"Daphne Greengrass and the no-good, terrible, very bad years."

Where Daphne's faith in her parents is sorely tried… and she ends up married.

By An Orc, This work is an alternate point of view for 'Not with a half-blood.' Daphne Greengrass would be mortified if anyone read it, so please close the window now. She's not kidding.

Chapter Two: Negotiations

-==0==-

A few days later, at nearly lunchtime Daddy dashed into the drawing room holding a crumpled letter.

"Daphne, Roxy" he said "Potter got a lawyer. Kilo just owled me, he's sending Potter a red letter."

"Kilo's his lawyer?" asked mummy.

"He walked in off the street" said Daddy. "Kilo warned him he had a possible conflict of interest."

"What's in the letter?" asked Daphne.

"Kilo…" said Daddy, and he looked mummy in the eye for a moment "The contract has already expired. He can only get out by declaring Daphne unacceptable."

Daphne felt once again, that the room was too large and her parents voices were echoey and far away. Nothing existed except the certainty that she was about to be a social pariah. Her life, such as it was ended today, she thought.

Daddy went to the hall and set the floo receive to the drawing room, and they settled down to wait for a Potter to arrive. Mummy said "Daphne dahlink. All hope is not lost. He could decide not to declare you unacceptable. There are no real grounds. Are there?" And mummy gave her a very severe look.

Daphne felt quite affronted. She'd known about the damn contract for ages, and hadn't been a broom-closet school broom. Not… that she found boys that attractive. But she certainly wasn't gay. Nope. She liked tall handsome men, there just… when you know you're going to be married to Malfoy, you … well you give up. Pureblood duty, lie on the bed, accept it's dreadful at least till the heir's done, then maybe… one might find a discreet, handsome man who doesn't have his head up his own arse. Malfoy wouldn't have minded – Astoria would have seen to that. In the meantime, one could… take responsibility for one's own pleasure.

"I suspect there's a family history of feeble-mindedness on both sides" said Daphne bitterly. Mummy gave her a glare, but she bally well deserved it.

Potter arrived and staggered a bit. He was wearing party robes. Daphne realised that was an intentional snub.

"Mister Black" said daddy politely

Potter straightened up, brushed off some soot, spreading it on the rug instead of vanishing it "Mister Greengrass" he said "Mrs Greengrass"

"Miss Greengrass" said Potter.

"Potter" said Daphne "You ... you…."

Potter raised a hand like a roman emperor, denying her a clean death "Miss Greengrass, please" said Potter "Now, the letter told me everything. I take it we are engaged?"

"Er, almost practically" said Daddy, looking at a pile of parchment.

"Oh, is there a way to get out of it?" asked Potter. Daphne's stomach fell. He hadn't read the details, and now daddy was going to tell him, so he could… declare her unacceptable. Daddy, thought Daphne was getting socks for his birthday.

"There's technically a way" said daddy, and Daphne looked at him. He looked like a craven right now. She'd never thought of her father as a craven before. In hindsight, he'd sold her to save himself.

"Which is what?" asked Potter, radiating intent to ruin her life.

"You could declare Daphne to be unacceptable" said Daddy. Mummy gave daddy a very 'I'm sleeping in the other room' look.

"Well, I think that's simple enough" said Potter "Do I just tell you?"

"You would have to make a public declaration. A full-page in the Prophet is traditional." said daddy "But I urge you to reconsider" daddy added.

"Isn't that rather public?" asked Potter, and that was… a strange thing to say.

Mummy explained, perhaps she was starting to understand about the unstated 'Gryffindor quidditch players are shaved monkeys theory' "You would be declaring publicly, that Daphne was unacceptable as a bride-to-be, for Anyone. Forever."

Daphne sat up straight and tried to keep her dignity.

"What is the result, for Daphne?" asked Potter. And he had a frown like he sort of understood and didn't like it, which made no sense at all.

Daddy explained "Daphne will cease to be engaged, or betrothed to you, of course. Then of course, she would be socially unacceptable as a bride for anyone who wasn't a blood traitor."

Potter's brows furrowed like a dog trying to do arithmancy. He thought for ages in silence then came out with "Blood traitors are people who break the pureblood social rules, aren't they?"

"Or whose family have ever broken with them" explained mummy "Like your… Weasley girl and her family."

"How long ago did the Weasleys break the rules?" asked Potter, sounding curious.

"Nineteen twenty-two" said mummy. "And they lost all their money the next year. Nobody would do business with such oath-breakers." Daphne was impressed mummy knew British magical family trivia like that… unless she'd done some research. Surely not?

"But Daphne wouldn't be a… blood traitor" said Potter.

"No, just unacceptable. It's extremely unlikely we could ever get her a marriage afterwards. Perhaps a love match, but that can't be relied on to keep the family line intact." said daddy. Daphne really wanted to rebuke daddy for that. Without a contract hanging over her head, all she'd have impeding her eventual romantic attainments was… being rather shy and the more significant impediment of having been declared publicly unacceptable; which most people would assume meant a disease.

Daphne sighed and said "I'm prepared, father. The boy-who-lived has always hated Slytherins, and he wants the Weasley girl."

"And if I didn't. If I went on with the engagement?" said Potter very quietly. Daphne felt mummy and daddy leaning forward. She did too.

"Well, in the event of you marrying my poor daughter, your children would be pure-bloods" said mummy "One to be heir black, and one heir of Greengrass, preferably, thought not essential."

"What about Potter?" asked Potter.

"Well, you could insist on a child for that, I suppose" said daddy, feigning casualness. "That falls outside the contract, so you'd have to negotiate with Daphne for that."

"I um, have already made Teddy, I mean Edward Remus Lupin my heir" said Potter "He's my godson and his mother was a black. So really I don't need a black heir."

Daphne had no idea who they were, but with a name like that, they were probably Professor Lupin's son. And no need for a Black heir. Only the once, possibly only the once. Not that she had any hope. Not really. But it was a pretty mirage.

"No black heir?" said daddy, and he looked in the parchment "Greengrass is still an issue, but we only got expected into the contract. Daphne could explain why later."

"So Potter doesn't have a contract for an heir?" asked Daphne, making it clearer to Potter what he'd NOT be getting.

Potter turned back to daddy "So, If I don't denounce Daphne, we're engaged, and have to marry."

"Well, yes" said daddy.

"But don't have to have children" said Potter.

"Well, yes" said daddy, looking uncomfortable. Daddy bally well was a craven, she realised.

"And my only other choice is to leave Daphne an outcast in pure-blood society, and I assume living at home for the rest of her life?" said Potter, sarcastically.

"I could get a job" offered Daphne, and the lie didn't even sound plausible as she said it.

Potter eyed her like sick horse "Do you have any job prospects?" he asked.

Daphne resented the implication, and said "I have some NEWTs." then explained "Seventh year was a mess. I had to do study and exams this past year."

"Do you think you could get a job, maybe a ministry job, make a living for yourself?" asked Potter. He was clearly thinking of leaving her in a crumbling ruin with no servants.

"Not declared unacceptable" said mummy "Everyone would wonder what was wrong with her. Obviously, she's healthy, intelligent and pretty, and has some NEWTs. That leaves hideous social diseases, a dark mark and various curses."

Potter took a deep breath, then asked a stupid question "Miss Greengrass, you are not a marked Death Eater?"

Daphne's inhaled angrily. She was going to tell him –

"That was a statement, not a question" said Potter, like he was the emperor or something.

"I don't like violence" said Daphne, mentally caveating that with 'I would hex your face off given half a chance' and she unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled both her sleeves up; exposing her unmarked forearms.

"I really didn't need to see your arms, Daphne" said Potter "I've met enough to know roughly what they're like" he added arrogantly.

"And most of the junior death eaters are dead, almost all the rest in Azkaban" said Daphne.

"Well yes" said Potter, with smug arrogant… arrogance.

"So Mister Black, are you going to declare my daughter unacceptable?" asked daddy.

"If she doesn't have a disease I can get" said Potter, and Daphne's hand itched to hex him – in the bollocks for that… that… slur.

"Daphne has been under the… cleanliness clause of the contract for some time" said daddy. He was so getting socks for his birthday.

