Posted 7/5/2014
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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.
Chapter Forty-Four - An Old Acquaintance
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It had taken until the fourth of December until Harry felt safe enough to put his plans into action. Hermione had taken over most of the shopping trips in addition to her workload, but fortunately, Kreacher's behaviour had improved again. For whatever reason, he had begun a thorough cleaning and rearranging of things, slowly turning the kitchen into something halfway acceptable for a pureblood family, yet still markedly different from the old layout of the Blacks. Even though it wasn't enough to turn everything around, it did lighten the mood, and it did promise that one day, it would no longer look straight out of the nineteenth century, furniture and grime included.
Harry had felt bad whenever he had left the house. While he was outside on his mission in the cold, Ron was stuck in the house. Neither of his friends thought it wise to let him do any shopping, he lacked the skills to track down the elusive Szarka, and there wasn't really any sense in risking exposure just for fun. So Ron had to stay behind. Some days, he grumbled about it, other times he sulked off to read some notes or stare dejectedly at a wall. Harry and Hermione could at least leave from time to time and get a bit of fresh air, but for someone like Ron who could go outside whenever he felt like it at the Burrow, being stuck in the house had to be especially annoying.
Greengrass hadn't approached him again. He didn't know what had happened, but he guessed she was just busy with learning Occlumency in addition to her normal workload. He could understand it. Hadn't he struggled to learn it in the side as well? Yes, he had. Most would, he assumed, and Hermione was likely the exception to the rule. Greengrass too had to stay in the house, but since she stayed out of their way for the majority of the days, he didn't know whether the injustice still bothered her. A small part of him wanted to find out.
The door of the restaurant opened, and Harry, hidden under the cloak, woke from his musings. A pretty woman in her thirties left, followed by a haughty looking, stringy man.
He had changed, Harry recognized. Szarka had been little more than a peddler, small fry back then, and still fairly young and inexperienced. Most of his customers had merely wanted to avoid the hassle of going through the official channels, so his business had been going well, yet he hadn't made a killing like others. Harry understood, of course. Some restrictions were just too much of a bother; ingredients for the Wolfsbane Potion were also used in deadly poisons and anyone buying them needed to explain their intentions whenever acquiring a new shipping, sometimes even a written permission from the Ministry – a costly affair with all the required bribes. And even leaving that aside, some potions required a registration at the Ministry just for owning them and the constant risk of unannounced visits by Ministry officials. Yes, Harry understood why some people didn't like going through the official channels.
Szarka's career had taken an upturn in the last years, though, and from expensive clothing to a respective home, the man had earned himself a few luxuries. His days as a businessman were also in the past, Harry had found out. Szarka had worked in the Department for International Cooperation under Crouch for a while, mainly because Szarka actually did know how to speak with people and had also learned a few languages to go along with it. He was a salesman and selling was his life. He had merely changed to selling the lies the Ministry wanted spread. After the rather sudden change in Management in August, he had switched to the Muggle Registration Commission as an Advisor as well as serving as the liaison for an international trading company. The latter was likely a front or perhaps just another way to line his pockets with more gold, but Harry didn't care either way. Harry knew Szarka had returned to his master. Or rather, he had returned to the man he called his master, for he hadn't been branded when Voldemort had fallen. But men like Szarka didn't survive by standing up and facing the danger, they adapted to whatever was going on around them. Someone like him would surely have joined as soon as he had had the chance. And since he was more concerned with staying alive than doing what was right, Harry was pretty sure he had been transferred to the Muggle Registration Commission to keep an eye on his boss, Dolores Umbridge.
The woman, Allison Brown, gave Szarka a last, searing kiss before she apparated away to her cats. Harry had followed her once, checking to gauge the threat she posed. He couldn't risk having her see him in action, after all. But she was of no consequence, working as a measly store hand in a run-down flower shop.
Szarka shook his head, smiling slightly. The evening had gone well for him, Harry assumed and followed the wizard to a small pawn shop on the corner. Through the window, Harry could see Szarka handing the man behind the counter a silver watch – probably stolen somewhere, Harry realized. Let him sell it, Harry thought grimly. Let him sell the watch. Even people like Szarka were allowed their little business on the side. It would end soon enough anyway.
Harry's thoughts drifted back to his friends in the old Black home. Ron would likely have eaten more than his share already, and Hermione had probably put something aside just in case Harry wouldn't make it in time for dinner. Eyes taking the store in, Harry noticed a nice earring, lying in arm's reach. It was too beautiful for such a store, and he wondered how it had found its way there. Had some impoverished pureblood tried to earn herself a nice Christmas? He wouldn't have been surprised. Had some Muggleborn paid for her escape with the gold she had gotten for the earring?
Szarka had finished his business and left, once more weathering the icy December wind. Harry followed him into a narrow alleyway. Just as he rounded the corner, Szarka apparated away. Following a hunch, Harry left for the man's home, appearing in a playground two houses down from Szarka's. True enough, lights were switched on inside as Harry approached.
Time to strike, he told himself. One last time he went over his plan, checking the contents of his pockets. He had the bag, he had the wand, he had the can of darkness powder. He was ready. It was time to visit an old friend.
Without any trouble, he slipped through the rudimentary protections, disabling alarms as he went. If nothing else, this showed Harry Szarka had indeed joined the Death Eaters. Only they would not bother with decent protection; they didn't fear an attack, knowing they had nothing to fear but their brothers. And just like every other Death Eater, Szarka had also been forced to include that handy back door for his master to come without invitation.
Harry gripped his wand harder. Knocking on the door, he waited.
A chain was drawn back – what wizard secured his door with a chain in the first place? Then again, Szarka was more of a diplomat than a warrior; he might feel safer using Muggle means. The door opened, and Harry, still hidden under his cloak, closed the distance, almost piercing the man with the wand. The less distance, the less light would escape to be noticed. Szarka peered outside, but saw nothing. Harry cast a silent stunner. Szarka went down, never knowing this moment would seal his fate.
It was too easy, and if he hadn't known the man wasn't prepared or smart enough to plan ahead, Harry would have been worried. At the same time, Harry also knew who he was dealing with –the enemy. And he wanted it done soon. No time to waste, and he couldn't risk taking too long. Even an idiot would notice the lack of an hour or two. It was time, Harry told himself, stepping into the house and getting the small pouch from his pocket. Steeling his nerves, Harry set to work.
"Now then, does anyone have to make any announcements or comments before we begin?" the woman simpered. "No one? Well, that is nice, isn't it?"
No one answered. They were too used to her by now to not rise to the bait.
"Well, I hope this week will be a productive one. The Ministry trusts all of you to do what is necessary for the good of society. Please allow me to say a few words, then," she said, smiling despite her cold eyes. "Some of you may have noticed the lack of results in the last few days. I know some of you might be thinking we are done with our work – that we have finished the purification of our society, and you are partly right, but only partly, which is why I am speaking to you right now. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been looking into our dealings for a while, and they have been investigating very serious accusations." Two burly men entered, and Vayk forced himself to keep a straight face. He knew what was coming, partly because he could understand the motivation behind it – silencing a dissenter – and partly because he had been involved in the matter.
