Posted 9/23/2014

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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 Fifty-Two - Like-Minded

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As he walked closer to the chamber, Peter swallowed a lump in his throat. He was torn between two impulses of self-preservation, and he knew he would have to pay a price either way. What had he done to deserve his fate? All he had ever done was trying to stay alive. Was it really such a crime to deserve such a cruel fate? Had he angered the universe enough to deserve the punishments and humiliations, both big and small?

Malfoy, he had joined to get ahead. Bellatrix, she had fallen in love with the Dark Lord's vision, and from what Peter had learned from Sirius about their family, Bellatrix was a Black through and through. Many of the Dark Lord's followers had selfish reasons for joining, and the Dark Lord did reward services often enough to keep the Death Eaters hopeful that their day would come. Peter? All he had wanted was to survive. All he had done was pass along information the Dark Lord would have gotten anyway. In a way, Peter had almost been a hero in his own right, trying to prevent unnecessary bloodshed. Why continue a war that was already lost? How many sons and daughters would have died if Peter hadn't tried ending the war sooner? Sure, he had handed over some of the Order, but he hadn't enjoyed it.

Yet despite trying to save lives, selling out the Potters seemed to have been enough to condemn him. With the fall of the Dark Lord, Peter had had to hide from view, even fake his own death. He had been loathed by his friends, both old and new. When he had been found out by that thrice-cursed Sirius, he had been forced to search for whatever was left of the Dark Lord.

It had been an odd moment when they had met. The traitorous Death Eater, sworn follower of the Dark Lord, meeting his master as nothing but a weak spirit that was leeching strength off of inferior animals. And yet, even though Peter could have easily killed any host the Dark Lord could have found, it had been the weak spirit that had had the true power, and it had been that spirit that had been Peter's best and maybe only hope. Over weeks and months, Peter had nursed the Dark Lord back to health, and helped him to a new body, had made sacrifices for the Dark Lord, and in return, he had gotten what he had come to the Dark Lord for – his life. No riches or power for the servant who had taken great risks. No favours for the one who had been a major contributing factor in the Dark Lord's second rise.

Ever since the night in the graveyard, Peter had been forced to grovel at the feet of others, locked away and treated like a servant and their inferior. Was it a cruel punishment the Dark Lord had thought up for having seen him in a weakened state?

But then, Peter reasoned, others had gotten the Dark Lord's favour by taking risks as well, so why hadn't Peter gotten the same recognition? Hadn't he proven his loyalty? Malfoy who had gotten caught and had forced the Dark Lord to go to the Ministry had been forgiven. Punished, yes, but forgiven.

Malfoy had had something of worth to offer, Peter admitted reluctantly, which might have made a difference. Malfoy had contacts, Malfoy had money. Peter had nothing but himself and his services to offer, and even those weren't as useful as they had once been. That artificial hand had ultimately cost Peter his most valuable skill – he couldn't turn into a rat anymore, not with a hand that refused to change. Moreover, he wasn't keen on trying again, not after the failed attempt over two years ago.

Yes, it had to be punishment for some past action – he had wanted to save his life, and that was all he had left now. He had lost his friends. He had been considered dead by the public. When he had searched out his mother after the Dark Lord's take-over, the shock had been too much for the woman, likely contributing to her death only weeks before. Now Peter's only true link to Wizarding Britain was the Dark Lord, but that link also tied Peter down. He had sold himself to the Dark Lord in exchange for his life. He couldn't turn his back on him – if Peter did, he would die one way or another. It was a life-long service in the Dark Lord's army for Peter; that was the life he had bought himself.

He had reached the door to the chamber. Swallowing, the readied himself to admit his folly before knocking and waiting anxiously. The door opened far too soon for Peter's liking, and he found himself coming face to face with Rabastan Lestrange.

"I have a report for the Dark Lord," Peter offered with a half-hearted glare that failed to impress or intimidate Lestrange. While he wasn't as fearless as his brother, Rabastan was still a loyal follower with years in Azkaban on his mind. He was also useful in his own right and the voice of reason to contrast his brother and sister-in-law.

Rabastan stared for a moment, but finally stepped aside to allow Peter entrance and reveal the Dark Lord in a mahagony armchair with golden inlaids.

"Wormtail," the Dark Lord acknowledged, making Peter twitch at the reminder of the friends he had betrayed. "I was not aware that I had sent for you."

"My Lord," Peter replied, bowing, "I have come to warn you."

Lestrange tensed, but the Dark Lord showed no reaction. "Come in," he ordered, "and warn me."

Peter dutifully hastened to walk over and kneel in front of his master. "My Lord, Albert Conroy is a traitor. I saw him leave occasionally over the past weeks, but thought he had been on a mission for you. He left about two hours ago, my Lord, sneaking out through one of the windows. It was luck I saw him in time, my Lord, as I barely managed to follow him before he could get away. He met up with Sarah Wilcox, a former Gryffindor, who led him to a group of four others. I recognized one as the Bones girl. They were conspiring, my Lord. Conroy is a traitor."

"Those are serious accusations, Wormtail," the Dark Lord spoke up, and while his voice was devoid of any anger, Peter shivered involuntarily, "especially since you indirectly accuse the one who brought him to us."