"So … looks like I'm going to be using my Saving People Thing, as Hermione says." said Potter. "So, getting married?" he said, like it was nothing. Like her life meant nothing.

"That's it. You're satisfied, and you're going to … just Marry me… because you feel sorry for me?" asked Daphne, feeling intensely humiliated.

"Well, it's that or take out a newspaper advertisement declaring you have something awful" said Potter "And that's not fair, is it?"

"You won't be able to marry The Weasley" said Daphne. "Doesn't that bother you?" He surely had thought about that. He couldn't possibly be that stupid, could he?

"Ginny will get over it" said Potter "I've sacrificed more before, and it's not like I have to walk to my death. I'm sure you'll be scintillating company."

Daphne eyed his crooked grin and could not understand how someone could be so mindlessly generous. He understood, he had the power to say no and he just... "You'll sacrifice your relationship with you girlfriend, to save me?" asked Daphne.

"I've sacrificed more for more abstract things. Can you cook?" asked Potter, clearly meaning to humiliate her.

"No" said Daphne, and she countered with one of her more difficult achievements "But I can run a multi-thousand galleon business."

"You're in luck, I can cook, and have a house elf" said Potter, and that… was that a joke? Was he serious? Seriously kidding? He was mental.

"You do realise, I'm not going to … you know" said Daphne, as he might have some idea to the contrary. Life as a social pariah was preferable to… being used.

"I'm into saving people, not making them slaves" said Potter, and Daphne could only just hold in a retort. He was so bloody smug about having saved the country. Insufferable, that's what he was. Generous but insufferably smug. And sarcastic.

"We could have it here, but the weathers going to be bad for months" said mummy, changing the subject.

Potter nodded. "Daphne, where do you want to have it?" he asked.

"I've no idea" said Daphne, looking at the floor. He was being a smug git. Just because he'd defeated the Dark Lord.

"How about a church?" asked Potter.

Daphne looked up "A church?" she asked. Was he completely mental?

"Church, big white dress, isn't that the same for witches?" asked Potter.

"Certainly not. They burnt witches" said mummy.

"Sorry, raised by muggles" said Potter. "Can't we get divorced?"

"Er, as a safeguard we um, made the contract, prevent divorce" said daddy "Otherwise Draco could have divorced Daphne, kept the money and … not protected her."

"Daddy!" said Daphne, her composure snapping under the strain of his… smug saving people thing."He's a half-blood and knows nothing!"

"Hogwarts, the great hall" suggested Potter "I'm sure McGonagall will allow it."

"Hogwarts?" said Daphne incredulously. Was he going to suggest using British Rail as transport next?

"It's big enough for anyone, it's got catering, and I'm probably the only person who can get it as a venue" said Potter arrogantly.

Daphne could not speak, He was so arrogant, smug and self-satisfied. . She looked at mummy "Mother?" she said plaintively, using the code they'd had since she was three.

"It's a school. It has no cachet" said mummy.

"The Ministry? The atrium?" asked Potter "I'm sure Shack would go for it."

"The ministry Atrium, like a Yule ball" said Daphne and she looked out the window. Anything not to see his stupid smug face and his stupid green eyes and his stupid glasses.

Mummy said thoughtfully "It's large, exclusive" Daphne resigned to her wedding being a circus, so that mummy would have something to show off to great-grandmama. Who hopefully would not come, because she would not say anything polite to a half-blood marrying her family.

"We'd have to do it outside working hours" said Potter.

"That helps anyway" said daddy.

"We could do Saturday" said Potter, and Daphne's heart must have stopped.

"This Saturday?" she asked, feeling faint. The room swayed.

"No, as soon as we can organise everything" said Potter. "What do you think?"

Daphne inhaled with difficulty, and resisted the urge to scream or rant or hex. Mummy looked at her and was… just mummy, and Daphne tried to reassure herself, this would be okay. They'd got to not being declared unacceptable. This was do-able. Just, don't think about the rest of her life.

Daddy said "This will work."

"I hope you won't expect me to..." said Daphne to Harry.

"Oh god no" said Potter "Do you even want to live in the same house?"

"Certain social niceties need to be observed" said mummy, scoring one point with Daphne today. The prospect of being stuck in a ruin receded.

"Well, I've got um… lots of bedrooms; three large ones, mostly on separate floors." offered Potter.

Mummy nodded and said "My mother described Grimmauld place to me when I was younger, She went to a party there. The fourth floor bedrooms would be appropriate. There could be no suggestion that you were … carrying on, and you would have your own rooms."

Potter once again did that Gryffindor thinking frown . "The uh, largest bedroom, the one the third floor is a bit… wrecked" he admitted.

"Wrecked?" said Daphne – thinking 'what the hell was wrong with him? He lived in a ruin?'

"Sirius kept a Hippogriff in his mothers old room" admitted Potter. As if that made sense.

"You will be having all that sort of silliness dealt with forthwith" said mummy firmly.

Daphne crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She felt doomed in a novel way. Potter lived in a ruin. He didn't have to relegate her to one, and would be around to make creepy suggestions. And be smug and arrogant and insufferable.

"How far away are we looking" asked Potter awkwardly. "In time."

"It will be determined by robes" said mummy. "Daphne will need an appropriate dress robe, as will you."

"Twillfitt and Tatting?" asked Potter.

"For you, perhaps" said mummy. "Cyrus, Paris?"

Daddy shook his head. Daphne wanted to scream, and settled for whining "But Father, at least a Paris robe."

"Ask Mr Black" said daddy sourly "get your husband to pay for it."

"Cyrus!" said mummy, in a tone that indicated separate bedrooms tonight.

Potter shrugged "If you want a French wedding gown, you might as well have one." he said "It's not like much else will be to either of our tastes."

"You'll pay for a couture gown?" asked Daphne curiously.

Potter, surprisingly started a soliloquy "You don't want to marry me, I don't either, I can't get divorced, I can't marry the girl I wanted to marry, at least of you get a dress you like, something on the day will be how someone wants it. Fluer Delacour had a French wedding dress, and she looked very stylish. You can have one."

"Are you trying to buy my affections?" asked Daphne curiously.

"No" said Harry "I don't think you have affections to buy, but at least you'll like the dress" he said drily. Daphne resented the implication that she was a heartless bitch, but he had just agreed not to ruin her life publicly.

"Cyrus, will you put Daphne and I up in Paris, while we get a gown for Daphne?" asked mummy.

"Oh course dear, as Harry's graciously covering the dress" said Cyrus, looking at Potter.

Daphne wondered if she knew anyone in France. Well, Perks obviously, not that they got on that well.

"Will my robes need to coordinate with your dress?" asked Potter .

"As the Black of Black, your robes are pretty much pre-determined to be black and silver" said mummy, and Daphne realised mummy had researched this, had… at least looked at what might happen if Potter had… decided to sacrifice his thing with Weasley to save her. To save a girl he hardly knew, from a part of society he so clearly despised.

Potter nodded. Just like that, he was going to wear fusty silver and black robes.

"Daphne dear, stand up next to Harry?" asked mummy

Daphne stood up, and clomped over to Potter.

Potter looked down at her. He was quite tall. Nearly six feet.

"Well, you'll need heels" said mummy, standing up, "Could you two stand back to back"

Potter turned and Daphne moved to stand behind him. Mummy must have made some sort of measurement "Four more inches dear" she said. Daphne couldn't hold the grumpy snort in. Those would be stupid awful heels.

Potter said, apparently trying to lighten the mood "Daphne, ten paces, turn and fire?"

"Not bloody likely" said Daphne and she clomped off and sat in her chair. Fuming gently.

Potter finally sat down. He sprawled a bit.

"He can't dance either" said Daphne, remembering the yule ball in fourth year.

"I really can't" admitted Potter.

"We'll organise lessons" said daddy "Daphne can teach you."

"Thank you father" said Daphne, and he was definitely getting socks next year for his birthday too.

Potter left without a single attempt at a romantic gesture, even though he'd just agreed to marry her. Not even a kiss over her knuckles. Daphne resigned herself to the realisation that he was going to be a cold, indifferent husband. It was, she thought better than the alternative. But not by much.

