Obviously she wouldn't choose to be poor, or lose her magic, but the fears somehow passed through her. She feared losing Marcus, however—Harry's betrayal had left a notch in her heart, which didn't easily heal. She no longer even blamed him, but the wound remained.
Meanwhile, she knew she was vain about her appearance, but she forgave herself for it. After all, her vanity had protected her from practising Dark magic, since she loathed the Dark Arts sneer. And goddesses were supposed to be beautiful! She wasn't keen to lose her looks as she grew older, but that was a problem for later.
Her problem now was the party, and how to manage it. It was larger than her previous gatherings, and she didn't know whether to enforce a group conversation or allow her guests to form groups on their own. Brett and Douglas told her to trust her instincts, but she decided to ask Esme instead.
"Don't force anything," said Esme, taking a strawberry from the tray Lydia's elf had set out. "The last thing people want is to feel like they're props in someone else's tableau."
"It's not a tableau, it's a salon. And the point is to exchange ideas."
"That's what you want, but the first rule of hospitality is to consider what your guests want."
This from the hostess who served her rival a potion that gave her spots, Lydia thought. "I like to believe my guests want to broaden their horizons," she said. "If not, they could just stay at home."
"Don't be a child, Lydia. They want to see for themselves how a scarlet woman entertains. Because whether you like it or not, you're still ruined, and you'll never return to your original station. You'll never live in a manor, certainly."
"I love that I'm still ruined. And who cares if I live in a manor?"
"You'll care when you're older," said Esme loftily.
"Marcus and I don't need a dozen rooms separating us," Lydia retorted. "We actually like each other."
Esme's eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment her composure vanished. But her mask returned, along with the Dark Arts sneer, and she said, "I'm very happy for you. And I'm sure you'll be fine in a townhouse, even with children. By then, Charles and I will live somewhere with grounds, so you can always bring them to visit."
Lydia ignored the barb, preferring the thought of their children playing together, as she and Esme had done. "I do hope our children will be close in age," she said. "Do you think Jacob will marry young? It would be lovely if they all grew up together."
"Oh, you're willing to mention our brother? You barely acknowledged him at Christmas."
The last time Lydia had seen Jacob was only days after he'd publicly revealed that Harry had cheated on her, and of course she was livid. "He's still an idiot, but I do have some family loyalty," she said. "And I'm sure I'll enjoy being an aunt."
"Great Merlin, you'll be wicked Aunt Lydia," said Esme. "I'm not sure Charles will let you near our children."
"Then you will," said Lydia, with genuine affection. "We'll make sure we have daughters the same age, and they'll sleep in the same bed on long winter nights, all curled up like you and I were."
Esme smiled, but something was missing, and Lydia felt the old pang. It's like I've lost her forever, she thought, remembering the sister she'd adored. Will I ever get her back?
She asked Davina about it in private, after her Light Arts lesson that week. "She used to be my very best friend," Lydia told her, "but when she started training in Dark magic, it's like a part of her died. And I'm scared it's gone forever."
"It's not gone, but it's trapped," said Davina. "And yes, I know how much it hurts, seeing someone you love disappear behind that wall."
"Does that mean she's still in there? And can I free her?"
"Perhaps, but the direct approach won't work. All you can do in the moment is show affection—and resist the urge to snipe at her."
Lydia bit her lips, recalling multiple snipes during their last conversation. "What about other times? she asked. "Is there some kind of Light ritual to bring her back?"
"No, you can't subvert someone else's will. But you can continue on your path, and slowly become a beacon for her better self. It'll recognise something in you, and be drawn to it."
Like a goddess, thought Lydia, and she felt her face light with radiance. Her lips parted, and she watched Davina smile.
"There's your allure again," said Davina warmly. "It's an interesting manifestation of Light magic. What are you feeling right now? And please, speak freely."
"I feel beautiful," she began, "but not entirely like myself." She paused, then said, "It's hard to form words. But it feels lovely."
"Close your eyes and imagine your sister sitting before you. What do you feel?"
Lydia didn't have to think about it. "Love. And I see her pain. You're right, she's trapped."
"How do you free her?" asked Davina.
"I can't, not right now. But I maintain the connection, and when she's ready, I'll be there."
"What if she's never ready, for the rest of her life?"