"Conroy might have changed his mind since then," Peter tried. "He earned his Mark, he proved himself to you in the past, but his loyalty may be wavering."

"Speaking from experience?" Lestrange mocked, but fell silent after a glance from ther Dark Lord.

"There is some truth to his word, Wormtail," the Dark Lord mused. "You call him a traitor, yet your biggest service so far has been treachery. And is it not fear that keeps you in my service? Is that not why you returned?"

"My Lord," Peter grovelled, "I came to you. I came when I realized my folly and recognized you as the rightful ruler of the wizarding world. I came to you and have done what you asked me to. And now I come to you to warn you – Conroy is not what he claims to be."

"I know," the Dark Lord said, and it surprised Peter so much that he looked up. "Do you think I do not know what happens in this house? That I am so easily deceived? I know Conroy has betrayed me. I know his heart hasn't been mine." The Dark Lord glanced to Lestrange. "Go. Do as I told you."

Lestrange bowed and left.

"As for you," the Dark Lord continued, "Wormtail, you aren't as unlike Conroy as you want me to believe."

"I came to you," Peter repeated.

"So did he, wanting power and glory. You came to me, Wormtail – first, to save yourself, then to seek my protection. Have I not done that? You wanted to be safe. What could be safer than staying close to me, Wormtail?"

"Nothing, my Lord," Peter replied, bowing.

"So why did you leave, then? You had what you wanted, so why did you get yourself involved and followed Conroy? What is it you want?"

Peter swallowed another lump. "I... My Lord, I thought of you. I wanted to be of service."

"You wanted praise," the Dark Lord corrected, making Peter shiver once more. "You wanted recognition."

A speck of bravery that had once led to Peter ending up in Gryffindor resurfaced. "My Lord," he began, "I have been of service to you in the past. I gave you names. I gave you the secrets of your enemies. Thanks to me, people like Lestrange and Dolohov could do their work that well. When I returned to your side, I did what you asked me to. I brought you Bertha Jorkins."

"You were a spy, Wormtail," the Dark Lord pointed out. "Spies don't get recognition for their work. And many of your accomplishments were the results of luck, not skill. Do you want to be recognized as being lucky?" The Dark Lord stood up and paced in front of Peter. "You were a fool to follow Conroy. You could have been caught. You could have been seen by the wrong people. Luck was on your side once more, it seems. So now one rat betrays the other and yet has nothing to offer."

"The Bones girl," Peter tried, but broke off the moment the Dark Lord stopped in his steps.

"Did Conroy lead you to a meeting place or their hideout?"

Peter hesitated. "Not their hideout, I think. There were no beds nor did I see any signs of necessities, my Lord, just an abandoned warehouse in the countryside."

"The Bones girl is of little importance," the Dark Lord replied. "She has no true power or support. Hunting her down would be a waste of resources. One day, she will be caught." He returned to pacing. "You accused Conroy. What do you propose Lord Voldemort should do now?"

Peter felt the fear grip his heart. A test; he knew it was a test. "Conroy, he has no place in the Death Eaters's ranks," Peter began. "He has to die, both as punishment and a warning to others."

The Dark Lord made a sound that seemed almost like a sigh, something Dark Lords naturally didn't do. "You truly are a Gryffindor at heart," he said. "You are too soft. You are lucky Lord Voldemort is merciful. Conroy will be dealt with in time, and maybe you will have a part in that.

"You wanted recognition and be of service. You wanted more than just to be safe. You are lucky once more – Lord Voldemort has a task for you."


He couldn't sleep, not after what he had heard a few hours before from Neville about the state of affairs in the Wizarding World.

Harry turned the page, wondering absentmindedly whether the Blacks had really deserved their reputation. For a family supposedly consisting of the darkest and evilest of wizardkind, their library was frustratingly useless. Oh, there were some spells with potential, but they just didn't have the right amount of power to be what he was looking for.

Or was he overthinking things? Harry wasn't so sure anymore. He was fairly skilled already, and he had the surprise on his side. Were he to meet one of the Death Eaters, he could trounce them, he was sure of that. And the Head Hypocrite was conceited enough to think himself immortal. So maybe Harry didn't need some secret magic, but a bit of luck and his reflexes? After all, once the snake was dead, all it would take was a flick of the wand and the self-proclaimed Dark Lord would fall.

But then, Harry also knew just what he was up against. Yes, he was working his way through the memories, but they also showed him just how powerful Voldemort had become, and just how far the ruthless boy Tom had grown up. There was no hesitation left to hope for, and Voldemort would use every bit of power he had against his enemies.

"What do you say?" he asked his guest, the words a strange hiss. "Is it just a case of a bad reputation?"

The snake on the table lifted its head, but after a moment, lowered the head jerkily into a coil of its body – the snake's equivalent of a shrug maybe?

"Not much of a conversationalist, are you?" Harry accused.

"Too cold. Too tired," the grass snake replied and curled up again.

Harry looked through the chapter once more. He had borrowed Hermione's book on Runes, mainly to compare it to his own recollection, but all he could say for sure was Tom's dedication to wards and protections. In those areas, Harry was likely far ahead of his peers – didn't he use that knowledge occasionally for his raids? – but other applications of magic were about as familiar to him as to any highly intelligent forty-something. What did Lord Voldemort care for cleaning spells? Why should he bother with the mundane?