"Yes, there are worrying news, my friends," Madam Umbridge said, saddened by her task at hand. Yet she went through with it. "You see, it is not due to failure on our part we do not find as many Mudbloods these days, and it is not because we have caught most of them, sadly. No, someone has been helping them. Someone has been passing Ministry secrets to the terrorists that have been plaguing this country for so long. Someone in this room was working with the rebels." People looked at each other uneasily. Johnson and Crest shifted in their seats. Well, good to know, Vayk thought. So they were working for the resistance, then. If only he had have known beforehand, he could have accused them as well.
"Yes, yes," Madam Umbridge said with a look at each of their faces. "Naturally, the Ministry is distraught about these cases of treachery. I am devastated that one of you, one of those who were hand-picked for this important task, would betray us. You are like children to me, and I'd love to help anyone of you with whatever is troubling you, but I do have to think of the best for the Ministry, and I do have to draw a line somewhere. I cannot shield you from the consequences of your own misdeeds. I offer this last chance. Is anyone of you courageous enough to stand by their actions? Has the traitor enough honour left to step forward? No? If anyone has knowledge about one of the others working for the enemies of the state, then I urge you to step forward."
No one stood up.
"Very well." Umbridge straightened, but only those closest to her could see it with her size. "Do your work," she commanded the guards. They walked forward and, passing Gina Prescott, pulled her from the seat.
"Wait, no!" the woman yelled, but a quick tap on the head silenced her. These men knew how it was done, Szarka noticed.
"You see," Madam Umbridge continued while the barely conscious Prescott was dragged from the room, "a quick search of her desk revealed enough evidence to send eight people to Azkaban for causing dissension and, of course, unacceptable crimes against the magical community." Vayk didn't doubt it. He had found out about it, after all, and had passed the information on. Now that Prescott had been bled dry, what use did he have for her? "Well, she will get a trial, of course, but the evidence is compelling. She will receive her just punishment as befitting a traitor to proper Wizarding Britain."
She shuffled her documents, ready to continue with the meeting as if nothing had happened, as if they hadn't seen one of their colleagues dragged off, either to prison or, if the Wizengamot felt especially cruel, the Dementor's Kiss for treason.
Vayk didn't worry too much. Few liked Prescott anyway, that had been why it had worked so well. Who knew, she might actually have done something in her past to justify the sentence. All that mattered – to him, at least – was his vault at Gringotts, filling with the bribes to look the other way. He liked his job. He helped people, didn't he? He helped some escape – for a price, of course. He was one of the good one's, one of the one's who didn't think just about themselves. He had other people in mind as well, especially their gold. As long as they paid him, he was perfectly willing to save enough to avoid suspicion, yet sell out enough to appear as a diligent worker to the Ministry.
Who cared about Prescott anyway? Let her rot, he thought. She'd become a liability. She could have told someone about his dealings. No, she needed to be silenced.
Madam Umbridge addressed some and had them write down orders. She wanted some people checking old laws and regulations. Vayk knew she just wanted them out of the way for a few hours so Madam Umbridge could talk to her most trusted about some of the more meddlesome people they needed to deal with. It was all about getting rid of possible spies in the department.
Just then, the doors flew open and a group of Ministry officials stormed in, their faces mask-like. There were too many Aurors and hit wizards among them for Vayk's taste, and he got a strange sense of foreboding. Even years after his last coup, he still didn't like seeing the law so close to him. They were now on the same side, but old habits died hard, and for them to storm into the office like that couldn't mean anything good.
Madam Umbridge stepped forward. "My dear Sirs, and Madam," she addressed them, "what is this about? I have already sent the traitor down to you; that business has already been taken care of. I will be with you shortly, so..."
"It's not that," the leader, an old acquaintance of Vayk from his smuggling days, said in a constricted voice. "A threat has been made on Mr. Szarka's life, likely from the same extremists from last time. We were sent to investigate. As of now, this office is under lock-down."
Vayk felt his blood run cold. If what they said was true, would he suffer the same fate as MacNair? Everyone had heard about it, how the man had just fallen over dead, clutching his chest. All the Aurors had been able to discover had been the apparent lack of life, but no clue as to how someone had done it. No magical signature, no poison in his body, no outward signs of harm. Would Vayk suffer the same fate? But why? MacNair had had enemies, but Vayk had been careful not to alienate anyone he wasn't sure would die before long. He had no enemies; he had been careful to get rid of each of them.
Yet now, someone targeted Vayk? "When?" he asked, not trusting himself to say more. He wasn't very courageous; he had always let others take the fall for him.
"The letter arrived about ten minutes ago. All exits are sealed." The leader looked to Vayk. "And it mentioned five to one as the time of death. But don't worry, we are here to protect you."
Vayk didn't feel particularly safe. His eye veered to the clock. Twenty minutes until he was slated to die. What to do with his time? But then, why had the assassins given so little time? He had so much left to do. He had looked forward to the next date with Allison. He had plans for that evening, and her as well.
Madam Umbridge watched the group search every one of their workers. None carried anything worth mentioning, but the search still disrupted the meeting. And if there was one thing Dolores Umbridge disliked – besides Mudbloods and their families – then it was losing control of the situation. Worse, with so many outsiders around, she couldn't talk as candidly as she wanted.
Three minutes before his time would be up and he'd see for himself what would happen to him, Vayk started thinking about it. The room was secured. No one could come or leave. He was surrounded by guards. Why should he worry? It had probably been a joke in the first place.
But then, what if it hadn't been? What if the threat had been real? Who would want him dead? Or more to the point, who wanted him specifically dead and was in any shape to do something about it? Perhaps he had angered some refugee with his practices? Had he forgotten to tie up some loose ends?
A minute before the set time, Vayk had another thought. How would they do it, if they did? It wouldn't be easy, would it? Not with all those people around, no. But then, why give a warning at all? The assassins had to know he would be protected now.
A dreadful thought occurred to him, too horrible to voice. What if the assassins had sent a warning for that reason? What if they wanted him protected, just so they could prove they were unstoppable? And if so, what could he do against them?
While he considered that, in a run-down house in London, Harry Potter sat, wand in hand and staring at the small pouch lying on the table in front of him. Thirty seconds. All it needed was a small spell, nothing more. Twenty seconds. He could do it. Fifteen seconds. Anyone could do it, it wasn't that difficult of a spell. Ten seconds. Hermione had really outdone herself; nothing short of a thorough investigation could show how they had done it, if at all. Nothing but a single thread would be left. It came down to whether Harry was lucky or not. Five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One. It was time.