"I'll still be there," said Lydia automatically. "Always."
Lydia sensed the flick of a wand, and when she opened her eyes, Davina was holding up a mirror. "Tell me what you see," she said.
Again, she didn't hesitate. "I'm beautiful," she said. Then she turned her head to examine her profile, with the long, high-bridged nose she'd inherited from her mother. "Even my flaws."
"And how does that make you feel?"
"Like a part of something bigger. Part of a brilliant plan I don't remember making, and which I'm only learning as I go."
"Do you want people to admire you? Young wizards, in particular. Or for witches to envy you?"
"No, I want them to be happy. I want them to be free."
"Are you free?" asked Davina.
Lydia looked in the mirror again, and felt love towards the being she saw. "Not yet. But I will be."
Beaming at her, Davina said, "That's a fine answer. Now let's help you tone this down. You can be magnetic without creating a frenzy."
"Like at my salon?" said Lydia, her sense of purpose deepening.
"Very definitely. I can assure you, none of this is an accident."
Lydia remembered her teacher's words the following afternoon, as she prepared for her guests. This is my purpose, she told herself, and she imagined everyone leaving her salon a little lighter than they when they'd arrived.
Hermione was lining up potions on her bedside table when her mother walked in.
"That's quite the pharmacopeia," Emily observed. "Should I be worried?"
"An ounce of prevention," said Hermione. "A fluid ounce, anyway. It's for Lydia's salon."
"Ah, yes—a night with the booze-soaked aristocracy. Will it be another twelve-course meal?"
"I have no idea, but I'm prepared: Stomach Soother, Rehydrating Draught, Sleep Enabling Drops, and a Hangover Potion. I have an 8 a.m. Portkey, after all."
"You're very clever to get the Roman orgy out of the way before heading to Rome," said Emily. "Although I suppose it'll be an exchange of ideas rather than bodily fluids."
"Mum!" cried Hermione.
"Sorry," she laughed. "It's just too much fun having a grown-up daughter—I never had a sister, after all. And you don't seem to require much mothering, although you're welcome to it."
"I'll always need mothering," said Hermione. But she felt a little guilty, because her mum was right: she didn't need much mothering anymore, and she got most of it from Lucinda.
Lucinda wasn't her first surrogate mother—that was Molly Weasley. But while Molly was warm and loving, which she'd needed at the time, Lucinda shared Hermione's thirst for knowledge. Her own mum did too, but not for magical topics. She didn't mind hearing about them, but she couldn't dive in the way Lucinda could, or open new doors.
Hermione would have had the same problem even without magic, since she'd probably have studied law rather than dentistry. But it still felt weird leaving her parents behind again—her cousin Jenny at least shared her interest in Light magic, or the Muggle variant. But her parents shunned "spirituality," along with everything else that hadn't been proven in a large-scale, double-blind study.
She sometimes wondered whether their scepticism had made her childhood more difficult. In recent months, she'd met heaps of Muggleborns, and many had families more accepting than her own. Annie's boyfriend Rupert, for example, described his mother as a "kook" and said how helpful that was.
"I grant you, she believes heaps of rubbish, but when I gave my brother two flat tyres without even touching his bike, she jumped straight to the magical explanation—and punished me."
"For accidental magic?" said Hermione, affronted.
"Well, I also shouted at him and said I hoped his stupid bike would get a flat," he admitted. "But it was still two more years before I got my school letter, so we had to research magic on our own. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it—I couldn't do magic on command, so I never got nailed for violating secrecy."
Meanwhile, Hermione's parents had always dismissed her accidental magic, to the point of making her distrust her own eyes. And once she learnt how to control it, she stopped mentioning magic at all—not until Professor McGonagall arrived and told them it was real. Hermione's joy eclipsed any lingering hurt feelings, and her parents' apology was more than sufficient. But in hindsight, she realised her habit of keeping secrets was born years before she met Harry.
"I tried out the amulet today," she told her mother that afternoon, before Lydia's salon. "And Davina is right—I can still feel Light magic even when my magic is suppressed."
"No sparks, I assume?"
"No, of course not. But all the emotional benefits, and I could also feel subtle energy moving through my body. Davina calls it prana, from the Indian tradition, but in traditional Chinese medicine it's called ch'i."