One of the paintings sighed, acting asleep, but Harry knew the truth. Paintings didn't need to sleep, and most consequently didn't.

Perhaps he should use those hours of the night to exercise? Harry wasn't sure about it, but he guessed spending months locked up in the house had let his physical fitness deteriorate. That wouldn't do, not when he needed to be at his peak to stand up to Voldemort. A few weights, maybe? Easy enough to conjure, even if he didn't like the feel of fake material much.

Ah, he realized, that was how objects could be made to glow in different colours depending on the person touching it. How intriguing and utterly useless. It was no wonder Tom had had little trouble in the past breaking wards of houses if all they could put up against him were basic forms and ridiculous warnings. Tom had been a dark lord; did they expect him to care much for the delicate beauty of the magic involved? Either it worked – as it had in many cases – or it didn't.

Then again, Tom had had little patience in his life in general, Harry mused. Even as a child, he had gotten what he had wanted. If he wanted some fun, then he had some fun. If he wanted to play mind games, then he played mind games. If he wanted something done, then he made people do it. As he had grown older, this trait also stayed with him. Why should he play by someone else's rules? The weak bent to the strong, and very few were nearly as strong as Tom had become. Naturally, Voldemort bent to no one.

Interesting approach, Harry thought as he read through another use for person recognition. True, wards could do it more easily with a different layout, but Harry still understood the intention. He would have expected a second-year to be able to replicate the runic layout he had found, but not everyone could be as brilliant as Tom had been. Perhaps he could modify it? There had to be some better use than a mere alarm.

Then again, he thought with a roll of his eyes as he saw a figure move up the steps in one of the frames, he also knew the value of alarms and surveillance as well. The frame returned to its previous state, showing a barren land somewhere in the hills instead of the stairs leading up to the second floor of Number Twelve. He closed the book and strode over to the door, applying a disillusionment charm to himself.

He had barely arrived in his spot when the door opened slowly. Harry waited, invisible, and watched Daphne sneak in. He would have sighed at her pathetic attempt to catch him off-guard, but refrained from doing so, instead happy to watch her and wait for the right moment to surprise her.

She closed the door and crept over to the table. She glanced at the book and snake on the table. Her arrival seemed to have piqued the sanke's interest, though – it lifted its head and tasted the air with a tilted head, looking almost confused about the new arrival.

"Another one?" it asked, but when it got no answer from Harry, it focused on Daphne. "I'm cold," it announced.

Daphne only stared at the snake, obviously not understanding the animal. As if it had given up hope for help or maybe some warming spell, the snake curled back up and returned to dozing.

Seeing nothing else that caught her attention, Daphne glanced around nervously. Only a moment later, she walked over to his closet. Feeling it had gone far enough, he cancelled the spell on himself.

"Looking for something?" he called out.

She jumped to her feet, wand slipping to her hand. He snapped his fingers for dramatic effect, and it flew out of her grip and landed somewhere behind her.

"Harry, I thought I... lost something the last time I was here," she told him, keeping a wary eye on him.

"In my closet?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You might have put it there?" she tried, sounding about as unconvincing as she looked.

"Instead of giving it back the moment I realized it wasn't mine?" He tilted his head mockingly. When she didn't answer, he continued, "And what, pray tell, did you lose that made you come up here?"

"I..." she glanced around, but no help came for her. "Fine. I lost nothing; I came here, but you weren't there. I got curious and had a look around."

"Not a healthy pastime in a war," he reminded him. "It has gotten you into a tight spot once, and we spent quite some time sorting it out, didn't we? Curiosity killed the cat, as the Muggles say. Or have you forgotten you are living in the headquarters of one faction in this conflict?"

"I didn't," she replied, "but I wouldn't exactly call it much of a headquarter. Actually, I'm not even sure you have a headquarter in the first place. To me, it seems more like your friends and allies are spread around the country, hiding wherever they can. Not a bad idea, mind you, not with the Ministry and the Dark Lord against you."

Harry refused to comment on that. "So you came to find me. You found me. What is it?"

"I've come to propose an attack on Malfoy," she stated.

"Didn't we go through this already?" he questioned, but she interrupted him.

"Hear me out, at least. This is something else. Well, he's at Hogwarts at the moment and will be for a while. So why not use that to our... your advantage? We'll sneak into the castle. You said there are secret paths leading in. Well, we can use one of them. We'll lie in wait for him, and once he is unguarded, we'll grab him. If necessary, you can curse his friends a bit to keep them occupied while I make off with him. Once in some safe location, we interrogate him a bit. Then I have my revenge and we have one job done and have him removed him from Hogwarts. You know, away from children he can and probably does hurt. You might even get some information out of it."

Harry scratched his cheek. "Sounds easy enough, yes, but also highly risky. What if we are seen? He's surrounded by his friends and allies, and likely looking for any resistance in school. Keep in mind, he is Head Boy. The perfect excuse to harass students who aren't in line." Daphne frowned, and he relaxed somewhat. "Look, I can see where you are going with this. Normally, I'd agree; dealing with Malfoy would be something to take care of sooner rather than later. But I don't want to give away that you're alive for some minor grudge."