He concentrated on what he wanted to do. With a quick wave of his wand, he cast the spell. The pouch in front of him dissolved into thin air, literally, transfigured into oxygen, leaving only the thread behind to be blown off the table. It was done, Harry knew; the use of the Protean Charm meant that the pouches' counterpart would have been transfigured as well, ending the Extension Charm and releasing the air that had been inside all at once – explosive decompression at Harry's beck and call, even if the placement of the second pouch inside Szarka had been a nasty business.
Harry wondered who had been present when Vayk Szarka had died, and how big of a mess he and Hermione had made.
Having eaten a little night-time snack, Harry returned to his room, watching the small snake he had conjured out of sheer boredom and to have something to talk to. It hadn't quite worked out since the snake wasn't very talkative and instead draped around his hand, dozing.
It was already mid-December, little more than a week until Christmas. At school, they would have marvelled at the decorations all around just like every other year in the past. Ron would have trained himself up to the eventual feast, trying to set a new record of food eaten per hour. Hermione would have put in some last-minute studying to distract herself from the upcoming holiday. And he would probably have felt glad to have his friends around and looked forward to the actual celebrations.
Were they still planned? Did the school still prepare for the holidays, or had it been ignored? He couldn't see Snape letting it continue – too much fun for the children – but was equally unsure whether it could be dropped completely. Christmas at Hogwarts was a tradition, and Harry doubted Snape would dare attract attention to him by cancelling it. Then again, Harry could see the current headmaster sitting in his office and planning on how to steal Christmas – looking at the room with steepled fingers, a malicious smile on his lips, Snape might just do it out of pure spite.
But did it matter? Harry had more important problems to deal with. He hadn't received news from the wider world since his attack on Szarka, yet he also knew he had to have made an impression and shocked quite a few people. At the same time, he wondered whether it would be enough. Offing one bad apple? Would it be enough to keep the enemy at bay?
Light from the drawing room drew his attention. Having little else to do, Harry walked closer. It was his house, after all, he could do what he wanted within reason, and he had an idea who it was at that time of night. True enough, he found Greengrass sitting in one of the armchairs.
"Morning," he greeted.
She jumped slightly. "Ah, Potter," she replied with a forced smile. "I should have known you were also awake."
"True," he said, chuckling. "Once more we run into each other. How are you progressing with your studies?"
"I'm working on it. Occlumency is particularly difficult to get a feeling for. It's slower than I would have hoped, but then, it's also not as bad as it could have been. My spellwork's improving, though, which is nice." It was then that she noticed his temporary companion.
"A snake?" she wondered, straightening her white nightgown as she sat up to get a better look.
"I was bored," he replied with a shrug. "I'm about to head upstairs; I want to check the wards, just to be safe, but you're welcome to join me. Maybe talking about it will help; I could give you valuable advice."
"You think so?"
"You can never be sure about that." He left, not wanting to press her into it, the invitation given.
He had just made sure the ever-watchful snake in the entrance hall had not seen anything unusual – the detection alarm had been a brilliant invention by the twins – and the painting had assured him the guards outside were still present when she entered the room. With a quick swish, Harry vanished his scaly companion from before.
Daphne raised an eyebrow. "Tired of playing with the snake?" she asked.
"Something like that. All it did was laze around," Harry answered. "And I've got you to keep me company now."
Daphne nodded curtly, whether to acknowledge his reply or to close the topic, Harry wasn't sure. "I've worked on those meditation techniques," she told him. "They work, but... Have you noticed time doesn't flow like it should? There are moments when I sit down and the next I know, the candle is almost burned down."
"I remember that, yes. It was strange, I'll give you that. You won't need to meditate later on, so there's a small shimmer of hope at the end of the tunnel." He smiled at her. "You will just have to continue what you are doing; eventually, you will leave that part behind, nothing more than a memory. That your recollection skips from time to time shows you are doing it right and improving, so there is that."
She contemplated his words, he could see it. But he also knew her studies hadn't been the reason she had been awake in the first place. "So, just out of curiosity, how do you protect your mind?"
He frowned, not sure whether he wanted to talk about that. To buy himself time, he wordlessly invited her to sit down. She nodded and walked over to his bed.
"Bad memories, for one," he answered once she had settled. "There's no reason anyone trying to enter my mind should find it a pleasant experience. It might shock some out of there and give them something to keep in mind." He kept the vast Nothing a secret. She didn't need to know about that.
"Sounds reasonable," she replied, sighing. "I thought about presenting an impossible riddle and trap them in paradoxical tasks to give them something to work through, perhaps some ever-changing puzzle, but the book said..."
"Not a good idea, yes, I remember. Too difficult to adapt to new attacks, tricky to get right, easy to get lost in yourself..."
She nodded, staring off into the distance. "Nothing new?" she asked, changing topic.
"Unfortunately not. I'm guessing it is good news, but I'd rather know what is going on as well. Nothing from either of our friends, so I'm inclined to believe they are well. The Ministry is also surprisingly idle. Are they holding back because they are worried, or do they prepare for something big? Both explanations seem reasonable, but neither is certain."
She watched him for a while. "Why did you agree?" Greengrass asked him, her eyes locked on him.
Harry blinked in surprise. "Agree? Agree to what?"
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "To my plan. When we met the first time at Hogwarts, you agreed to this... ridiculous plan," she gestured around herself. "Why did you do it? And don't tell me it's because you wanted to anger Malfoy, we both know that's not the reason for you to agree. Maybe to get you to listen, but nothing more. You didn't even think about it for long, so I was wondering what that was about."
Harry nodded, understanding her question. Of course she would want to know about that, why had he not expected her to revisit the topic? "Does it matter?" he tried. "It's a done deal now anyway."
"It matters, Potter. I can see reasons why you'd do it, to be honest. A very good one, if I may say so myself, in fact," she raised an eyebrow challengingly. "But then, it doesn't fit the rest of your behaviour. You weren't forthcoming in any way I could see, haven't made a move until now, yet you effectively threw away years of your life, so I'm wondering why."
He paced for a moment. "That's not something I intended to talk to people about. My reasons are my own, you could say. Hermione might have figured it out, but she's weird that way. It's something of a secret. Or rather, it's something I hadn't wanted to talk about."
"But a secret of yours, not related to the war, is it?" she argued. "You can share it, can't you? If not with your wife," she smiled slyly, "then with whom else? I'm trying to understand your motivation here; I want to know why you did it. Didn't you say you wanted to get to know me so we'd get along in the future? Well, let's assume I'm interested in learning why you agreed. What's in it for you? The gold doesn't seem all that lucrative once you think about what you probably have in your vaults. The book about those secrecy spells can't be it either. So if it's neither the gold nor the knowledge, and it's not annoying Malfoy, and it's not that you were simply randy, then I have to wonder just what you expected from the deal. If all goes according to plan, I'll still get my freedom. Maybe I don't have to keep you from whatever you wanted out of the deal."
Harry sighed and sat down next to her. She didn't shift away, but he could see her tensing and wondered about that. "Well, trusting you with it? I could do that, I suppose. It doesn't matter any more anyway, so why not?" He leaned back, staring at the wall opposite him. "I did it for the same reason you did, I think."
