Chapter Four: A Cruel Twist of Fate

"Mr. Potter," there was no warmth there. Some people dreaded meeting their future in-laws. Tracey had been petrified to meet the Weasleys and he had not even entertained the idea of Daphne being welcomed into Privet Drive. Harry hadn't necessarily been dreading meeting Mrs. Greengrass, more apprehensive and this wasn't exactly how he wanted to do it. He'd had images of being invited over to Greengrass Manor for tea, being forced to sit through an awkwardly long dinner and maybe answer questions on his heritage or his upbringing. But there was none of that now and all because of him.

"Please," Mrs. Greengrass said after a long moment, "forgive me. I was not expecting you."

"I wasn't either," Harry admitted, there was something about her gaze that made him wish he was facing off against Voldemort or fighting the Horntail. "Sorry."

"No need," she assured him, smiling like a mannequin. If Harry didn't already know she probably hated him, it wasn't hard to figure out. Yet, here she was. In hiding rather than summoning Voldemort or trading off Daphne for a better seat at the table. It was as though a battle was raging inside her, family against tradition, he just hoped family won.

An awkward silence hung between them. All the impetus that had propelled from St. Mungo's caught itself in a loop, feeding back in on itself and keeping him locked in place. Like a loading screen on one of Dudley's computer games. Mrs. Greengrass, no doubt, was sizing him up. Perhaps debating if she should even let him in. He wanted to be angry, to burst in there and ignore the consequences. But what good would that do?

"My daughter believes she loves you," the sound of the door shutting was like a cannon blast in the silence that had fallen between them. Out in the slowly falling sunlight, Harry could see that Mrs. Greengrass did not resemble her daughter. Where Daphne was short and blonde, Mrs. Greengrass was taller, with dark curls framing a narrow face. Where Daphne's smile was rare but earned, Mrs. Greengrass wore hers like a mask. It was easy to see why Sirius had always warned him about her. The only thing she shared with her daughter was her eyes, much like Harry did with his own mother.

"She is young," Mrs. Greengrass went on, taking a step closer to Harry, "as are you. You don't know the fragility of love, nor do you appreciate the finer delicacies of war."

"And you do, do you?" Harry glowered, trying his best to keep his temper in check, but it was hard when he was face to face with the woman he knew had made Daphne's life hell. Whatever she thought. Mrs. Greengrass reminded him of Aunt Petunia. Yes, she had clothed him, given him a roof over his head and made sure he didn't die. But that wasn't enough, it wasn't being a parent.

Would he have been able to fend off Voldemort time after time without the Dursleys being so vile? Probably not. But he didn't have to thank them for it either.

"More than either of you realise, I'm sure. By now you know that my daughter likes to think of me as something of a tyrant."

"I do, and should she?"

"Perhaps," Mrs. Greengrass admitted with a small shrug of her shoulder, as non-committal as a drifting breeze. "Perhaps not. I do what I must to protect my family, Mr. Potter. Nothing more or less. You may find that cowardly, you may even think me reprehensible. Frankly, I do not care. Daphne must, of course, hate me. If she did not, where else would her hatred go? We all need someone to blame for the uncontrollability of life."

"No offence, Mrs. Greengrass, but there's more to being a mother than just being there."

"Yes, there is," Mrs Greengrass agreed with a sombre nod of her head. "Pity that you wouldn't know."

"Excuse me?" Harry gaped, his already frayed temper ready to snap at the mention of his mother.

"I mean no offence."

"Yet it seems to happen a lot 'round you," Harry commented. To his surprise the witch smiled, she was a woman of many. Most were insincere, but this actually reached her eyes. Not with mirth, like most people, but with something else. As if she were relishing the challenge.

"I see why she likes you."

"And I can see why she doesn't like you." She laughed. Everything about her threw him off. Had he not been so desperate to get through the door and to see Daphne, he may have already erupted. As it was, Harry did his best not to rise to her laughter. But it wasn't easy.

"To answer your question," Mrs. Greengrass replied, "you may see her. I would ask you not to be too long, but I know you would simply ignore it. Just one thing, Mr. Potter," she edged closer still, her eyes never leaving his. "This war that seems so keen on finding you, be sure to remember that you may lose as easily you could win. And everything that entails."

"Trust me, I know." It was impossible not to. Weeks of being trapped in his own head with only Voldemort for company had seen to that.

"Do you? I pray for the sake of my daughters you have truly considered it. This isn't some funny little game you all get to walk away from. People will die. You may die." Dumbledore's words flooded back to him.

"I'd rather die fighting than live letting people suffer." He brushed past Mrs. Greengrass and found the door opening before him. He didn't need to look back to know she'd drawn her wand, but was glad to find that, when he stepped over the threshold, she didn't turn on him.