"Minor grudge?" She glared at him.

"Well, in the end, it doesn't factor in as much as, let's say, pushing back the Death Eaters as a whole or ending the war. I'm sure you agree with me there." He hesitated, biting his lip. "I've also gotten news from Hogwarts. Bones and Abbott still haven't been found, it seems, which is good." He took her arm and gently guided her over to the nearest seat – the bed she had looked under before. "Your friends seem to be doing about as good as one could hope. Mr. Davis..."

"... was arrested and imprisoned a month ago, location unknown, I know," Daphne interrupted. "But Tracey's strong. She's determined and has the heart in the right place."

"Well, you know about that already, that's good I guess," Harry continued. Should he ask her to sit down? Better not, he decided, or she'd worry even more about what he had to tell her. But before he had the chance, Daphne glanced to the table.

"Is there a reason for the snake?" she asked.

"Boredom?" he offered half-heartedly. "I couldn't sleep and wanted to get some reading done? And maybe have someone to talk to?"

"So you got yourself a snake?" Daphne said with a doubtful tone.

"Eh, it's not a painting," Harry tried, but he couldn't bring himself to care much. She seemed to have picked up on it.

"You couldn't sleep?" Daphne spoke up, looking him over worriedly. "Something bothering you?"

Harry swallowed. "I'm fine. Really," he assured her, "I'm... nothing happened to me. It's something else. I spoke to Neville earlier. Late-night chat, you know, just to let me know how they're doing? Well, I was asked to pass a message along. Your friends heard from Astoria that your parents had a nice Christmas..."

"Good for them," Daphne said with a pained smile.

"I... they're doing all right," Harry tried. "Astoria seems to think you're alive."

"Oh, does she?" Daphne asked with a shaky laugh. She seemed to have picked up on Harry's hesitation, though, as the colour left her. "What is it? Harry, what... did something happen? To my family?"

"I... He should be quite fine, Daphne," he told her, deciding to be direct, "but it seems as if your father was arrested. We..."

"Why?" she interrupted, staring wide-eyed at him. "He's not a bad man, he isn't... Why, Harry?" She grabbed his arms to steady herself. He wasn't quite sure whether she was shaking or trying to shake him.

"We don't know for sure," he replied, carefully disentangling himself from her. "Astoria's version said something about him sticking up for you, which makes sense." Whatever he had said had been wrong. Daphne stared back at him with wide, shocked eyes, and he told her, "They'll just want to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't follow your example, but he's a pureblood, so he should be fine."

After a few calming breaths, she shook her head. "No, he won't. He'll blame himself, he always does." She glanced to the side, and when she looked at Harry again, she had regained control of herself. "Nothing more?"

"That's all we've heard so far. I'm sorry you've heard about it this way, I just thought..."

"It's... it's all right," she interrupted. "Well, no, it's not. It's messed up, but... Pureblood, yes. Pureblood. He should be safe. Pureblood, so... Pureblood. They'll have sent him..." She hesitated, searching Harry's eyes.

He guessed where her thoughts had gone and couldn't bring himself to lie to her. "The Dementors are gone," he assured her.

She blinked, laughing and running her hands through her hair. "The Dementors are gone. The Dementors are gone, so everything's fine. Oh yes, he's imprisoned and abandoned on a gloomy rock in the middle of the sea and... Oh, but the Dementors are gone." She glared at him. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No, just..." He broke off. True, he could point out that others had survived Azkaban when the terrible guards had still been there, but he doubted Daphne or anyone would be pacified by their loved ones merely surviving. Instead, he was about to hug her and assure her everything would be all right, but he didn't get that far.

She swayed on the spot, sighing. "I'm sorry, I... Sorry. This isn't... I... Sorry. Harry, I need some time to... Yeah." Without looking at him, she ducked around his half-hearted attempt to stop her and left.

Harry watched her leave with a sigh. The noise in the room seemd to have disturbed the snake, though, as it lifted its head to look around for any trouble or danger.

"The other fled?" the snake wondered.

"Yes," Harry replied with the hiss of Parseltounge. "In a way, she fled."

"Still cold," the snake added after a moment and curled back up.


The next day, Harry saw very little of his houseguest. He only learned that she had skipped breakfast because Kreacher grumbled that the mistress who wasn't his Mistress hadn't come down or ordered him to bring her something. She also didn't show up for training, she didn't answer her door either. At lunch, Harry informed both of his friends about Mr. Greengrass' arrest. While Hermione pitied Daphne and her father, Ron wasted no time pointing out how obvious of a ploy it was; to him, it was clear they were supposed to rescue Mr. Greengrass, thus bringing a spy under the protection of the Order. Only when Harry assured him that he had no intention of rescuing his father-in-law from prison did he calm down. From Hermione's expression, she wasn't happy to see the argument ended like that. Instead of complaining, she arranged the tests for the capsules she had prepared. The rest of the afternoon, Harry and his friends had to endure the occasional bouts of burps and colour changes.

When dinner came around, Daphne joined the others, but her face was unreadable. Hermione sent her the occasional glance or smile, each getting acknowledged with a curt nod. Ron looked everywhere but at Daphne. Harry tried making conversation, but failed, making Kreacher the most talkative with his drivel about the ruination that had befallen the House of Black.