Daphne tilted her head. "You didn't want to marry Malfoy?" she tried. "How'd that have worked?"
"Well, for the reason you decided to approach me, then," he told her with a chuckle. "Why did you think you rather have me than him?"
She seemed to consider it, and he could guess her train of thought. Potter had seemed less dangerous to her, for one. With the war keeping Harry busy, she had probably suspected they wouldn't see much of each other anyway, and with him elsewhere, she would have had a decent enough life. But the main reason for her to suggest the plan had probably been his expected demise – with him dying soon enough, she had expected she would be free again. As she came to the conclusion, he smiled mournfully at her.
"Yes," he said, "I believed I'd die in this war. So there I was, thinking I wouldn't survive the next years. I had pretty much accepted that would be my lot in life – that I'd have to die for the sake of the world. I saw it as inevitable. It was a foregone conclusion, to be honest. In tales like these, the hero doesn't walk away unharmed, and poetic justice all but demands I would have to pay for his life with my own. I thought along those lines. Then you came up with that funny idea of yours. Well, why not, I thought."
She shifted slightly away from him, taking him in more carefully. He supposed she was looking for signs of deception. He couldn't fault her. Had it really been less than a year since he had been convinced of the necessity of his own death? His mind told him so, yet it felt as if a lot had happened since then, as if he'd lived years since the evening in the Headmaster's office.
And wasn't it true? He suppressed a chuckle. He had experienced decades of living, yes, but had not lived them, only integrated them into his own mind. Such a strange sensation, to know without a doubt only ten months had passed, yet also remember years of combat and intrigue in that time frame.
"You," she began, narrowing her eyes in suspicion, "that's why you... did it?"
"I had little time left to lose, so why not? I'd have died having one last laugh. Not that difficult of a choice, is it? If you only have a few months to live anyway, why not go along with it?" He was about to continue when she turned her head slightly, hiding her eyes and biting her lip. An awkward silence ensued until Harry spoke again. "So, I hadn't really anything in mind that I wanted to get out of it." Chuckling, he added, "Well, I do enjoy pulling Ron's leg nowadays, and he's worried you might bewitch me or something, so I guess I..."
"I'm sorry," Daphne interrupted, sighing.
"For what specifically?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow even though she couldn't see it.
"For..." she hesitated, "for... Well, I misread your intentions, in a way. I thought you had some secret plan, that you were after something I hadn't noticed yet. That you had some ulterior motive. I thought we'd both... get something out of this deal?"
Harry nodded. "Ah, so that's what you chose to apologize for." Chuckling, he added, "Thanks for clearing that up."
She hummed for a moment. Then she turned to look at Harry. "I was... an ungrateful bitch, wasn't I?" she asked.
"That's not how I'd put it," Harry laughed, remembering some of the more colourful words he had heard over the years. "But it's the gist of it, yes."
She gazed to the side, pursing her lips. "I'm... sorry I caused you problems. I'd thought, well, that it had been a deal, that you had some hidden agenda... that you were just waiting to backstab me or spring some trap or demand something in return, blackmailing me into something."
She had to have seen his stare, for she shrugged half-heartedly.
Shaking his head, he told her, "You're dealing with too many budding politicians."
She sent him a smile. "Perhaps. And you've learned too little from them despite them swarming you." Sighing, she continued, "What's done is done. I... Well..."
"Though it's hardly blackmail, you could try being nice for a few days," Harry pointed out. "Just to see how it turns out, you know?"
Daphne bit her lip. "No promises there," she cautioned. "Especially since I'll have to deal with Granger who said she lost all trust in me and Weasley who suspects me of something all the time, I'm sure. And yes," she said before he could speak up, "I'm not innocent in that matter."
"Well, still not perfect, but I guess it's a start. I can't force you to be friends. At least now I know why you didn't trust me one bit."
"Well," she replied, "if one is looking for deception..."
"Then it's easy to see the signs all around, yes," Harry agreed.
"So you decided to see the contract business as a chance to do something nice for someone?" she asked, returning to their previous topic. "I can't say many people would do that."
"Nowadays, I'd caution against it, though," Harry pointed out. "Rarely does something good come of it. Well, 'what's done is done', was it? That's true. There was more to my decision to get involved, though. I could sympathize with you. We both didn't have control over our lives; you had the contract looming over your head, I was destined to die in a war that was forced on me."
"Yet now you don't think any more that you'll die," she said. It was not a question, he realized, but he still nodded.
"I don't think so anymore," he confirmed. "I'm not certain I will have to die. I might survive this ordeal after all, and this is not a story I'm living in. I'm not the hero of an epic tale, battling dragons, Trolls, and evil wizards, or saving fair maidens. This is life, and it has different rules."
"You did battle a dragon, though," she reminded him. "And an evil wizard, depending on the definition of evil, of course. And, if you told the truth, a Basilisk."
"And a Troll, yes, I'm aware, but that's not the point," he argued, frowning. "The world doesn't follow these rules, does it? I didn't battle a dragon so much as evade him long enough to make it out alive, and I didn't do it for glory or to save someone in need. I escaped an evil wizard, but I can't allow myself to fight fair once I do meet him. Most likely, I will have to rely on underhanded methods to win, something I can do on the spot, not moral superiority. The Basilisk wasn't a monstrous evil either, just hungry and misled." He rolled his eyes when she snickered. "Laugh all you want, but in a way, the Basilisk was even somewhat of an innocent victim as well, and what would that make me? A villain?"
"You do realize how stupid that sounds, don't you?" Daphne asked him, tilting her head. "A Basilisk being innocent?"
"Well, the point is, the rules from the stories don't apply in this reality. Justice doesn't necessarily prevail, evil isn't necessarily defeated."
"What role would I have, if they did apply?" she interrupted him. "Let's see. Not the Queen, obviously; I'm far too young to be a queen. But something noble, I think, to reflect my birth? The fair maiden perhaps?"
"Hardly," Harry laughed.
"You don't think I'm fair?" she asked, raising a challenging eyebrow.
"I don't think you'd sit around waiting for help," he replied, choosing the diplomatic answer. "And I don't think you are being fair right now, trying your mind games with me, so no, not the fair maiden. Maybe the trusted companion? Every hero needs a sidekick, and every villain a henchman, so you'd be covered either way. How's your henching?"
"Dreadful," she replied with a straight face. "My parents raised me to think for myself. As a result, I don't hench."
"I had a hunch you wouldn't. And you don't really invite trust, I think we covered that, so a trusted companion is out as well. An uninvolved peasant?"
"Not really," Daphne agreed. "I am involved even though I don't want to." She sighed and waved her hand. "So maybe this isn't one of those stories. That doesn't prove good deeds aren't rewarded or that evil isn't punished."