"Really? I read a paper last week about using acupuncture for treating dental pain. It was a bit anecdotal for my taste, but it certainly merits further study."
They discussed Chinese medicine for a bit, and Hermione was impressed her mum was warming up to it—years earlier she and Dad had dismissed it. But she never asked about the rest of Hermione's statement, regarding the emotional benefits of Light magic. Don't you realise you could be so much happier? Hermione wanted to say.
After her mum left, Hermione dressed for the party, less nervous than she'd been in the past. Admittedly Ryan wouldn't be there, and Lydia had invited more Dark Arts practitioners than before. But Hermione knew she'd have plenty of allies, including Douglas, Brett, and even Helena Strauss, whom she always enjoyed seeing.
They spotted each other almost immediately. "Hermione," said Helena, quickly approaching her. "I'm so glad you're here. Is Ryan coming?"
"No, he's in Rome with the national Quidditch team. But I'll join him first thing tomorrow."
"Oh good, I'm not the only singleton." She explained that her boyfriend was at a family engagement. "He probably could have got out of it," Helena continued, "but I didn't insist, since he would hate this kind of thing. And personally I'd rather face a room full of blood purists than his parents right now."
"What's wrong with them?"
"It's his mother—she adores me, and it makes me nervous. I feel all kinds of pressure whenever I see her, and I swear she's already started knitting baby bootees."
Hermione laughed. "Not keen to start sprogging, are we?"
"Not yet! And as much as I like Brian, I'm not ready to commit. You know how cautious I am."
"I certainly do," said Hermione, recalling how she'd ended things with Harry after only a fortnight. Not because Helena didn't like him—quite the opposite, it turned out—but because it was too much too soon.
"Anyway, I'm delighted you're here," said Helena, "since I can't just glue myself to Vanessa all night." She glanced across the room, and Hermione saw the curvaceous brunette who'd participated in Harry's birthday threesome.
"I'll be glad to keep you company," said Hermione. "And I'm sure Lydia will want to talk to you as well. You two are friends now, right?"
"Friendly acquaintances," said Helena. "And we still haven't had the Harry conversation. To be honest, I think we're putting it off." She closed her eyes a moment, then said, "How is he?"
Hermione checked to confirm no one was listening. "Frankly, he's struggling. I know it might look like he's fine, given his antics in America, but losing Fiona was hard."
Helena nodded. "I knew something was off when he was on the radio. Do you know why Prongs's antlers were smaller?"
"I think so," said Hermione, thinking of his Dark magic and the blow to his confidence. "But he'll get past it, I'm sure. He still has the world's biggest heart."
"He really does," said Helena quietly. "It's truly amazing."
Hermione studied her expression. Does she still fancy him? she wondered. I bet he'd take her back.
Something caught Helena's gaze, and her cheeks flushed pink. Hermione turned and saw Lydia had entered the room, looking utterly radiant, with Marcus by her side. Oh my! thought Hermione, and for a moment she too was entranced.
"I can't take my eyes off her," said Helena. "Which is saying something, with Marcus right there. Did she take some kind of potion? And if so, where can I get it?"
"That's not a potion—that's Light magic. And it's actually somewhat toned down, if you can believe it."
Lydia breezed about the room like a butterfly, introducing guests to one another. At first it seemed random—for example, Hermione would have introduced Helena to Brett and Douglas rather than Calliope Nott. And yet somehow the two witches clicked—they might never be friends, but Helena clearly impressed her, even though she was the wrong kind of half-blood from a no-name school.
To Hermione's relief, dinner was a buffet rather than a twelve-course meal, and Lydia didn't force her to interact with Dark wizards. But it was still a sumptuous affair, and even Esme didn't complain.
"Thank Merlin she took my advice," she said to Hermione, her drawl heavy from wine. "She originally wanted us all in a circle, discussing subjects of great import—can you imagine?"
"I'm sure she could make it work," said Hermione sincerely. "But yes, this is more organic, and people are certainly enjoying themselves."
"This is what we were raised for," said Esme, tilting her chin. "Our mother's delicate health prevents her from hosting galas, but we learnt everything there is to know. My wedding, for example, was an absolute triumph. Here, have a look."