About a quarter to twelve, Harry stared at an empty parchment in front of him. He knew his next mark. He knew the method. Their tests had ended, and Harry had been careful to note the exact times when the potions took effect over the course of his evening in solitude. If his plan was to succeed, then he needed to know how much time would pass. For the unexplained poisoning to work properly, Nott needed to have company – someone needed to see him dying. Harry also knew that he should start thinking about the attack after that. Maybe he should go after those who profited from the suffering. Borgin or Burke might work. Or perhaps he should start working his way up to the important people?

A knock on the door woke him from his contemplation. Daphne walked in, not having waited for the invitation. Harry wasn't surprised by it, wondering idly whether he should add a ward to prevent people from walking in uninvited. Her appearance also wasn't anything new to him. Was it odd that he was used to her walking into his bedroom in her nightclothes? Probably, he mused, but if it was out of the ordinary, he shouldn't judge her for it – when had he been ordinary, after all?

"Sorry for coming," she spoke up. "And sorry for... for not showing up or... I just..."

"I understand, Daphne," he told her with a smile. "I know how it is when you have something to think about."

She swallowed. "You told your friends, I'm guessing. The way they reacted..."

"Yeah, I didn't want them to worry about you," Harry replied.

"Granger worrying about me, that I can believe. Weasley? Not so much."

"He'd have worried," Harry assured her, fighting a smile. "He'd have worried that you were up to something, most likely, but..."

"That does sound more like him, I guess," Daphne laughed. "Well, I had to think, which he'd likely find worrying as well, so it's not like he was completely wrong, I guess." She swallowed, glancing to the side. "I had to think. And I had to make a choice, in a way. About what to do. Part of me was all for running out on you and back to my mother, trying what I can to get my father out." She ran a hand through her hair. "But that would've made everything only worse. Even if they'd let him out, he'd still blame himself for me getting caught. And caught I would have been, which would have led to exposing you, bringing down the whole of the resistance."

"Including Davis and Bulstrode," Harry guessed.

Daphne hesitated, lips slightly parted while she seemed on the verge of saying something. "So I chose. I'm staying here. And I'll continue working with you. And... the faster this war is over, the faster... I've made my choice. The resistance is my best bet of getting my father out before anything happens to him. Dementors or not, Azkaban might..." She swallowed, her hand clenched and unclenched jerkily. "This war has gone for too long already. What can I do to help?"

Harry nodded, smiling at her in thought. "Well, you're doing something already, aren't you? Training for your confrontation? Why not be ready to take down some Death Eaters along the way?"

"That's it?" she asked. "There has to be something I can do to contribute right now."

"Well," Harry told her, shrugging, "you could read up on wards and the Blacks' secret magic, I guess. If I can think of something else, I'll tell you, but getting you ready for a fight has top priority. There's a good chance you'll be drawn into other duels, for one. Hermione and Ron will naturally stand by me. Others will probably come to my side if I need them, but it's no use if they can't hold their own in a battle. And since you are already connected to me, it's fairly likely that you will have to fight your way out of some tight spot. Sorry, I guess I should have warned you about that one way back before we ever made our deal. Anyone who's so much as shaken my hand will invariably have to watch for attacks until their dying breath. Just ask Hermione or Ron; the number of times they were sent to the Hospital Wing because of me... indirectly, of course, but still."

"Well, if you want everyone getting ready for a combat-ready..." She frowned. "Well, Granger and you are doing your little side-projects."

"What," Harry chuckled, "you'd want to help? Yeah, that would go swimmingly, particularly with Ron still looking for signs of deception."

"I could do research," Daphne offered. "You tell me what you want and I'll look it up. Complicated spells? Leave it to me."

"I'll think about it, okay? But I'd prefer keeping very few people involved. Two having blood on their hands is enough, don't you think? Do you really want to be an accomplice?"

She hesitated, and Harry had the impression she had swallowed whatever reply she had been about to give. Instead, she shrugged. "Well, if you two are constantly busy, then I could try getting Weasley up to scratch, I guess." There was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"That's an even better idea," Harry agreed jokingly. "Having you teach him duelling is brilliant. Hermione could use some practice if she's meant to get the hang of patching people back up. And I doubt Ron would like to listen to you."

She frowned, but nodded. "So... keep doing what I'm doing?"

"For the moment, yes," Harry agreed. He decided to change the subject. "How have you been sleeping?"

She glanced at him and managed a small smile. "Really? Restlessly. Drifted in and out, some kind of naps... but you probably guessed as much."

Harry didn't deny it. He could see the heartache and darkness and in her glimmering in her eyes and was happy she hadn't closed off yet. "The offer still stands, you know? I'm willing to listen, should you wish to speak about something." He spread his arms with a small shrug, showing the empty room.

"I know, yes. And thank you, I guess. Maybe some other time, all right? Right now, it's..." She broke off and bit her lip. "Maybe some other time," she repeated with a pained smile. "So, what have you been doing, then?" she asked, glancing around the room in search of a new subject.