"I'll never know love" said Daphne once the fireplace had settled down to a cheery orange glow again. Daddy harrumphed. "You're not married yet" he said.

"Daphne dahlink, my great-aunt had an arranged marriage. In time, they learned to love one another, and their love was, Great aunt Graciella told me, a strong bulwark. The became a team, they were like two strong trees." said Mummy. The sound of a strong bulwark, and a team didn't seem to Daphne to be… well romantic at all. Mummy hadn't mentioned anything about passion, or desire or… any of the bits that Daphne had to be honest with herself, that she had only a faint chance of when she thought she was betrothed to Malfoy – and that would have entailed having a lover. Potter didn't seem to care much about her, so she wondered … maybe in a few years, she might meet someone. Someone who'd kiss her hand, gaze at her adoringly… and well snogging and stuff. She sighed. Maybe in a few years.

-==0==-

Potter sent a snowy owl with a letter that evening, asking for a time for dance lessons. Mummy decided two pm sounded sensible. Not too soon after lunch, and not so late that dinner would be impacted. Daphne noticed that mummy wasn't inclined to invite her betrothed for dinner.

Daphne went for a ride after lunch, curried Buttercup, had a shower and put a casual dress and some stout shoes on. She took a book on muggle customs Tracey had dropped off; she'd taken muggle studies. Maybe she could understand Potter better. She sat down to read it by the floo fireplace.

Potter stepped out of the fireplace on time, so Daphne stood up and walked to the ballroom. Potter followed, so he's at least as smart as Crabbe or Goyle. And was wearing a half-robe so at least he looked properly dressed.

After winding up the gramophone, she attempted a waltz with Potter. His hand in hers is… strong and calloused and… firm. Daphne finds that... well he's got one good point. That and being good-looking.

Within seconds, it's obvious that Potter has no clue at all about dancing, is scared to hold her, and he's stepped on her foot.

Daphne snaps at Potter "Don't Step on my feet!" and looks up at him. He's… waxen-faced and looks, well, nervous. Which is ridiculous, as Harry Potter fought the Dark Lord, and Daphne's quite sure she's five foot four and not the most feared witch of all time.

"Concentrate on the dance, Potter. And stop trying to hold my bloody robes. Put your hand on my hip. We're betrothed, and I don't have dragonpox!" said Daphne, and Potter frowned slightly, then his bloody lips twitch slightly. As if he's amused by her complaints. It's clear he's doing this on purpose to annoy her.

He manages to dance properly, if badly, lagging her and the music for not even a minute, then he starts slouching. He's such a bloody boy. Can't stand without slouching.

"Stand up straight!" she snaps, and Potter straightens up a little, then he looks at her with his brows furrowed for a second, not moving at all, and Daphne trips on his legs. She starts to fall, but Potter does actually grab hold of her and pull her upright.

She gives him a good glaring at, and says "Pay attention Potter." He can sort-of dance if he concentrates.

Potter shakes his head "Sorry, I got lost in thought" he says in a stupid husky tone. Which he has no right using.

Daphne has lost patience at this point and says"Not the appropriate venue for that." He can bally well NOT use some sort of bedroom voice. Not now… and probably not ever.

"Look I'm sorry I'm rubbish" said Potter "I just… I've not danced since the Yule ball at school."

That was clearly a lie, as he was at the Yule ball at the ministry with Weasley. "You were at the Yule ball with the she-weasel" she said.

Potter slumped, defeated by her truth. Take that, you liar, she thought.

Potter said, rather sadly "We turned up to turn up, be seen by people, talk to whoever Kingsley thought we should, and go home."

The implication of that was not lost on Daphne, and she had to ask, barely able to be civil "Is that woman living with you?"

"No" said Potter "And not, and I'm sure if she can't marry in white it's not my doing."

Daphne stared at Potter, who was scratching the hair on the back of his head like a baboon again. "You've been… respectable?" she asked, scarcely believing his claim.

"We've snogged" said Potter, looking at the floor like a thirteen-year-old caught out kissing in the drawing room.

"You've snogged. That is not a we. You do not have a we anymore." said Daphne firmly. Potter nodded slightly, still staring at the floor.

Daphne pulled his right hand, "Come on, more practice." she said.

Potter continued to be rubbish at dancing till Daphne was sure he must be being intentionally bad at it. Daphne steeled herself, all she had to do was get this… arrogant prat to perform one simple waltz at her wedding. The thought of Gryffindor quidditch players as shaved monkeys occurred to Daphne, and she looked up from Potters chest to his face. Where his chin wasn't even clean-shaven. He had a bluish haze to his chin now. Partially shaved monkeys, she concluded.

Potter made negligible progress over the course of what felt like an eternity of dragging him around the dance floor, but it couldn't have been, as Daphne only had to restart and wind the gramophone three times.

After he managed to dance almost an entire movement without stepping on her feet, Daphne felt moved to encourage Potter with some feedback.

"When WE attend the yule ball, WE will dance, and be seen to dance competently, you will talk to appropriate persons, not your ex, and then WE will leave. That is how it is done." she said.

Potter mumbled "Yes Daphne" and stared at his feet, still dancing. Which was remarkable; the slightest distraction and he misstepped. He also looked deeply miserable.

"Why do you look like someone kicked your krup?" asked Daphne.

"This isn't what I expected from life" said Potter.

"Trust me, the feeling is mutual" said Daphne, in very disappointed agreement. "Though I'm grateful you didn't throw me to the vultures. Father on the other hand will be lucky if he gets socks at yule." Daphne felt that conversation went rather well. They were establishing common ground.

Potter managed to talk, while dancing. "I've made my revised views known to Kingsley about the Malfoys. They'll get a fair retrial."

The way he said it, so… emotionlessly, displayed the callous depths of his soul. Daphne took a deep breath and said "Given a fair trial, neither of them will ever see the outside of Azkaban."

"See, I did a good thing" said Potter, but he didn't smirk or grin, and his eyes were still narrowed and closed off. As if he didn't even care that the Malfoys would be in Azkaban, like their lives, and hers… were meaningless.

Daphne realised that would leave Astoria with a betrothal to someone in prison. Worse still, she would mope over Malfoy now, as a poor victim of circumstances. "You arse, my sister is betrothed to the little shit. If he's in prison, what's she supposed to do?" she asked.

Harry stumbled and lost all rhythm. Daphne narrowly avoided being tripped by the now stationary berk. A berk biting his surprisingly large lower lip.

"Oh Merlin, you didn't think about that at all. Did you?" accused Daphne.

"Er, no" said Harry "Sorry."

"Sorry" said Daphne, in a barely controlled rage, "MY little sister is going to be stuck betrothed or worse, married to someone in prison."

Harry blinked "Is that really that bad?" asked Harry "While he's in prison, her contract will expire, she'll be Mrs Malfoy, and take over control of the whole estate, and have a frankly enormous manor."

Daphne blinked. That was the most callous, cruel and … profitable for her sister thing she'd ever heard of- and there wouldn't be any hanky-panky with Malfoy. It did, she thought seem ideal. Still, she couldn't exactly agree with the world's most callous man. "She will be married to a criminal." she said instead.

"She will be rich, and never actually have associated with the little creep" said Potter, looking less mopey. Clearly he got some pleasure from torturing Malfoy.

Daphne shook her head, having to admit revolting things "She's dated him." she said.

"Oh I'm sorry" said Potter, and that wasn't the reaction Daphne would have expected. Like he was actually sorry.

"You didn't have to watch" she blurted out.

"Is she an adult yet?" asked Potter, with… something approximating tact.

"Seventeen in May." said Daphne.

"Still… untainted?" asked Potter, as if reading her mind.

"Oh god yes. She's nearly three years younger, she had to have a chaperone." said Daphne. "Which was me, by the way." Daphne tried not to think about seeing her little sister snogging Malfoy. Her stomach remembered queasily.

"Well, in July... two months isn't it? She'll have control of all the Malfoy assets." said Potter, and flashed a smirk. "Yes, they dated, and you had to watch the pillock kiss your sister, but she'll never need to again."

"And if she wants a family, or even love?" asked Daphne, because really, Astoria did fancy Malfoy a lot. Had protested that she was in love, and therefore her sister should go read in the next room instead of chaperone. And Malfoy had smirked at her. An even more annoying prat than Potter.