"Ah, but what would you label as good or evil? The Death Eaters consider Muggleborns disgusting and helping them evil, so by that logic, I should be punished and they rewarded. I see it the other way around, so which is it? After all, I can't be punished and rewarded at the same time and in equal measure or they would cancel each other out and no justice would be apparent. Let's face it, hero or not, I might die. It's not certain they will lose. So what will it be? If the world doesn't follow the rules, why should I expect my death as part of a poetic act to balance good and evil? Why shouldn't I try to survive?"
She understood him, he could see it in her eyes, not that he really had to convince her. He had a feeling she didn't believe in just rewards and punishments either and had merely gone along with his reasoning.
"So you changed your mind since then," she concluded. "Back then, you thought you'd die and didn't think it to be much of a sacrifice to marry me. Back then, you thought it part of a poetic twist of fate. Now, you consider the possibility of surviving the war."
"Something like that, yes. I'm willing to consider the possibility of making it out alive, and strangely enough, I don't have that much of a problem with that. It's a better outlook in life than I had before, so why should I complain? I mainly regret dragging you into danger, though. Had I not agreed..."
"What, you think I'm worse off right now?" she laughed. "That I'd live a happy and fulfilling life with Malfoy? That I'd be safe from harm? Don't you remember what I told you why I even considered going through with this? Malfoy might or might not have done it himself, but I have little doubt I'd have been incapacitated before long, likely killed."
"Maybe, maybe not. You don't seem to be that easy to kill, perhaps you would have fought them off. Or perhaps you would have killed Malfoy before he had the chance to have you done in. Now wouldn't that have been a load off our shoulders?"
"Or we two could have ended up fighting each other," she pointed out. "It could have been me you'd have to deal with, a furious wife protecting her beloved husband." She shook her head, trying to rid herself from the image of protecting Malfoy. Harry could understand her problem very well; the image of anyone risking their lives for Malfoy was difficult to grasp for him, especially with what he knew and assumed about the boy.
"It doesn't matter," she said with finality. "I'm here now. No, I'm not as well as I'd like, but it could be worse. I could be stuck with Malfoy, and with what I learned about him, I don't think I'd be that well either. I don't think he loves anyone apart from his family."
"And his new master, but I see what you mean." And Harry did.
"So you regret our marriage," she spoke up after a moment of hesitation, "but for what it's worth, it's still preferable to..."
"No," he interrupted. "Sorry, it's just... I regret the consequences it had. I would have preferred as little people harmed as possible, but I don't regret the decision. Helping you out of a tight spot was worth the few years I might have to tolerate you, I think, and I hope you feel the same way. Ignoring for a moment that it doesn't feel like I've merely tolerated you the past weeks. And I'm glad I have the chance to get to know you, even if I don't like the circumstances that led to this opportunity. I don't regret the marriage to you; I said as much before."
It left her speechless for a moment. Then, as if in trance, she turned her head and gazed towards the door once more. He could practically feel her mind working, but to what end, he didn't know. Perhaps he had gotten through to her? He hoped so; it would have taken long enough. In the past days, he had found himself thinking about her. He liked Ron well enough; he was a decent guy with the heart in the right place, even if his head wasn't as straight as it could have been. Was this how Hermione had felt when dealing with her friends, Harry wondered for a moment. As for Hermione, Harry loved her like the sister he never had, even if she was at times bothersome or domineering. He knew she had the heart in the right place. But both Ron and Hermione were lacking in another respect. They didn't know the darkness like he did.
Oh, Ron had his fears, yes. But there wasn't the same stress on him. He hadn't had the same life; Ron had been loved and protected at a time when Harry had been left to fend for himself, often times against his relatives. And he could see how Hermione's life had formed her, even if she hadn't spoken to him about it. A ridiculously intelligent girl stuck with average children around her. Yes, he could see her attempts to befriend them fail, could imagine her finding solace in books while others played with their peers. Too young to be listened to by adults in a meaningful discussion, she would have withdrawn herself to the world of knowledge and books, explaining her lack of social skill in the first years and the sudden increase in grace around her year mates in third year – in other words, once she literally had the time to get comfortable around people, partly thanks to the time-turner. He could see how Hermione came to be.
But it wasn't the same, he felt. Hermione had her own troubled past, with her own challenges, some of which Harry could understand, but she wasn't a kindred spirit. Would she understand his past? He didn't want to think about it, but knew he had to.
Daphne on the other hand intrigued him. Her troubled sleep and reserved nature were familiar to him. He thought he could see parts of himself in her. There was something that made him want to reach out, perhaps in the vain hope he might save not only her, but also the frightened boy he had once been. He felt he owed her that much. Hadn't he seen something was off during their confrontation in the dining room? Hadn't he tried defusing the situation since then? Hadn't he constantly reached out, tried to get her to open up and accept help? It also gave him something to do aside from sitting on his hands and waiting for the moment to strike against the Death Eaters and their master – something that had nothing to do with fancy spells. Waiting for something he dreaded had been difficult for Harry in the past; it had made him restless thanks to years of living with his relatives. He didn't want to wait and do nothing. And fate, it seemed, had given him a task, and he wanted to help her save herself. It could be his small achievement, the one victory not paid for with blood and lives.
"You don't regret it," she said, drawing him from his own musings. "That's nice, I guess." She seemed to pick at her nightdress, and he noticed, somewhat belatedly, that it shimmered in the dim light. He resisted the urge to feel the fabric and focused his attention on her face. She looked pale, almost ghostly. "You said we could talk if I ever needed to," she added, seeming to struggle with herself.
Harry fought down an inappropriate grin at his success. "We can do that, yes. If you want to talk, we can do that."
"I... There's something you should... understand, yes," she tried, dazedly running a hand through her hair. "An explanation of sorts. An... Have you ever wished you were somewhere else?" Daphne asked, not looking at him. "Someone else? That you could leave your life behind, or have someone else carry the burden?"
"There were times, yes," he told her with a heavy heart. He had been very young back then, and still hoping for some sort of justice in his life. "South America or Asia, remember? And, yes, I wanted to be someone else once."
Something flickered in her eyes, a hidden fire maybe. But instead of giving her strength, she seemed more vulnerable all of a sudden. "I hated third year," she spoke, half to him and half to herself, he felt. "I was finally allowed to go to Hogsmeade, but I couldn't, not with the Dementors guarding the entrance. I didn't want to go near them."
"There are other exits," Harry pointed out, "secret passageways. And I wasn't allowed, but that's not the same as not going."
She blinked, turning to him for a moment to look for the lie. When she didn't find one, she nodded slowly. "So I was stuck in the castle while my friends went and had fun. But more than that, I had nightmares in third year."
He was sorely tempted to tell her she had already told him that detail, but kept quiet instead. If she wanted to talk, why should he stop her? Maybe he could learn a bit more about her. Maybe she would finally open up after weeks of him wearing her down. Maybe he would finally understand her better.