He chuckled and looked at the parchment in front of him. "Planning. There's always something going on, and it might be a good idea to have something up my sleeve just in case I need it." He pointed to the book on the far side of the table. "Reading. I thought it might be a good idea to read the Runes text and see how much it deviates from what I learned. It's not as easy, but also not as difficult as it could be, I guess."

"Ah, Runes, yes. Professor Babbling would have loved to see someone talented in her classes. She is constantly griping about the low standards of the students."

"Ouch, sounds like Snape," Harry said with a wince.

"Not really. She blames the low standard of society in general and the late start into the subject for the performance problems. And she isn't completely wrong. True, there are some raw gems coming in – prodigies, you know? – but there's still hard work, studying and experience involved, which is a bit of a problem. When people hear magic, they think of wand-waving. Some might also think of Potions, but the art of runes is mostly misunderstood. It is sad, actually, but there is a reason it is called an art. The really skilled people do it professionally; private runes work is quite rare. Potions? Yes, families use them. They brew them and children can see them. Spells? Ah, those as well. Children see magic in action. But runes? They can last for decades or centuries and are mostly used away from children. So no, runes are something children don't really witness first-hand. So most of them come to class without any experience. It takes forever making the students understand how it works."

Harry nodded, but didn't point out her explanation only applied to wizarding children –Muggleborns didn't see magic much before their Hogwarts letter. He also didn't point out that Muggleborn children, despite not having witnessed much magic before, still managed just fine in school and life.

"I found it interesting," he told her diplomatically. "And not that impossibly difficult."

"Maybe you are one of the few with a real talent for it?" Daphne suggested.

"Maybe, maybe not," Harry tried, aware that Riddle's knowledge had to be a major part of it. In a way, Harry already had decades of experience to draw from. "But it's not something I can see myself spending the rest of my life working on, day in, day out. Then again, it did help me understand some of the protections around this place. In time, I might even rework some of it to fit my needs."

Daphne smiled at him. "Good luck with that." She walked over to a sleeping portrait of a witch in regal clothes and watched it for a moment. "An old Black, I assume? Ah, Lucretia Black, I see. Doesn't look like sixty-one, though," Daphne mused with a glance at the small plaque.

Lucretia Black blinked, glaring at Daphne. "Disgraceful, talking to your elders like that! Impertinent girl, who do you think you see? Don't know what my great-great-grandnephew Phineas thought signing that contract. Family first, he should have known that, if nothing else. Nothing good comes from dealing with other houses. Well, now that it has gotten to it, where has it led us? A bad-mannered girl as the Mistress, and a Halfblood as the Head of House!"

Daphne watched with a smile as the painted witch ruffled her robes around her, but didn't answer. Harry stepped behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder to make his presence known, about to tell her about the embittered witch, but he never got to it.

Daphne twitched the moment she felt the touch and spun around to face him. He stared at her, trying not to blush at coming face to face with her.

"Sorry, I..." he began, but she waved him off with an uneasy smile.

"No, it's... you just surprised me, that's all." A moment later, she stepped away and added more hesitantly, "And I might have hurt it. It's not much, but it's tender to the touch, so..." She trailed off, rubbing the spot.

"Well, all right," Harry told her, shrugging. "I was just startled."

"You... you were startled?" she laughed. "You made me jump about a foot! Honestly, sneaking up on me like that?"

"I didn't sneak up on you, not really," he defended half-heartedly.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," she chuckled, still rubbing her shoulder.

Following a sudden inspiration, he said, "A pain, you say?"

"Not a pain," she insisted. "And it's not much."

"Maybe I can help, though. I've had neck problems once or twice after Quidditch, so I might know how to massage it out."

She shook her head, laughing quietly. "Thanks, but it's not necessary."

"As an apology, then?" he tried in what he hoped would sound slightly hopeful. "Just so I no longer feel guilty or like a bad host?"

Her raised eyebrow made him reconsider his offer – maybe she suspected another motive behind it – but in the end, she nodded. "Can't get any worse, can it?" she argued with a small shrug. "But I'm warning you, one wrong touch..." She turned around, pulling at her dressing gown to reveal her right shoulder.

Harry closed the distance, slightly nervous about the situation all of a sudden. But then, there wasn't really any deeper meaning, was there? His fingers began rubbing circles around the area he assumed was affected. Trying to not look too closely or let his mind wander, he focused on the task at hand, but it didn't make it any easier. He became all the more aware of the thrill of touch itself and of her skin under his fingers. Worse, the longer he massaged, the more the dressing gown slipped, exposing more of her shoulder and the nightdress Daphne wore. The silk shimmered in the dim light with a mesmerizing power of its own. Focusing on something other than sight and touch made him aware of a nice scent he couldn't quite place and the sound of her soft breathing filling the otherwise silent room.

He worked for a while, but although she didn't protest, he had the impression it didn't elevate the tension in her. If anything, she seemed to tense even more. He could see a muscle in her neck begin to stand out. Dropping his left and shifting his right slightly, he brushed over her skin for a moment, very aware of the smooth curves under his fingers until he reached the lower end of the scar on the side of her face. When he drew a circle with his thumb, she shifted slightly. His left hand moved to steady her, coming to rest on her side.