"I'll see what we can organise for the Malfoys" said Potter, in a rather poor impression of Professor Snape.

"You can't get them the veil or the kiss" protested Daphne "not for what they did."

"No" said Potter "But Azkaban's a dangerous place," he added in a chillingly neutral tone. Daphne had to swallow. He sounded like the older seventh-year Slytherin boys when she'd been a fifth year. The ones that were now dead on in Azkaban, having served the Dark Lord.

"You'd reach out to get that sort of... problem solved" said Daphne quietly, standing very still. Was he really hinting at that?

"Astoria's family, and so's Narcissa and Draco. This is a family matter" said Potter, and the way he said it had the hairs on Daphne's neck standing up. He … he was going to have them murdered, and they were family. Daphne blinked, she would be family soon too. She needed to say something, quickly before her throat closed up.

"People love their families, or at least tolerate them" said Daphne.

"Not in my experience" said Potter, sounding more like Snape than … well anyone. Even Snape.

"What has Narcissa done to you?" asked Daphne.

Potter waved his hand to indicate the two of them.

"You hate me so much?" asked Daphne, hoping he wasn't about to say 'Well, I'll talk to Shack… I'm sure you can have an accident.'

"Not at all. But we're doomed to politely coexist" said Potter. "The Malfoys, on the other hand, are going to Azkaban. Where who knows, maybe the guards will eat them." And Potter, she realised wasn't deadly serious… just… prepared to joke about people being eaten at Azkaban. He had… a very dark sense of humour.

"If Astoria is widowed, she will be left a poor, helpless woman with only millions of galleons, and a manor to comfort herself with" said Daphne, trying not to panic.

"Maybe she'll take you to Paris for shopping" said Potter, then he stood there with a slight smirk.

"Already trying to get rid of me?" asked Daphne.

"You'd be happy, your sister would be happy, and I doubt I'd miss you" said Potter. He smiled.

Daphne's perception of Potter suddenly ballooned. He was… darkly sarcastic… on top of a well of anger and … Merlin knows what. And he'd said politely coexist, which was… really quite promising. He wasn't planning to kill her, or have her killed, or… maybe even abandon her in a ruin. Maybe sarcasm?

"Oh Potter, you cut me… like a wooden spoon" said Daphne. The right side of Potter's mouth twitched up briefly, and his eyes met hers for an instant – he looked amused. Daphne blinked; He liked sarcasm.

"Can we do a different dance." asked Potter "I'm really bored of this one."

Daphne got the other records out, but put the Tango back in the cabinet; Mummy and daddy might Tango, but there was no way she was getting that close to Potter.

First, she'd try to get him to foxtrot. It was dead easy…. But so, she thought, so was a basic box waltz.

He stood on her feet over and over.

Qiuckstep, he nearly tripped her up.

Vienna Waltz, he got confused and slipped into a box waltz, which had Daphne nearly falling.

Every dance she introduced, Potter would do terribly badly. It was incredibly annoying, and her school shoes were badly scuffed, and her right instep bruised. She resisted the urge to kick his shins.

Daphne really tried to teach him, but her annoyance finally won out, and she said "You are, in fact, completely, utterly, useless at dancing."

"Yes" said Potter, unapologetically. A moronic Gryffindor quidditch player. And just like that, her mood got worse. He was fantastic on a broom; he could fly the most complicated patterns with ease. She felt her face tightening into rigid annoyance "Which in odd, given that if we were on brooms, you'd be able to do pretty much any of these dances at forty miles per hour upside down."

Potter stopped and was clearly thinking. Daphne closed her eyes and counted to ten. She'd made the shaved monkey think. This would take forever.

"I can do any seeker play." said Potter unexpectedly, "I can learn a new play in a day," he added like a talking dog.

"You are, as I observed, very good at quidditch. Why you can't dance?" snapped Daphne angrily "It's like you are trying to be awful and humiliate me."

"Humiliate you?" asked Potter, and was that a frown of confusion on his face?

"If my bloody husband can't dance, it's my fault" said Daphne. "And if we can't dance together, I look like a … a..."

"Woman trapped by a poor choice of marriage contract" said Harry sarcastically, but he started moving again.

"It was the most likely way to not die and not lose all our money, at the time" said Daphne "Nobody expected you to win against you-know-who."

"I beat a dragon when I was fourteen, a basilisk when I was twelve. Really, couldn't anyone see I could do it?" said Potter arrogantly. He was, she realised actually totally insufferable. He probably wore his Order of Merlin to bed.

"Quidditch plays" said Potter abruptly, and Daphne stopped trying to get him to dance and put her hands on her hips in frustration "What are you on about?"

"I'm good at learning quidditch plays" said Potter. Daphne wanted to scream. He was literally a talking dog.

"Everyone can work that out" said Daphne, implying… even Crabbe and Goyle knew.

"Draw the dance up as quidditch plays" said Potter "The diagrams, I mean. It's not like we're going to do a wollongong shimmy up the dance floor."

"What would that even look like?" asked Daphne, and Potter seized her and sped across the dance floor, weaving rhythmically left and right, pressing forward like the Hogwarts express, his feet flying, looking at the far wall. It was rather intimidating actually, and too fast to keep up with.

Daphne struggled to keep up with his long legs "Hey, slow down" protested Daphne "I'm doing this backwards… and I'll be doing it backwards in heels!"

Potter slowed down, and the Wollongong shimmy turned into a slow weave across the dance-floor. "Do you need to wear them?" asked Potter "It sounds awkward."

Daphne looked up at the tall, dark twit who was frowning slightly "I need to look taller" she said "You've contrived to grow since ninety-four."

"I'd hope so" said Potter "Or I'd be a midget" he added insultingly.

Daphne's narrowed her eyes at the word midget.

"You're not a midget" said Potter, in a conciliatory tone, turning and shimmy-ing them across the room in the opposite direction.

"My sister is taller than me" admitted Daphne bitterly.

"You're curvier" said Potter, and Daphne felt insulted. She let Potter go, and he stopped moving instantly.

She stepped back, crossed her arms and glared at the insulting, arrogant, condescending wanker she was betrothed to. Oh, and he was callous too. Callous, insulting, arrogant, condescending wanker.

"You dated bloody Weasley, so you must like skinny girls, like my sister" said Daphne angrily. She'd spent the afternoon being nice, now she was going to clear the air a bit.

"I think… you're prettier than your sister" said Potter, and he flashed a tiny smile at her. And the strangest thing was, he sounded sincere. Daphne felt… confused. He'd dated Weasley – who Blaise thought had the third-nicest bum at Hogwarts, there was no way she rated as prettier than her sister. Astoria's long legs and back made her… she had a long elegance that Daphne didn't.

"Maybe we should take a break, have something to drink" suggested Potter. He looked around, as if searching for a bottle of butterbeer, she supposed.

Daphne took him the breakfast room, and sat down. Potter sat and eyed the empty table.

"Would you like pumpkin juice?" she asked. She wasn't going to get him drunk and have him pawing at her. Potter shook his head. He didn't like pumpkin juice. Typical muggle-raised person.

"Water?" asked Potter.

Daphne summoned a couple of goblets and cast the water-summoning spell silently, twice, and managed, she was pleased to think, to make it look effortless.

Potter sat down, and Daphne sat immediately, resigned that he would under no circumstances make romantic gestures like pulling out her chair.

The sipped water. Daphne swallowed and discovered she was actually quite thirsty.

"Have you and your mother got a time in Paris organised yet?" asked Potter.

"Late next week" said Daphne "Things keep coming up." she said, not telling Potter what the things were. Her letters to Perks were bearing fruit slowly, but that was her project not any business of Potter's. Perks had been surprised, but Potter doubtless had property in France, and Daphne knew someone – well Perks, in France. And looking after houses in France for Daphne would be a job for Perks, and perhaps her family if they had fallen on hard times.

Potter left after drinking water to find quidditch play materials. Daphne went to see daddy, and got some tenant letters to deal with. The pleasant routine soothed her mind till dinnertime.