She led Hermione across the room to a cluster of photographs, featuring four different brides. Esme's photo was the largest, and Hermione was struck by how happy she and Charles looked—they were unmistakably in love. Is that the marriage bond? she wondered. Clearly it didn't last.
"How beautiful," she said, trying to be polite. "Both of you."
"Charles had his robes made in London, of course, and mine are from Paris." Esme pointed out her jewellery, which appeared in the other photographs as well. "The bracelet is a Nightwick heirloom, worn by my mother and grandmother. And the diadem is one of the Travers family treasures—I insisted on wearing it instead of the Selwyn tiara, which is terribly old-fashioned. Whereas ours is timeless." She indicated another photo and said, "My grandmother wore it fifty years ago, yet it doesn't look dated at all. Wait, you'll see it better when she turns to the front."
The bride was lovely in profile, but when she faced forwards, Hermione let out a gasp. Struggling to speak, she said, "Are you familiar with a Muggle actress named Kate Winslet?"
"No. Does she look like my grandmother?"
"She does. They're not identical, but it's quite a strong resemblance. Is your grandmother still living?" asked Hermione, hoping desperately she wasn't.
"Yes, I just saw her last week. She needed my blood for some kind of health tonic. You wouldn't think it to look at her, but she's a master brewer."
"How splendid," said Hermione weakly. Oh god, how will I break this to Harry? she thought. She couldn't keep him in the dark, right?
Esme prattled about her grandparents, and Hermione filed away pertinent details whilst plotting her escape. She finally excused herself and said goodbye to Helena, who was gabbing with Douglas and Brett.
"They went to school with my brother Joshua," she told Hermione. "Clearly the world is changing if three nobodies from West Chipworth are hobnobbing with the elite."
"To Lydia," said Douglas, raising his glass. "And Harry," he added in a stage whisper, prompting another blush from Helena.
Citing her early Portkey, Hermione thanked Lydia for her hospitality and departed via Floo. What do I do? she wondered, as she whirled through the series of fireplaces between Manchester and her parents' house. She considered sending Harry her Patronus, but what if Jasmine were there with him? Not Jasmine, she corrected herself. Henrietta Travers.
As soon as she arrived, she took another pinch of Floo powder and stepped back into the flames. "Grimmauld Place," she said aloud, with a plan to ask Kreacher whether Harry had guests. Or Lodie, or Pinelle, she thought, still faintly appalled he had so many house-elves. Indeed, it was Pinelle who greeted her, and she met Hermione with the usual contempt.
"Master is alone," said the elf. "His werewolf was here earlier—the foul creature! But now he is gone and Master is in the library."
"Thank you, Pinelle," said Hermione, and she dashed towards the stairs. How do I break the news? she wondered. Do I just blurt it out?
She burst through the library doors, and Harry nearly dropped the book he was reading. "Are you all right?" he said, standing up.
"Yes, I'm fine. But there's something I need to tell you. And you might want to sit down."
"Er, all right." He settled back into the reading alcove, and Hermione took the seat opposite.
"I'm sorry, there's no easy way to break this to you, but I found out who Jasmine is."
Harry froze. "Oh, Merlin—it's bad, isn't it?" Hermione nodded, and he said, "Go on, just tell me."
She looked him in the eye. "She's Lydia's grandmum."
"Her grandmum!" he exclaimed. "Fuck—are you sure?"
Hermione told him what she'd learnt, and he agreed it was the same person. "Esme even provided the blood," she said. "And yes, she thought it was for a health tonic."
To Harry's credit, he didn't ask whether he could keep seeing her. And Hermione refrained from asking if they'd had intercourse yet—not that it mattered. But his downcast expression said it all, and she wished she could cheer him up. Should I tell him about Helena? she wondered. She clearly still fancies him.
"Thanks for letting me know," he said abruptly. "But you should probably go home—I know you have an early Portkey."
"Right," she said, a little flustered. "Is there anything else I can do? I'm sorry I won't be here to help."
He rose from the alcove, and she stood as well. "I'll be fine," he said. "Have fun with Ryan, and I'll see you when you get back."
They walked together to the fireplace, and he said nothing more about Jasmine. She hugged him goodbye, and a simple wish formed in her heart: "May you be as happy as you deserve." And despite all his little faults, she knew he deserved to be very happy indeed.