"I persevered," she said in a hollow voice, as if she didn't believe it herself. "And I was happy when fourth year was looking considerably brighter. I had fun that year. I liked the Yule Ball; it was something different. It would have been nice to have another one since then. Why doesn't the school do something like that more often? The students had fun. The teachers too, I think. But it doesn't matter, I guess." She fell silent, her eyes resting on a spot on the floor.
"Third year was rough, yes," Harry agreed, trying to reassure her. "Few were happy with the guards around the school. I can see why fourth year would have been nice for you. I'm happy you had a good time."
"Did you know," Daphne asked, blinking to come out of her thoughts, "before the first task, there had been a betting pool. I had bet you would die, as did most of my house. I'm not defending it, I'm just..." She took a deep breath. "Betting on another student's death. On a death in general. Why did... ?" She shook her head. "I wonder how that didn't raise protests, why no one spoke up against it, but I guess they didn't see you as a student. You weren't human, if that makes any sense. We grew up hearing about the Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, fearless saviour of our world. Or rather, at that moment, you were the arrogant, cheating liar who was just looking for more fame and admiration. You weren't human, you see?"
He was about to speak up, but waited for her to continue.
"I'm glad I lost that money," she told him. "I paid the price for that misbehaviour. I shouldn't have bet on someone's death, so I'm glad I lost that money." She turned to look at him. "Do you fear anything? You went against a dragon, you challenge a powerful wizard, and you taunted him as if you had no worries."
He glanced at her. "I do. I fear losing my friends, for example. I fear losing in general, I guess. When I was younger, I feared my relatives, mainly because I didn't understand why they did what they did. I fear failure, of course. And I fear being weak and powerless. The Dementors rob me of what makes me strong. That's why I fell, because they threw me off-balance. They were my Boggart in third year, but I don't know about now." He wondered for a moment whether it would have changed.
"A Dementor," Daphne said, looking at him absent-mindedly. "That's interesting," she added after a moment, idly straightening her nightdress. She seemed to have woken from her reverie, as she blinked, shaking her head tentatively. "They do that, don't they? Robbing people of the good times and their strength."
"And force them to relive their worst moments," Harry added in a soft voice with a nod.
She blinked, but after a moment, replied, "Yes, that too."
Harry smiled at her, trying to diffuse the situation by continuing his previous statement. "I do fear, Daphne, and more than just Dementors. But then, I can't allow myself to be paralysed by fear, not when I have a powerful dark wizard after me. I have to be strong. I think you know that feeling," he told her, leaning slightly closer. It was a leap of faith, but he was fairly sure about it.
"A Dementor Boggart," she repeated, still looking pale. "I hadn't heard about that."
"Professor Lupin stepped in during class," Harry said, accepting the topic for the time being. "He thought it might have been Riddle, so he stepped in and no one saw my Boggart. I only know because Lupin had me train against one for my Patronus lessons."
"A reasonable assumption," she agreed. "A Dementor. Boggarts are cruel beings, aren't they? Why do they change into our worst fears?"
"Maybe it's a defensive mechanism," Harry mused. "Or maybe it's instinct. They might be born as embodiments of fear itself."
"I dealt with the Boggart before I could doubt myself," she said, the ghost of a smile on her face. "I used that spell against it before it had any time to do anything."
"I was right, then," Harry said. "You don't hesitate when faced with your worst fear. You are strong, to act before you think and to know what you need to do. One more reason why I think you might have done well even without our marriage."
"I knew what to expect," she corrected, eyes staring into the distance, and what little colour she had regained left her. Her shoulders sagged.
"You don't have to talk about it," he told her, his voice soft. He knew the feeling; no matter how much it intrigued him to hear more, seeing some of his suspicions about her proven correct took the happiness of the moment. He – that is, Tom – had also seen the look often enough to recognize it.
She didn't seem to have noticed him. Her eyes were on a spot on the floor, but likely seeing something else entirely. "It comes up in my dreams, I guess," she said. "It's there sometimes, hidden and watching, waiting, following me. Other times, it's not, and I'm..." She stopped, looking lost. Her left hand grabbed her right, fingernails digging into its back.
Harry leaned over and gently placed his own hand over hers. She blinked at the gesture, but whether she understood his sentiment, he couldn't say. At least he had her attention, even if she didn't continue her sentence. "How long has it been going on?" he asked her, trying to change the topic slightly.
Daphne frowned, wondering about it, perhaps. "For years," she admitted, sighing. "I had gotten over it, mostly, and learned to live with it, but... the Dementors, the Boggarts, they brought it back." Her jaw clenched. "And this house too. I'm..." She broke off. For a moment, she seemed to fight with a word, but finally said, "I'm alone here. Isolated."
"One day in the near future, you will be reunited with your friends, though," Harry told her. "And I think they worry about you right now. I'm sure you mean a lot to them, and I'm sure they haven't given up on you. They might not be here, but you aren't..." He broke off, remembering where he had heard those words – they had been directed at him and about his parents. Maybe those weren't the best words at the moment, Harry mused.
She looked at him for a long time, but neither moved their hands. Finally, she spoke again.
"It's me," Daphne sighed. "I'm my Boggart."
Harry stared at her, unsure of what she meant. He understood her words well enough, but they made little sense. She was her own worst fear? True, some people were frightened of strange things, but he had expected something else entirely. She must have guessed his thoughts, or maybe he was easy to read for her, for she smiled sadly at him.
"What I'll likely become one day. It's my mind I'm worried about. I'm afraid of losing who I am, of descending..." She stopped, shaking her head slightly. "It's my mind. I'm... peculiar about it. About someone or something tampering with it, changing who I am. My mind – that's who I am, isn't it? That's what defines me; my thought and my memories make me who I am. The Obliviation from February was worse for me than the torture itself. I was tortured, yes, but I couldn't remember. What had happened? Had I said something? Had I braved it? Had they taken just the memory of that attack or more? He came after me, he tortured me that night; Malfoy all but admitted it. And then he robbed me, he... he butchered," she spat, "my mind. And what if he took more? What if it hadn't been the first time? What if he had tampered with my mind before? Made me forget something else? Or what if he put something there, some stray thought? Heightened one thing, pushed another aside? Twisted my being, changed who I am?"
"And then you came here," Harry spoke up, realizing something important. "And we threatened you with Obliviation, setting off all your alarms. And you reacted, sending a spell my way. I get it. So that's why you were so... antagonistic when we were talking."
"And you conspired behind my back. I heard you talking once." With a smile, she added, "Maybe I did have a tendency to eavesdrop. But you also planned to wander around in my head," she agreed, "even if I didn't know back then, which was probably for the best..."
"I'm sorry," he told her with a sigh. "I... we didn't know, we thought..."
"Yes, I understand, Harry," she interrupted. "I understand you had no idea about it. I haven't forgotten it, but I understand. And you didn't try; in the end, you didn't do it. But yes, that didn't endear you. For a moment, I was caught in a room with some of my worst enemies. For a moment, I was with people who casually discussed destroying me. What little benefit of doubt I was willing to give, you had lost it in that moment."