-==0==-

The next day, Potter arrived, again in a half-robe, with a bundle of parchments. And he had some odd Muggle marking tubes that left ink lines like a self-inking quill only broader and without nibs. They had a point like a solidified paint-brush, and were very easy to use. The muggles were clearly very lazy.

Daphne drew out a waltz as three plays. Those marker things were rather clever, she mused.

"But it's one thing in a square" said Potter, immediately reminding her that he was a shaved monkey. Clean-shaved right now at least.

"That's a box waltz. There needs to be three plays, so you can choose to put a lift in if required." explained Daphne.

After grabbing the first "play" Potter walked about the floor, gazing at the sheet.

"So you do this for quidditch plays? Fly with the sheet?" asked Daphne.

"I haven't played in years, but yeah, for the first few goes, I hold it."

Potter put the sheet down, and took the second, labelled 'box two'

After Potter had done the third one a few times, he put the parchments down and tried to dance with Daphne. It was a total failure.

"You do this. I know you do this" said Daphne, more convinced he was doing this on purpose.

"Oh" said Potter "you're the broom."

Daphne's hands tightened into fists "If you ever say that again, I will hex you." How dare he accuse her of being a school broom! She hadn't even gone into a broom-closet once, or even kissed anyone, except the one time on the cheek to Jean-Claude.

"I have to walk through the play with you" said Potter.

"And hold it how?" asked Daphne.

"You can... hold it in your teeth" suggested Potter, and damn his eyes for having a faint grin.

"If you ever tell anyone about this..." said Daphne, but she bit down on the parchment and danced, feeling like an idiot. However, the idiot she was dancing with was dancing so much better it was surreal. After five minutes of practice with Daphne and the plays, Potter put the parchments down and said "Well, start the music, and call the plays you want" he said.

"Call the plays?" asked Daphne. That made no sense.

"You're the captain, I'm just a seeker" said Potter. Daphne tried to understand what possible motivation he had for 'promoting' her to captain of this tiny not-really-quidditch team. Having the only working brain was probably the reason why, she resolved.

Daphne set up the gramophone and started it "We're going to do a waltz one followed by a three, on my mark… go."

Potter held her hip less tentatively, her hand in his… hard, slightly sweaty hand and box waltzed Daphne across the floor. It was … like he could dance. Almost. "And one and three" she said, with more enthusiasm than she actually possessed.

"Keep doing ones and threes?" asked Potter.

"And veer right" said Daphne. Potter went right.

"My right" said Daphne firmly.

Potter laughed at her as they box-waltzed across the ballroom, Daphne having to steer, as Potter was inclined to dance towards the walls; he would doubtless smash her back into the walls and furniture.

"We do all ones to got forward, ones and threes to hold position" explained Daphne.

"Seems … a bit dull" said Potter.

"Well, listen; when the music does that bit… now; next time, do a waltz two" said Daphne.

"The lift-turn play" said Potter.

"It's coming in about a minute" said Daphne, not rolling her eyes.

When the lift came, Potter picked her up by her hips and turned her seemingly effortlessly – she dangled in midair as he turned. He was stronger than he looked, she supposed. Which was odd as he wasn't heavily built. He did have… shoulders though.

The rest of the afternoon passed with a succession of waltzes as long as the records could play for, with Potter doing as he was told, and … it was like he could bloody well dance. Thought it was, Daphne reminded herself, just quidditch plays to him.

It was also a lot more work, as Potter didn't stop until the record did. Daphne halted play for drinks twice, and felt awkwardly sweaty. The front of Potter's shirt had started to stick to him, and he smelled of… well, of sweat. Daphne assumed he would have smelled of broomstick wax, had he been playing quidditch, instead of parleying quidditch skills into mock-dance skills.

Still, by five in the afternoon, he could dance a waltz quite reasonably. He didn't lead… but that, thought Daphne he could be trained to do. Clearly, he was indeed, a trained, shaved monkey. Who by five needed a shave and smelled of sweaty man. After he left, Daphne went and showered. Once small consolation was that he didn't stink when sweaty. But he didn't wear cologne either.

Several afternoons of mock quidditch drills had Potter effectively learning to dance a waltz. He wasn't great, but… he could, much like impersonating a man instead of a shaved baboon, dance as well as most men her age. And was completely disinclined to get handsy, or ogle, and… his sweat didn't make her gag. Not that she was pleased to have to smell it – merlin knew he needed some cologne but witches like her, trapped in inescapable betrothal contact, she told herself, had to make do. And buy daddy and mummy socks for all presents for the foreseeable future.

The mornings she spent catching up with the families tenants. There were a number of repairs to coordinate, but mostly just painting, which Tracey's brother Roger could do – as he didn't seem interested in getting a real job. In vaguely tenancy related business, Daphne finally got a letter back from Perks. Perks wasn't, by the tone of her reply convinced Daphne was being honest. Which was odd, as her claim to be betrothed to Potter could be verified by just opening Teen Witch Weekly, or the Daily Prophet.

-==0==-

Daphne went to Paris the next Thursday with her mother. Daddy had booked them rooms in a quite nice hotel on the Rue Magqiue. Mummy looked at the room with a strange, wistful smile.

"Your father and I came here on our grand tour after we married" she said.

"What, this actual room?" asked Daphne.

"Oh no. Your father was talked into the bridal suite" said mummy, with a smug smile.

"Is it nice?" asked Daphne, as this room was okay. A little shabby.

"I can't remember" said mummy "I was distracted. The sheets were very smooth on my face."

Daphne blushed. Oh god, mummy was going to go all continental on her. And implied that she and daddy had done it. Again. In some way that the sheets were on mummy's face. Probably they pulled the sheets up to stay covered, thought Daphne. Yes, that was it.

The next morning, mummy insisted Daphne wear 'her good underwear' which Daphne didn't recall either packing or owning. And it was green and lacy and a bit… well a bit fast. Fortunately there was a camisole and slip included.

"You're having a dress made dahlink, you will need to take your robe off at some point." Daphne got her robe on hastily.

After breakfast in the hotel restaurant, where because it was Paris, she had coffee and a croissant, she and mummy set out for the dressmakers, but the doorway out of the hotel was blocked by a group of witches and wizards holding quills and parchment, backed up by a row of jostling photographers.

Daphne took a deep breath and prepared to squeeze past these, probably reporters, when the all started yelling at once. At her.

"Miss Greengrass, can you tell us how long you've been Mister Potter's secret Lover!" asked one reporter. Daphne wondered if this was a prank. It seemed a lot of effort for Tracey and Lils to go to.

"Mademoiselle Greengrass, how are you dealing with your betrothed's affair with mademoiselle Weasley?"

"Ess it true that he is part veela?"

"Does the snake come out at night?"

"How are you finding Paris?"

"Have you any words for out readers wishing to find their own heroic wizard?"

Daphne felt herself slowing to a stop, buffeted by endless questions. Mummy seized her arm.

"Oh dear" said mummy in Hungarian. "You seem to have become rather famous."

Mummy cleared her throat noisily. The reporters ignored her.

She could feel mummy drawing herself up in annoyance.

"You'll have to say something dear" said mummy.

"I am not going to" Daphne disagreed.

"WE can't leave til they move" said Mummy. "Just say you're here to get a dress, and ignore anything you don't want to answer."

Daphne frowned at the press, and a camera flash went off.

She cleared her throat. And somehow, the reporters paused. Like dogs about to pounce on a rabbit, she thought to herself.

"I'm here to get a wedding dress made" said Daphne. "I'm going to do some other shopping, and obviously, wait for fittings. Thank you, and could you please get out of the way, so I can leave?"

That didn't work, and it was obvious in hindsight that it wouldn't.

After begging the hotel staff, they were ushered out a back door, and led down several stinky alleyways back to the Rue Magique. Her stomach hurt. She suspected the croissant had been a mistake.

Mummy referred to her map, and they set off down, the, well prosperous, bustling, clean Rue Magique. Diagon Alley looked like a war-zone in comparison, thought Daphne. A little later, after a quick side trip to the most darling little umbrella store, she realised, that was because it had been.

The found the right building eventually, and it had an unmarked door, just a street number.

Daphne looked at mummy "Is this a shop, mummy?"