The house was simple enough, meticulously clean and homely all at once. Books filled a tall bookcase on one wall, but not so much that it was over-flowing. A comfy sofa sat next to it, giving the occupant a wonderful view of the sea below them.

To his left and through a door that had been left slightly ajar was the kitchen. It appeared to be cleaning itself from the remnants of their meal. Plates washed themselves, mugs magically found their homes and chairs were levitated out of the way of a marauding broom. Orchestrating it all was a small house elf dancing merrily on top of the kitchen table, whose back was turned to Harry but who was merrily singing as she worked, completely oblivious to the tension on her doorstep.

"The second door on your left," Mrs. Greengrass said quietly, so as not to disturb the elf. "Do be quiet, Mopsy can be painfully excitable around new guests."

Harry did as he was told, all he wanted now more than ever was to see Daphne. Moving quietly, he found the door she was talking about and hesitated. Did he knock? Or open? Opening would be bad. So knock? Faced with the dark oak door he suddenly wondered if she would want him there? This was her new sanctuary, the home she had almost given up for him and he'd just turned up. Now that he was at her door, now that he was within mere feet, it was impossible to realise just how uninvited he was. Would she smile? Hug him? Run to him or simply stare? Now she knew what he was. Now he knew. Would they be the same? Could they be?

Screwing up what remained of the courage that had got him this far, he balled his hand into a fist, panicked, and then hastily knocked. There was a soft groan, the squeaking of bedsprings and the pronounced noise of a floorboard creaking a little too long.

"Look if you want me to apologise I'm not -" The words died on her lips. She was as beautiful as ever. She was dressed in a matching set of striped blue pyjamas, her blonde hair tousled and longer than he'd ever seen it. Whenever she visited him in St. Mungo's it had been tied back from her face, but now it was hung loosely halfway between her chest and her waist. It looked good.

Harry swallowed. Tried to smile. Failed. Opened his mouth. Shut it again. Then felt himself wave. God he looked stupid.

"Harry," Daphne breathed. Before he knew it her arms were around his neck, pulling him towards her. Hastily, he managed to catch himself on the doorframe, before hugging her back. "I can't believe you're here."

"I had to see you," he confessed quietly, his face full of nothing but hair and the smell of her strawberry shampoo. "Sorry to -"

"Don't be daft," she swatted his back, refusing to let go for a moment longer. "Merlin's beard, it's good to see you." She stepped back, gripping his arms. "They let you out then?"

"Yeah," it sounded stiff even to him. "Look, can we…"

"'Course," she pulled him into her room and quickly shut the door behind him. It was everything he'd expected. Ordered, neat and tidy. A white wooden wardrobe stood at the foot of her bed, with a small space to move to a desk beneath the window. White curtains blew gently in the warm summer breeze and on the sill sat the picture of the DA he'd given her for Christmas.

"He saw you? Dumbledore?"

Harry nodded, letting Daphne guide him to the bed. Despite the fact he'd spent all day every day in one for the past few weeks, it was good to sit down with her.

"He, erm, told me. About the prophecy. And the Horcruxes. And," he swallowed, unable to look at Daphne. "Me."

The reality of it all slammed down on him as though he had been run over by the Hogwarts Express. This. This was real. Fury. Denial. Outrage. Self-pity. All of it faded into the mist of acceptance as Daphne's blue eyes met his. She knew. Maybe a small part of him had been clinging onto the idea it was some kind of twisted dream. Another nightmare. Maybe even that Dumbledore was wrong. But he wasn't.

"Harry, I'm sorry." There were tears in her eyes now.

"No, don't say sorry, sorry's what you say when there's nothing you can do." The emptiness inside him was maddening. It was sucking everything out of him. Every fight, every breath, hadn't been his. It had been shared, shared with the one man he hated more than anyone else. He'd have laughed if it wasn't so objectively, grotesquely vile. "There is something we can do, right?"

"We think there is," Daphne answered, "we're trying."

"And will it work?"

"We don't know." At least she was honest.

"Right, brilliant. Of course. Why would you?" The laugh that forced itself from him was devoid of any emotion other than sheer, raw anger. He wasn't aware of getting to his feet, but suddenly he was pacing. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I just… it's always the same, isn't it? It's always me, why can't it be someone else?"

Alongside all the other noises, the crashing of the waves, the distant singing of Daphne's house elf, a cool, hold laugh was filling his eardrums. His mother's screams. She'd died for nothing. Died to give him life, but what life? He felt his heart racing in his chest, but it wasn't his heart anymore. Suddenly every beat, every breath, was Voldemort's too. Every moment he lived, Voldemort could live on too.

"Do I have to die?" The question came long before his brain had consciously asked it. "Dumbledore said that's what he thought was going to happen. Before Hermione found that, whatever it was."