"Well, it might explain why you didn't jump at the first opportunity to make amends," Harry said, shrugging and suddenly happy he had indeed stopped pushing her to talk back then.
"The worst part about the attack in February is, I might never learn the truth. The headmaster spoke to me about it. Apparently, lifting the block on such a traumatic memory might cause serious harm to my mind. Something about spells interacting, and once the memory is restored, the rest of my mind might crumble away or something like that." She chuckled at the absurdity of the situation. "It's mine, my mind, you know? The world has conspired against me, but I just want it healthy and in one piece."
Harry's eyes bulged, and he fought down a very inappropriate laugh. It wouldn't do to alienate her after she had opened up to him, yet he found it hilarious to meet someone who wanted to keep the one mind they had in one piece while he struggled to unite the two minds in his head into one. Who would have thought their wishes where that closely related?
"Anyway, that's the story about my Boggart," she said, drawing a shuddering breath. "That's why I knew to act before it had any time to do something. I know my worst fear, so I knew what to expect."
"So you fear for your mental health," he concluded. "That's perfectly understandable, Daphne. Most worry about that."
"That might be, but it still doesn't make it any easier," she sighed. "I envy others. Pansy fears ravenous dogs, Millicent dreads fire. I can't run away from my fears, and I can't face them head-on. It's part of me, isn't it?" With another sigh, she leaned over and against a startled Harry. "How do you fight yourself?"
He had no reply, but his mind was focused elsewhere. Whether she had realized it or not, their position allowed him a decent view down her nightdress, something he might have found appealing under different circumstances, but highly inappropriate at the moment. It didn't help when, only seconds later, she hugged herself, tightening the clothes around her breasts.
"So you're followed by yourself in your dreams?" he asked stupidly, trying not to look too closely. Was his voice supposed to be so high? He doubted it.
She laughed slightly, whether at his question or tone he didn't know, but the slight jiggle of her body made him even more aware that, for all intents and purposes, a young woman – his wife – was leaning against him. He lost the battle with himself – emerging as the winner, of course – and shifted, placing an arm around her shoulder.
She blinked and stared at him, raising an eyebrow while she peered at him out of the corner of her eye, but didn't shake his arm off. He guessed she understood the gesture in the way it was meant – a sign of sympathy.
"No, I'm not. That would be ridiculous, wouldn't it? I'm not frightening, and if you'd have seen me sneaking around, you'd know how bad I'm at it. No, it's," she said before breaking off. The surprise and possibly amusement from before vanished, to be replaced by anxiety. She turned her head to look at Harry more closely.
He gazed back, intent on winning the battle of wills. He needed to show her he wouldn't back down. He couldn't undo weeks of slowly gaining her trust or letting her retreat behind her walls.
She sank back after a moment of contemplation. "Insanity," she whispered, a slight twitch in her eye – the original one, Harry realized absent-mindedly a moment later. "I fear losing my mind. The thought of..." she grasped weakly for something slightly above her lap, but of course, with nothing but air to catch, her hands stayed empty. "The thought of not being me any more, you know?"
"Which leads back to Obliviations and memory charms," he added. "That's pretty profound, Daphne. And you've reflected a lot about it."
"Yes, it is, Harry. It is profound." She settled against him. "And this house doesn't really help all that much either. It feels like a prison."
"I'm sorry," Harry told her. "I wish I could..."
"Don't," she interrupted. "You could redecorate, I guess, but apart from that, I know there are little alternatives. I know right here is probably the safest place for me right now. I still wish I had my friends around, but..." She broke off, shaking her head with the hint of a smile. "So there you go, my big, dark secret."
"I can understand why you'd worry about your mental health; anyone who dealt with Bellatrix would, even if it's an oddly specific fear." Only a moment later did he realize just how insensitive his statement was.
She faced away from him, but he was sure she was smiling. At least she hadn't yelled at him or closed up completely, which likely meant he hadn't angered her for once. "Now it's time for you to share," she told him, turning towards him as she sat up. The cold air made him wish she hadn't. "Fair is fair, after all. What's lurking underneath that rat's nest of yours?" Leaning slightly away, she ruffled his hair with a slightly forced smile. "What does the mighty Harry Potter fear once the lights go out, apart from Dementors and danger to your friends?"
"That's hardly..."
"Come now, I shared; now it's your turn to tell me something."
"So something to tell you?" he wondered, already searching his memories for something he could tell her. She had a point; if he wanted her to open up more, he needed to give something in return. He also hoped to continue the talk with her; they were, for once, quite comfortable around each other, and he didn't want to waste the opportunity.
"How about my struggles to find a date for the Yule Ball?" he asked with a conspiratorial smile, deciding on a considerably lighter topic.
"Ignoring for a moment that it's hardly of the same magnitude, I already know about that. You tried asking Chang, stalked her for days. She refused, in part at least because she already had a date with Diggory. Afterwards, you were too dejected to try anything really and didn't approach any other girl, much to the consternation of quite a few of them. You ended up asking Patil out of desperation, but treated her badly at the Ball, making her resent you for a while until she calmed down."
He blinked, surprised. "How do you know that?" He wasn't sure he was comfortable with his private life being such public knowledge, and the detail she knew was worrying. Then again, if she was that good at collecting information, she would make a formidable spy.
"Simple, really. As for Chang, well, her friends aren't blind, you know? They noticed when you tried to catch her for a private word and managed to get the story out of Chang. Must have been a new experience for Chang," Daphne mused, before continuing, "And you asked Patil – Parvati, that is – to set up her sister with Weasley. Padma was even less pleased with her date; however, she was very pleased to repeat the story to everyone who listened. Understandable, if you ask me, she had to put up with Weasley for a while, at least until she decided to find herself someone more appreciative of what she had to offer. So, since she didn't like that evening one bit, she went around telling the story to everyone who asked her, and a few others for good measure. That naturally included all of her friends, some of whom thought it to be a funny tale to spread around. It might have pacified Patil – Padma, I mean, of course – somewhat, but she was still quite annoyed; I think she had secretly hoped to have a chance with you."
"What, for the Ball?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, although an ominous feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.
"Maybe," Daphne replied, smirking. "You never know... two young witches vying for a handsome wizard, both recognizing the threat the other poses... they might have decided on a truce, perhaps to share you or see who is better suited for you." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, and Harry shook his head, chuckling. Something caught his attention, though.
"Handsome?" he pointed out, smirking at her.
"Yes, well," she said, shrugging, yet a faint blush rose to her cheeks, "I didn't say those were my thoughts or impressions, did I? I was trying to explain their train of thought, nothing more. And it doesn't matter, does it? I know what happened, so there is no story there for you to tell me. You still owe me some secret, and don't you try to worm your way out of it."
He frowned. She had a point, he was forced to admit. "I wasn't aware I was such a talking point at school."
"You're an idiot, hardly anyone disagrees about that, but you are the Boy-who-Lived. Haven't the fourth and fifth year taught you something about your popularity and the rumours surrounding you? So, tell me about something else, please?"