"Oh no dear. This is a boutique. Your Harry's a generous man." said Mummy. Daphne suspected it was more that he had recklessly agreed, and would not find out what it cost till later. Memories of some of mummy's more extravagant shopping trips came to mind. Daddy had been very loud in his disapproval. Though… mummy did tend to just say 'Cyrus dahlink?' and take him to the office to snog him. Well that was all years ago, thought Daphne. She eyed her mother curiously. Mummy didn't look that old. In soft lighting she had no visible winkles, and the only grey in her hair looked stylish and intentional.

Mummy knocked on the door, and waited. A little later, the door opened, and young blonde witch in a black robe with a pin-cushion attached to her left wrist opened the door. She looked ancient, at least twenty-five.

"Daphne Greengrass" said Mummy "We're here for a wedding dress for her marriage to the famous hero, Harry Potter."

The young witch nodded silently, and retreated, Mummy swept in and Daphne followed, down a short hallway into a room like a small drawing room, with painted panels on the walls. The two doors behind Daphne shut behind her.

"Madame will be out soon" said the witch, and assumed a waiting pose with her hands laced together.

A little bit later, just long enough to be annoying, an elderly witch all in black, with heavy black rimmed glasses came into the room through a doorway cunningly disguised in the wall panels.

"This is the mademoiselle Daphne Greengrass?" asked the elderly witch in french.

Daphne frowned. That was a bit rude of her.

"Well, get your robe off, let's see what we have to work with."

Daphne took off her robe, and the assistant hung it on a hook that pulled out of the wall.

The elderly witch eyed Daphne's underwear. "The camisole" she said.

Daphne resentfully took that off, and mummy gave her an odd look. She looked… proud. Daphne made sure not to slouch.

The old witch clicked her fingers, and like a house-elf the assistant handed her a tape measure.

Daphne was measured by the elderly witch, who had cold hands. "Thirty-four." said Madame quietly

And a bony old finger poked her belly. "Quite a waist, twenty-one. We can work with that." she said. Then the old witch poked her bum. "Get that off"

Daphne blushed and slipped off her slip. The old witch walked around her, "I thought all English girls had saggy arses" she said, measured, and clicked her fingers. The assistant pushed on a wall panel and a secret wardrobe opened, full of silk dressing gowns. The assistant pulled out a powder blue one and offered it to Daphne. Daphne snatched it and slipped it in and did it up firmly.

The old witch cackled "Thirty-six, and shy" she said in English, and drew her wand. With a jab, one of the wall panels turned into a full-length mirror, and Daphne saw herself, in a tightly tied silk dressing gown looking annoyed and… she admitted she did have a small waist.

"Well, colours?" asked the old witch.

"I was thinking a pale light green?" said Mummy.

The old witch eyed Daphne "Cream. Can't go white she'll look dead. Can't go light green, she'll look blue. Get a cream one Fiona."

The assistant, who Daphne surmised was Fiona, rummaged and got a lacy cream dressing gown, and offered it to Daphne. Daphne undid the gown, and started hauling it off.

"Non!" said the old witch. "Let it slide off. Honestly."

Daphne shrugged the gown off, and it slid down her body in a… rather spine-tingling way, pooling on the floor. Fiona handed her the cream one. Daphne put it on and eyed her reflection.

The mean old witch with cold hands was right, Daphne admitted to herself. Cream suited her. Fiona reached out her hand and… wandlessly summoned the discarded gown off the floor into her hand. Daphne tried not to boggle at that.

"Really, a cream wedding dress?" asked Mummy.

"It will suit her. This is art, not a … monkey suit. She needs decent clothes. I suppose being English this is the best you can get. And that brassiere. It's terrible."

Daphne crossed her arms over her bust. The bra was probably the sexiest bra she'd ever worn. It was true, she thought sourly, the French were obsessed by sex.

Fiona took a business card out of her robe pocket and handed it to mummy, who took the opportunity to sit down on a couch and cross her legs.

"So. Where are her shoes?" asked the elderly witch.

Daphne felt that was quite insulting. She was wearing shoes, with a stylish heel.

"Oh yes" said Mummy in English "He's quite tall. About six foot. She needs five or six-inch heels."

Daphne swore a silent vow. Mummy was getting socks and plaster clowns for her birthdays for the rest of her life.

"Hmm" said the elderly witch"Fione, go get the tall shoes we use for shows."

Fiona scoffed in Daphne's direction and slipped from the room through another camouflaged door.

Daphne got to stand there, practically naked, waiting for ages.

Fiona returned with a pasteboard box big enough for several shoes, walked over to Daphne and gently but firmly pushed her to a chair, and into a seat. Then she took out a black shoe that seemed designed as torture, with a heel longer than Daphne's hand. Daphne looked in horror as one of her shoes was taken off and the tall shoe test-fitted. It was too small. Fiona went back into the box and found another, and tried that. It slipped on and bit into her archilles tendon a little.

"It's not very comfortable" said Daphne.

Fiona shrugged and handed her a matching shoe. Daphne changed shoes and stood up; or attempted to. The stupid things nearly turned her ankle. Fiona actually darted in and helped her stay upright. Well sort of upright- she had to stick her bum out to balance on her toes, and lean forward.

Then Fiona measured her height.

"Five foot eight" said Fiona.

Mummy shook her head "She needs to be five foot ten at least."

Fiona gave the old witch a look and shook her head. Daphne felt ridiculous, and eyed her reflection. And had to blink. The witch in the dressing gown looked like Daphne, but with a sour frown and … it. Loads and loads of it. Daphne moved one hand – the reflection echoed the motion. There was no way she had that much… bum. It was very embarrassing. And her chest looked ridiculous. She looked, thought Daphne like some french hussy between assignations with her lover. Which had her mood plummeting. Potter would never love her, and was so callous.

However, apparently the humiliation needed to be prolonged, as Madame measured Daphne again. Mercifully over her … um the new cream dressing gown.

"Is that the bra she's going to wear?" asked Madame, in a tone that said 'No it's not.'

"We'll… go get Daphne some lingerie" said Mummy.

"And shoes. She'll need seven inches, her derriere loses her an inch" said Madame sharply.

Daphne sat down and got out of the stupid shoes, and hastily put her slip and camisole back on, then her robe.

"That's so unflattering" said Madame "You've got a good figure for a young witch."

Daphne left feeling very cross. Fiona had found a card for a shoe-maker who would have a taller shoe. Daphne doubted that was physically possible.

Once the door was shut and they were standing in the street she said to mummy "That was awful."

"That was a revelation dear. I had no idea you were so beautiful." said Mummy in Hungarian.

"What?"

"You … you're gorgeous dahlink. He'll be under your spell before he's finished walking down the aisle." said Mummy. Daphne pressed her lips together.

"I'm not trying to … put him under my spell" said Daphne.

"Why not. He'll pay you more attention, lavish you with gifts. And in time, he could love you." said Mummy. Daphne resigned herself that mummy was going to be weird about it.

"It's just an arranged marriage" said Daphne.

"We paid a fortune, and you got a tall handsome man who's apparently famous in France too" said Mummy. "You might as well have him burning with desire for you. You do… like boys?"

Daphne rolled her eyes. Mummy was going to be like this all day.

The shoemakers store was tiny, with a counter, a chair, and a door to the back. The shoemaker was a short, skinny wizard in bright blue robes who listened to mummy explain in French, looked at Daphne and nodded. "There's just the thing" he said, in French and went out the back.

He returned in a few minutes with a shoebox. A large shoebox. He pointed to Daphne and she sat in the chair. The glossy white shoe he took out of the box had a stupidly high heel – easily seven inches long ,with a tiny platform under the ball of the shoe.

"This is all that's possible dearie" he said in English with a faint whine in his voice.

Daphne gingerly put the stupid shoes on, and with help from mummy and the shoemaker, stood up. She… had to stick out her bum and lean forward, but she was looking over mummy's head. And swaying a little, so Mummy stood closer to steady her elbow.

"How tall is she?" asked Mummy. "We need five foot ten at least."

The shoemaker found and an enchanted tape measure in his counter drawers and measured her height.