She whirled around to face him, a wild glare aimed at him, but she didn't say anything, as the words seemed to have become stuck in her throat. Her spin had brought them almost nose-to-nose and her in his embrace as his left hand had come to rest on her waist. Her warm breath tingled on his skin, and her arm was the only thing separating them.

"I'm sorry," he apologized after a moment, his voice little more than a whisper. Her glare lessened and, blushing, she glanced to the side. Harry meanwhile found himself looking closely at her scarred face, reading the story written there. He couldn't stop himself; his left hand travelled upwards over her back and to her face. Blinking, Daphne gazed at him, mouth slightly open. He ran his index finger along the scar upwards past her ear and to the hairline before travelling down again more slowly as he traced the ridges. To his surprise, she leaned into the touch after a moment of hesitation, relaxing. He hadn't noticed before – when could he have? – but the discoloured, regrown eye seemed to be strangely lively and fierier than its counterpart.

When he stopped caressing her face, something brushed against his right hand at his side. Only a moment later, gentle fingers moved over the back of his hand. Had she been a cat, Harry wouldn't have been surprised if Daphne had purred. Instead, her eyes locked on his, and after what he guessed had been a moment of indecision, a gentle smile spread across her face. Her right arm, the only things separating them, sank. Slowly, she moved closer, her head tilting. He leaned in, shifting his hand to the back of her head. And then, they were only inches apart and moving still closer.

Her hand closed around the one on his side, a gentle touch that sent shivers down his spine. This wasn't like their wedding; they both knew it. No witnesses, no obligation to force them, and yet neither resisted the impulse.

Her breath tingled softly on the stubbles on his face, smelling faintly fresh. And then their lips brushed against each other. In a rush of blood, noise filled his ears for a moment, as the momentous event registered in his mind. The repressed urge surfaced after weeks of ignoring it; with the first taste of something sweet like that, he grew hungry for more. She was faster, though, as she leaned forward, kissing him with barely restrained passion. His hand moved away, down her back, gently brushing the dressing gown. It seemed he had done the right thing – while he could have sworn she had growled, a wave seemed to run through her body from the toes to her head as she crashed against him. He matched her enthusiasm eagerly.

How long their kiss lasted Harry didn't know, but just when he felt he needed to catch a breath and savour the taste of her, she broke the contact, gasping slightly. Only then did he notice they were pressed against each other, his hands resting on her hip and slightly above, while hers had found their way into his hair and on his shoulder blade.

She blinked, obviously noticing as well. Their eyes met – an odd moment, Harry felt – but neither moved. Instead, they stared at each other, slowly realizing what had happened and stunned speechless for the moment with the same disbelief.

The sound of fast, quiet clapping woke Harry from his stupor. All the paintings except for one looked empty. A small wizard almost bounced on his toes, giggling to himself and clapping excitedly as mirth danced in his eyes. It was enough to break the silence, at least, and it made Daphne shake her head and recover from her daze, looking around the room at the paintings – empty except for two, Harry realized, as in another one, a girl with black, long hair leaned in from behind the frame, smiling mischievously for a moment before a hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her away.

The spell finally broken, Harry and Daphne jumped apart, both blushing profusely and trying to straighten their clothes. It seemed to amuse the painted wizard even more, and when both Harry and Daphne threw him a glare, he let out a gleeful cackle and wobbled out of his frame on his short legs.

Harry and Daphne glanced at each other, both about equal parts irritated and ashamed. But once their eyes met, she smiled, perplexed, as a single giggle escaped her. It was infectious, and soon, both had sat down on the ground, laughing.

When she had finally caught herself somewhat, Daphne shook her head, struggling to her feet. "That was..."

"Nice?" he offered, still chuckling.

"Entertaining?" she countered, raising a challenging eyebrow as she looked down on him.

"Oh, entertaining?" He grinned.

"Some seemed to think so," Daphne pointed out, nodding towards the paintings on the wall.

Harry sighed, shaking his head. "Y'know, that's probably why I've never seen portraits in a bedroom before." He had a feeling Sirius was somehow involved in it. "Wanted them to watch Buckbeak, I'm sure." Seeing Daphne look, he sent her a winning, impish smile. "Entertaining?" he repeated. Well, if she wanted to call it that, he was fine with it.

"Could have been worse," she admitted, mirth in her eye. Leaning against the wall, she sighed, "And overdue."

This caused him to raise an eyebrow. "Overdue?"

She froze as her face dropped a bit. "Well, what with Granger and Weasley constantly dancing around each other..." She rolled her eyes exasperatedly.

"Come now, that's not... Well, yeah, all right," he admitted, "go on."

"Well, there's this... this charged atmosphere around the house; surely you have noticed it. You said they should sort it out by themselves, but right now, it's like a thunderstorm brewing. They know something's there, we know it as well. You can practically smell it in the air. And here we are, married for all intents and purposes..."

"So we're a lightning rod then?" Harry interrupted.

She blinked at Harry, and he guessed she had never heard of one before. He waved her off, and with a shrug, she continued, "Well, we are married, yet we've been dancing around each other for a week as well for no reason at all. I mean, what was so difficult about that, really? Or so outrageous? There was nothing to it, and now it's done and out of our system – the thunderstorm has gone, everything's back to normal, and we can focus on more important matters," she announced with more strength in her words than necessary. She did sound very convincing, but Harry wasn't sure just who she wanted to convince.