"How about the story how I got my Hogwarts letter? My friends know about it, granted, but I seriously doubt they went around telling everyone they met." He was fairly certain he could have found something more important, but he intentionally chose a light-hearted tale of childish amusement.
"Not entertaining," she replied.
"I happen to disagree. I'll just tell you, and then you can decide for yourself. It all begins with the morning when the letter arrived," he began. He paid special attention to interpret some details creatively, partly to lessen the grimmer aspects of his life and partly to simplify it for the sake of storytelling. She didn't need to know about the cupboard, for one. At the end of his tale, she smiled at him.
"Fine, it was entertaining," she admitted. "Not a fear, though, and definitely not something secret."
"I thought something more cheerful might be welcome," he told her.
"If that's what you think, then how about that time I spelled Astoria's room?" Daphne asked. "She had played a rather cruel trick on me, getting Carrie – our elf – to enchant something, and I decided to send Astoria a warning of my own. Just to let her know she wouldn't get away with everything, you know?" She got a strange glint in her eye that reminded Harry of Sirius, his godfather, whenever he had told about the pranks he had pulled with his friends. "So I looked up some rather tricky spells and rune layouts, and let me tell you, they were very advanced for a fourth-year student. Once she was with my parents for a while, talking about some nonsense," Daphne grinned, as she continued explaining how she had used runes to make the room emit a low rumble at odd times in the night, too low to hear, but loud enough to be felt; how she had made the curtains breathe quietly every now and then, and had Carrie charm some of the pictures to have slight delays in certain places, like the eyes of one would lag behind just a bit, just to confuse the onlooker.
"Not bad," Harry agreed in the end.
"Glad you're happy with it," Daphne told him, leaning back slightly and yawning. "But you still owe me a story about your fears, Potter. Entertaining is nice and all, but fair is fair. Don't think I have forgotten. I opened up about mine, now it's your turn."
Harry frowned. He had hoped to keep the talk light, but she seemed set in her plans. What to tell her, he wondered, casting his mind around for something not too grim. Before he could decide, she groaned.
"Just tell me the first instance of real fear and be done with it!"
He didn't have to think long for that one after he chose to go with Harry's oldest memory, not Tom's, but it also didn't make it easier to talk about it. He ran a hand through his hair. He could do it, yes, but he was hesitant to share it with her. All his life, he had tried to hide his home life. He had even skirted around the subject earlier when telling about his Hogwarts letter. Before Hogwarts, no one had been willing to listen or help. Teachers decided to believe his relatives about the accident-prone liar, other children had been scared away from the dangerous boy Potter. Word had gotten around town about that boy, and even adults listened to the Dursleys. That boy, Harry knew people thought of him as, the boy who hunted cats to strangle and drown them. That boy who threw stones at passing cars. That boy who attacked everyone who came close to him. Hadn't they heard about that one time in the park right around the corner with old Taylor's granddaughter? She'd never visited again, so clearly something had to have happened, right? When he had arrived at Hogwarts, he had given up and chosen to endure it, and later, to fight it on his own.
Yet that was part of his past, not his present. He was no longer the small boy hiding in the cupboard. He technically wasn't that Harry Potter either, but decided to overlook that detail. Daphne had confided in him – or told him a good tale, at least. He'd have preferred a lighter story, but he could tell her.
"Well, fine. I was four," he began, only to be interrupted.
"I wanted to hear about a deep fear, Potter, not some childish scare."
"And it won't be. I was four. My aunt had gotten my cousin a new toy – a fishing rod. Well, not a real one, of course, but a toy one made from plastic. It had a magnet at the end of the line instead of a hook. Not a strong one, though, so my uncle replaced it to make the catches easier. There were also some fishes – plastic again – meant to be thrown into a bathtub or a small pond or something like that; they had small metal rings to catch them with. I think the rod also came with a hat, but I'm not sure. Well, Dudley – my cousin – he liked it. Sitting around and pretending to do something? That was right up his alley. One day, my aunt went into the kitchen and then to tend to the garden... I forgot she did that, heh. Anyway, Dudley liked that fishing rod. He ran all around the living room, swinging that stupid magnet this way and that, trying to catch all sorts of things – books, candles, video tapes..."
"Sounds like a stupid child so far, not scary. And what are these... vidio tapes?"
"Err, right, you wouldn't know, sorry. Well, Muggles can store and view films from the TV with them, and they have something similar for sound from the radio – that is similar to..."
"I know what a radio is," she interrupted. "So these tapes store sound and moving pictures."
"Right, they store them, but magnetically. Dudley accidentally damaged them when he tried to catch them with his rod. Or maybe the recordings had been faulty to begin with, but it doesn't matter right now. Dudley was a very exuberant child and swung that rod a bit too energetically. He swiped a valuable vase from a shelf too high to reach for either of us. The noise brought my aunt in, and Dudley did what every child would do."
"He lied? Well, good for him, bad for you, I guess."
"Indeed," Harry agreed, "Aunt Petunia was furious and made me assist her in the garden."
"That's not bad though," Daphne argued.
"After I got punished for whining and lying – naturally, because it had to have been me who had broken that vase – I kept quiet and swallowed my indignation.
"Then my uncle came from work and wanted to watch one of the recorded tapes. Only there was nothing to see. The recording was too damaged to make out much. He was... angry with me." Harry frowned, an ugly look on his face. "He shouted loud enough to frighten the neighbours two houses down into calling the police. He was a big man, you see, easily surpassing three-hundred pounds, closer to four-hundred, in fact, although he isn't that tall, really. He wasn't, I mean. But he did have strength in his fingers; that he had. Enough to press the life out of a dog in his youth, he had once boasted, and certainly enough for a four-year-old he had caught. And for as long as I can remember, he always had a temper to go along with that. So he had me pinned against the wall, shouting himself almost hoarse, and all I could do was kick helplessly at him. I was already... scared, I guess you could call it, and my magic reacted. The clock on the wall exploded, sending splinters everywhere." Harry sighed. "I already told you my relatives weren't fond of magic. The clock exploding just like that certainly didn't help improve my uncle's mood. Well, just before the police arrived, he threw me into my room," Harry said, switching words easily, "and when they showed up, he claimed he had been furious about a lost game of his favourite team. They believed him, and from then on, he was careful to keep his voice low most of the time."
She kept quiet, taking his face in. Finally, she said, sighing, "That could frighten a child. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
"He wouldn't have gone through with his threats, I think, but it left an impression on me. I learned not to talk back, for one."
Daphne watched him intently, and if he had to guess, she waited for signs of deception. Finally, she asked, "And you still had to live with them?"
"Eh, I got used to it and managed to stay on their good side most of the time. And after that evening, he changed tactics anyway. Bruises are easy to notice. Insults, not so much. And with them spreading stories about their delinquent nephew..." He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. It's in the past."
She leaned back over and, just like he had done before, placed a hand on his.
Harry returned with a bang.