"Five foot ten and half" he said. "You will need a lot of practice in those, dearie. I'll get you a booklet, it has a very good turned-ankle charm. If you fall, try to roll, or you might break a wrist." And that didn't sound ominous at all.

Mummy paid eighty galleons for the shoes, and the complimentary booklet, and a complimentary tiny jar of bruise paste. Daphne glared at the bag, and they left the shop.

A photographer and reporter were lying in wait, and they tried to question Mummy.

Mummy replied in Hungarian "Go away you noxious creepers," only the reporter kept asking what they'd bought in French.

"Shoes, you imbecile" Daphne finally snapped.

The lingerie store was a long way down the Rue Magique, and had dressmakers dummies in scandalous underthings in the front window. Boys were staring. In fact, grown men were stopping to eye the dummies. The French were sex mad, Daphne was sure of it.

Daphne followed mummy in, and the stupid reporter and the stupid cameraman had followed them. Daphne blushed, thinking that they knew she was here to buy underthings. Not that there was anything wrong with her underthings. She liked them, and she liked bras that flattened her out. Susan Bones – not that she was big like Susan, and had boys following her around in an annoying way, so Daphne had resolved aged fourteen, to keep hers at tamed as possible.

Mummy bustled over to the oldest witch in show uniform, and proceeded to explain, in German. Why she didn't speak French to them, Daphne had no idea. But the old witch evidently understood and took Daphne off to a small fitting room. There was a pile of shifts on a shelf.

"You are marrying. You need lingerie for under your dress?" asked the old witch slowly in french accented English.

"Oui" said Daphne "Though there's nothing wrong with mine." she added.

The old witch had the gall to roll her eyes, then she latched the door "Get it off" she said, and picked up a tape measure, and put her hands under her armpits. Daphne resignedly stripped off her robe, and underthings, and then her bra. The French witch started measuring, and her hands were warm.

"Merci" said Daphne with gratitude, and the old witch smiled, her face breaking into a mass of wrinkles.

"Hmm" said the old witch, and handed her a shift. Daphne put it on and did it's tie up.

"And the rest" said the old witch. Daphne suffered through having her bum and legs measured.

The old witch snorted "You can blow his brains out" she said. Daphne had no interest in blasting cursing Potter's brains out, or displaying herself to him in lingerie.

"What colour is the dress?" asked the old witch in English again.

"Cream. I speak french quite adequately." said Daphne.

"This is your wedding outfit. You have witchdom to represent. Who's doing the dress?"

"Madame... she did not say. Um couture. Number forty-eight the Rue Magique. My … my husband is paying" said Daphne.

The old witch snorted in an undignified way. "Desha. You're going to Desha. She'll like your waist."

"She did mention it yes." said Daphne. "I have to wear tall heels."

"Yes he is fairly tall" said the old witch. And suddenly. Daphne realised she hadn't had to say her name. The witch knew who she was already. Being engaged to someone famous, thought Daphne was annoying.

"We'll need reinforced stockings" mused the witch "You'll need four pairs – some for rehearsals and a spare pair. Do get your nails done a day before. You would not believe how many sobbing brides have flooed me, having put runs in their stockings trying to get their socks on quickly."

After trying on four bustiers, the elderly witch decided on one for Daphne, which tapered in sharply. It was loose at the bottom, but the witch carefully transfigured it to be a quite perfect fit.

Daphne eyed her reflection. The support was well, it was showing off what Daphne liked to hide. Still, she'll have a dress on over the top, and there will be no cleavage on show, she has decided.

The elderly witch took delivery of a pile of knickers through a communicating cupoboard, none of them particularity suited to cold weather, or flying a broom. One is scarcely more than a bra-strap.

Daphne goes with something less… uncomfortable looking. Which, whne she tries it on felt… well it's not… respectable to have knickers that feel that good on.

The old witch smirks "Two of that I think."

Daphne leaves the store with mummy, who somehow has a bag of her own, and two bags of lingerie. The old witch threw in a few bras. "These actually fit you" she said "Don't be silly. Lingerie is for you to pamper you. You don't have to show your husband; there's wedding night robes for that."

They do look very pretty, and are cream with little embroidered flowers in bright colours. It can't hurt.

They're now in need of some lunch, so mummy decides they're going to a cute little bistro. The food is … well it's french and quite nice, and the coffee's okay, she supposes. But secretly, Daphne wants tea with two sugars and milk.

After lunch, they drop by the dressmaker, and the front door opened, but Fiona tells them madam is busy. Mummy organises a time, Fiona has a notebook in her apron with madam's schedule. They need to come back tomorrow afternoon.

"What will we do now?" asked Daphne.

"Well, we can go clothes shopping. We need to go back to the hotel first. You can get something chic." said Mummy.

"Daddy's not paying for that" said Daphne.

"Your husband gave you a carte-blanche" said Mummy "He can pay your father back any sum. We know he's got eighty-five thousand."

Daphne can't believe mummy's gall, but is keen to put the bags away and use a loo.

Mummy puts her foot down and insists Daphne put a 'decent' bra on. Her robes are less comfortable, with the lacy bra holding her girls up instead of flattening them. Her reflection before she goes out looks cross, and that her robes are too small. Which is not true.

However, when they try to leave the hotel, they are accosted by press once again on the way out of the hotel. Two reporters and photographers.

"Where are you going?"

"Shopping." said Daphne.

The robe store mummy takes her directly to is like Madam Mallkins or Twilfitt and Tatting, but… french. And the robes are very cute. And once again, Daphne has to be measured by the shop girl , who scowls at her. The robes in a cute blue pinstripe will be done tomorrow; there's also this rather luxurious brown velvet mummy presses on her. It's a heavy robe, but… it's soft and warm.

The one store takes hours to try on just another robe… well seven or eight. And then it's getting late, and time for dinner. Daphne decides on just three. Then mummy throws her two knuts in and adds a black one with organza that Daphne's' not sure she'd ever wear, and a hounds-tooth that well, Daphne's never been one for wearing a pattern. It does feel nice though.

Daphne takes a note for the robes, and they promise to have them delivered within a day. Two at the outside.

On the way out of the store, a photographer takes their pictures again.

And more are lurking at the hotel.

Still, dinner is nice and Daphne has a letter from daddy. He hopes she's not too tired from shopping.

Mummy has a letter from daddy also, and she reads it and sighs.

The next morning, they have a pile of invitation cards. Some from actual people, but mostly from stores. A hat-maker, a glove store, a jeweller, and three dress-makers. And a restaurant.

Mummy gets the waiter to bring a newspaper. The strangest thing is on the front page, below the fold. A photograph of her. Of Daphne, looking a bit harried, leaving the lingerie store. Mummy's just out of shot, and Daphne must have been swinging the bag from the store as she walked.

The headline is ridiculous. "Bride Harry Potter's lingerie store of choice" and they don't even get her name right. Mummy huffs. "We'll need to hand out cards." says mummy.

They go back to the hotel room and spend ten minutes turning hotel stationary into visiting cards that list their names. Mummy has the temerity to put her age. In retaliation, Daphne takes the self-inking quill and writes in mummy's age on the cards. Mummy crosses her arms and glares at Daphne.

"You've ruined them" says mummy.

"Mummy, you're forty-six. There's no shame in that. You look great for forty-six." That appeal to ego has mummy somewhat mollified. And Daphne doesn't admit that she's read their marriage licence which had mummy two years older than that. And a few pages in, mummy's in the paper looking quite pleased and very attractive for a witch of a certain age. And she so can pass for thirties in kind lighting. Daphne sometimes hopes she'll age as gracefully. Grandmama did, till she died, and great-grandmama is well… she's very old and only looks seventy or eighty. That has Daphne thinking about grandmother, daddy's mother; who looks her age, with silver hair and some wrinkles. Grandmother doesn't know the sordid details of their contract, of the deal that went wrong. Daphne will work out how to tell her one day.

Mummy and Daphne go to the hat shop, and have fun for a few hours trying on hats. Mummy picks out a couple, and Daphne finds a neat little hat that's a chic as she expected french hats to be. When they go to pay… the proprietress speaks briefly to mummy, overrules the shop girl and they leave having paid less than half.