"I'm not going to let that happen." Daphne was on her feet now, tears trickling slowly down her face as she looked at him. Looking at her, it was like something pulling at him. An anchor, a great weight not letting him drift away completely. She reached out and for a moment, just a moment, he wanted to pull away. Too scared to let her touch him, too revolted with his own body to share it with her, too embarrassed.

"But you just said —"

"If it doesn't work, we find something else. And if that doesn't work either, then something different."

"But if this thing doesn't die —"

"It'll die," Daphne promised, her voice cold. "I'm just not letting it take you with it."

"And if you can't?" he heard his voice break.

"Voldemort already took my father from me," Daphne said softly, taking his hand, her thumb gently rubbing over his palm. "I'm not going to let him take you too."

It was all too much. He just wanted to stop. For once, why couldn't he just stop? The memories of mere weeks ago, even days ago, flooded his brain. He wanted to go back there. Wanted to be living without this, without knowing what else lived because he did. Every breath felt like a lie. Every moment tainted. Every heartbeat was empty.

"And if you think I'm done with you, you've got another thing coming," Daphne said firmly, squeezing his hands so tightly he could feel her nails digging into him. "We're going to fix it, we are. Whatever it takes. We've got a plan, we're doing something and when you're ready, when this has all sunk in, I'll tell you everything. But right now — Harry look at me," she gently pulled his face towards her. She was so close he could feel her breath on his skin and see each tear track marring her beautiful face. "Right now, just know I'm here. I am never, ever, going anywhere."

He wanted to object, wanted to list the many impossible reasons why this wouldn't work. Why it might not and why deep down he doubted it ever would. There was only one way out he could see, the same way it had started. One life for another. But as the words formed on his lips, they died almost instantly. She knew everything he knew. Knew how unlikely it was, how impossible it should be. Yet she was still fighting, still desperately trying to figure out a solution. If she wasn't going to give up, then why couldn't he?

Harry felt himself nodding. There wasn't a lot else he could do. His mind was still desperately scrambling to process everything he'd just heard. He wanted to stop. Wanted to just let it happen. After everything, why couldn't it? Hadn't he fought enough?

"I love you," she said simply. He wanted that to be enough. Wanted to believe her. But how could she? How could she love someone with a monster living inside them? As long as he carried on living, Voldemort would too. He wondered if he knew. If the self-proclaimed Dark Lord had any idea.

Probably not. It was an accident. A cruel twist of fate, just another joke the world seemed ready to play on him. The coolness of the pillow was a welcome connection to the world he suddenly felt so disconnected from. It would have been easier if they told him this was it. Done, goodbye. The idea of hope, of clinging to a possible way out in the face of everything felt somehow worse.

And she'd known for how long? How long had she said, weeks? She'd known and not said anything. Not said and just been there for him. Every day, every hour she could by his bed. Just like Ron and Hermione. How she'd done it, how they'd all managed it, he had no idea. If his heart was broken now then theirs', theirs' must've shattered every time they saw him.

"Do you?"

"Harry, this doesn't change anything. You're not him. You never will be. Look at it this way, you pour pumpkin juice in a glass or goblet or whatever. The glass is still a glass. It's not pumpkin juice. It's the same thing. You're still you and we're going to fix this, okay? Me and you. We're going to get through this, whatever it takes. Watching you in St. Mungo's, thinking I'd lost you," she paused, furiously wiping away the tears that spilt from her eyes. "I can't do that again."

"You deserve better than this."

"No-one deserves anything," Daphne countered, "all we can do is deal with the hand we're dealt. But for the record, I wouldn't choose anyone else." She leant up and gave him a small kiss on the cheek, before snaking her arms around him and leaning her head on his shoulder.

"I don't know what to do, Daph."

"Keep on going. It's all we can do. But I'm right here."

"Even though your mother hates me?" Harry joked, trying to force some kind of levity back into the conversation. Daphne snorted derisively, hitting his chest playfully.

"I'd argue that just makes it more fun," Daphne smirked, giving him one final gentle squeeze before pulling away from him. "Have you seen the others yet?"

Harry shook his head. "I just wanted to see you."

"While I'm flattered, I'm sure they'd like to know you're okay. When you're ready."

"Could we just stay here? For a bit?"

"Of course," Daphne assured him, she took his hand and led them to the bed. He wasn't sure how long they lay there, or even when he started crying. He didn't want to leave. Out there was everything he feared. ain. Loss. Love. Here, he could hide away from it all. Here, he could just accept that some vile thing lived because of him and would always live if he did. Here, he could loathe it, loathe himself and despise what Voldemort had made of his life. Here, life was easier.

Decisions would come later. His life could come later. For now, well, now all he could do was let it out and hope that was enough.