Mummy hands out a card to each reporter outside the shop, and says "We had a great time at the store and really liked the hats we got" then she mutters "Daphne, put the hat on."

Daphne frowns but puts on the chic little hat anyway. Photo flashes go off. Daphne tries to stare through it, as if it's not happening.

"What happened?" asked Daphne in Hungarian

"The owner offered us a discount. Your wearing her hat for a photo will seal it. The invitations I think, they want their wares advertised by you buying them" mummy replied.

"Why?" asked Daphne.

"One of the reporters and cameras is for french teen witch weekly. You're famous, apparently."

"For marrying him"

"We got that hat for four galleons. It's sixteen" said mummy.

"He's paying anyway" said Daphne indignantly.

"He's paying what he expects. He doesn't need to know we get discounts." said mummy "This way we can get more shopping."

Daphne briefly imagined having to be photographed in new lingerie to get a discount on it, and shuddered in distress.

"What's wrong?" asked mummy.

"Discounts on lingerie" said Daphne. "I imagined photos."

"No daughter of mine is being photographed in her underwear" said mummy. "That photo in Le Monde Magique… every witch will know you went there, and left happy. I'm sure they'll be..."

Daphne and her mother passed the lingerie store, which had a line out the front door of witches queuing to be served. Daphne swallowed with difficulty. Apparently, they had started a trend.

For lunch they went to one of restaurants that had sent a card, went to order, the waiter said

"The owner wishes you to have the special of the day" and that was that, apparently.

Daphne left the bread-bun on the plate, but enjoyed the duck comfit. And the pate, and the roasted vegetables stuffed with cheeses and truffles, and the char-grilled capsicums and …. there were many courses. Mummy was licking her lips "This is good" she said in English.

And when mummy asked for the bill the waiter just shook their head "It is gratis. Maison gastronomique d'Henri is glad to have had you as guests."

Daphne left feeling fairly full, and predictably there were reporters and cameras outside. Daphne smiled for the camera, well, and at the memory of the cheese-and truffle stuffing, and mummy handed over a card, and recommended the restaurant.

"And mademoiselle Greengrass, do you recommend it?" asked a reporter.

Daphne took a deep, calming breath, and replied "Well... I will have to have a light supper, or my dresses won't fit." And the reporters laughed. And got out of their way.

"If you give them a bone they stop barking" said mummy in Hungarian.

"Evidently" Daphne replied.

The dressmaker had left a message for them at the hotel. Daphne was to bring her shoes and lingerie.

Daphne rolled her eyes and dragged the bags along with her, as mummy strolled along, sorting a huge pile of invitation cards.

"Oh. That's nice" said Mummy.

"What?"

"An opera invite. You like opera dear?" said mummy.

"When?"

"Whenever" said Mummy. "Evenings."

"Tonight?" asked Daphne.

"Why not. It's… probably free." said mummy with a chuckle.

Daphne stood up in Madam's fitting room in the stupid shoes and the lingerie, and Madam eyed her up and down.

"This… this I can make perfect" she said. Daphne wasn't sure she liked her tone.

But she was measured, again, and a rough block in cream was draped on and marked up, then back into the dressing gown, and allowed to sit, on the couch with mummy.

"Now… styles?" asked Madam, and Fiona got a large folio, and opened it up. Photographs of witches in dresses. Wedding-ish dresses.

"Won't look the same on you" sad Madam "But find a style."

And they spent hours looking at styles. The witches in the photographs obligingly turned and also walked across the photographs to best display the dresses.

Daphne found a dress that covered her from head to foot, with a modest little raised collar.

"Hmm" said Madam "That general style. In cream. Now, patterns, and tulles and laces."

And it was fairly late, and Daphne wasn't sure. "I… I'm not sure" said Daphne.

"There's time to decide" said Madam "I would recommend to take a few days deciding. We can start already."

"How long will it take?" asked Daphne.

"Two months, around other jobs" said Madam bluntly. "But I only need you for a week or two. Unless you put on weight."

They went to a different restaurant for dinner – and it was delicious, and free, and the opera was free too. When they went back to the hotel, mummy wrote a letter to daddy.

"He'll be so incensed." said mummy with a wicked grin "Free food, free entertainment."

Daphne couldn't help giggling. It wasn't the complimentary champagne from the opera. Really.

"Are you going to write to your husband to be?" asked Mummy, and that was her good mood killed.

"No" said Daphne.

"Well your friends?" asked Mummy.

"I'm a bit drunk" admitted Daphne, and she went and had a long bath instead. The hotel towels and bathrobes were okay, she supposed. But not a patch in the one from madam Desha.

"You want that silk dressing gown?" asked Mummy perceptively.

"You'd want one too" said Daphne.

"Well, we'll both get one" said Mummy cheerily.

Days passed, in a blur of discount priced shopping, free restaurant meals and the occasional opera, or musical performance. Paris, though Daphne, was quite tolerable. Having friends over would be nice though. You couldn't really have girly talk with mummy. Well you could. But she'd be horribly continental about things, and then it would be soo embarrassing.

Daphne collected some shoes she liked; that weren't as stupendously tall. And them mummy simply insisted she get another tall pair, like the one pair Fiona at madam's had tried on her.

Friday came, and French teen witch weekly came out. They got comp'ed a copy by owl post.

Somehow the magazine had a photo of her leaving the um, one of the nice shoe stores, swinging her bags of loot and smiling. Daphne vaguely remembered that she'd actually won an argument with mummy and not bought anything super tall, that's why she was looking pleased.

Daphne flicked through the magazine over breakfast, feeling her cheeks heating up. Every other article was about her. Or about her and Harry Potter, who they only had an old photo of. From his order of Merlin award ball. He had the medal on his dress robes, and looked a bit tired. Giant egotist that he was, he'd love the publicity. There was an article about her nonexistent feud with Granger for Potters's affections, and an even more luridly worded one about Ginny Weasley, the bit on the side. Weasley looked really good in the ball dress. If a bit girlish. Daphne scoffed. Her wedding dress would relegate Weasley to the back of quidditch monthly. And her arse was... why Blaise had thought it was so great – she had a picture in this copy of Teen witch weekly from one of the operas, where mummy had pressed her into tall heels and an evening gown. She did look… well she looked about twenty-five, really. It was a little embarrassing, but also… well the title was "Most Beautiful teen witch alive?" But mummy said the photo had been a little 'altered.'

Daphne resolved to check that dress in the mirror tonight of they weren't too busy. There was an invite to an art gallery, that looked fun.

Five more pages in, there was an article about 'Greengrasses' secret paramour' And a photo of Daphne talking to that fellow at the opera. He'd been a bit pushy, on the other hand he had told them a lot about the opera, about the singers, and certainly wasn't her paramour.

She handed it to mummy. Mummy frowned at it and read it, her eyes narrowing "Well" said Mummy "That's irresponsible reporting. He was just being helpful." Daphne wanted to roll her eyes – he had ogled her a quite a bit.

And the newspaper carried a story about Daphne's illicit love on page eight.

After another week of shopping, the rough of her dress fit rather well, and Daphne was sick of men hitting on her. Mummy had tried to talk her into wearing the more assertive bras but Daphne refused. The cute little hat, well that was different. And a lot of witches were wearing similar hats, which was odd. But it was a cute hat. Though she'd seen this other one, and the shopkeeper had given it to her.

Daphne determined, by looking in the papers, that if she so much as talked to a young man, that was her secret lover for a few days in Le Monde Magique, and in French Teen witch weekly. An older man… that was an illicit affair, or her was her sugar-daddy. Daphne had to ask mummy what even meant, in the safety of the hotel room.

"Paying for my stuff?" asked Daphne "But we're paying… and invoicing Potter later."

"I know dear" said Mummy, who according to the newspaper had divorced her father, or was cheating on him with other men, or was mistress to three different men, some very important, and running a dark coven. Mummy wrote to daddy daily to reassure him, just in case.

(And unless Daphne was mistaken, mummy had put on a little weight. Daphne blamed the cream everything was cooked in, and the crusty bread mummy scoffed slathered in pate.)

Daphne was actually glad to take the portkey home, away from the press. Paparazzi was the word, apparently for the reporters following her around.