"You could have made the first step if you felt the... err, wish to get it 'done and out of our system'," he pointed out with an innocent smile, getting to his feet.

She glared at him, but didn't comment.

"Well, there was some charged atmosphere, as you called it, yes," he conceded.

"Yes, and I think we've dealt with that now. Good riddance, I say," she told him with a confident nod. "Finally worked past the tension and cleared my head."

He pursed his lips in thought. "True, true. You did seem quite tense earlier," he said, fighting the smile when he saw her blush slightly before frowning. "You seem quite relaxed right now, so that should be good, then. You compared it to a thunderstorm..."

"With good reason," she interjected.

"It did seem like there was a force of nature at work," he mused with a glance in her direction.

She caught his look and straightened her dressing gown, blushing further while the corners of her mouth twitched suspiciously.

"But I'm wondering... you said things between boy and girl, man and woman, they're a dance, so I'm wondering right now, what kind of dance move would that have been?"

She tilted her head, watching him for a moment, but there was also amusement shining in her eyes. "Well, it was more like the opening game of the Quidditch season – anticipation building up to it until the balls are released."

He laughed out. "Quidditch now?"

"You'd be more familiar with that, and I do want to communicate my idea, right?" She chuckled softly.

He raised an eyebrow. "You do remember that once the balls are released, that's when the game really starts?"

"You were asking for a comparison for... for what happened," she replied, huffing indignantly. "I said it was a thunderstorm, you asked for clarification. I never said it was a perfect metaphor."

"Ah," Harry hummed, "my bad. Seems I misunderstood you there."

"Well," Daphne told him with a shrug, "maybe it'll teach you not to read too much into things." Ruffling her dressing gown, she added, "At least the tension is gone now."

"Done and out of your system?" he reminded her. Harry agreed with her on that point – the kiss had been a relief of sorts, and they had finally done something to move past the mixed signals and coy games. But he didn't quite agree with the conclusion she had offered. For one, he had really enjoyed their kiss. In fact, unless he was very much mistaken, she had enjoyed it as well. For another, he was fairly certain neither would mind a repeat all that much – he knew he wouldn't. Now that he had truly kissed a girl, he longed for more.

"Obligation fulfilled," Daphne confirmed, straightening slightly. She couldn't quite meet his eye, but after a quick glance of her own, she looked pointedly away as a slight blush appeared on her face.

So she wasn't as unaffected as she wanted to appear, Harry thought, barely keeping from grinning. She had said they were back to normal, but he doubted it. True, they were laughing again and she hadn't gotten angry over the whole matter, but from what he could see, she hadn't been able to push the kiss out of her mind – because it had been more than an obligation to her, Harry guessed, and she had enjoyed it.

Following his hunch, he sauntered over, scratching his chin in thought. "Well, if the duty's done..." he trailed off, drawing her attention. He sent her a mischievous smile.

Daphne's eyes jumped for the smallest of moments to his lips, and she blushed a bit more, having filled in the rest herself. "Confident, are we?" she replied slyly, yet her mock couldn't quite hide the glimmer in her eye. And, Harry noticed, she had neither walked away nor outright refused.

"'Entertaining', remember?" he told her, adding with a pointed look, "Your words, not mine."

Daphne almost managed to disguise her snort as a more dignified huff, but the corners of her mouth twitched for just a second before she schooled her features.

"Well," Harry argued with a quirked eyebrow, his smile growing, "who'd begrudge us a bit of... entertainment? Especially in these troubled times? And you still do seem to be a bit tense, which I think I can help you with."

"Not just confident, but overconfident, it seems," she mused in feigned surprise. Despite her words, she didn't walk away.

"If the duty's done..." he repeated, walking towards her and stopping about a foot from her. If she wanted to, she would have to make the last step.

She trailed a finger over his robes, from where his bellybutton was hidden underneath the pyjamas to his chest, where she drew a large circle. Harry kept a close eye on her face, watching as hints of conflicting impulses showed on it. There was a battle going on – of the longing and hesitation he could understand, faced with the enormous step she could take. Only a moment later, he picked up on a new level of conflict. A childish curiosity and giddiness switched with the guarded nature of the girl Harry had gotten to know – warm and cold, happiness and pain, confidence and fear. One moment, her face shone with joy; the next, the darkness within her had taken hold of her.

Before he could think more about it, one side in her won. When her other arm snaked around his back and she closed the distance between them, neither could stop the smile spreading on their faces until, for the third time that night, they kissed, this time with less of a hungry urge and more longing, savouring the blissful moment now that they had taken an enormous step. Together, they began exploring, both eager to learn as much as possible about the other.

It was a whole new world, Harry felt, and he began to really appreciate the scent of her, noticing the subtle hints of something more than merely fresh, and the feeling of her lips against his not in a heated struggle for control, but the dance of two people. More importantly, he began understanding why Daphne had called it that – it was a game of teasing and anticipation, each kiss like a small, wonderful present he loved giving as much as getting. And just like dances, kisses were harmony, not a competition. Every once in a while, they broke apart for a second and their eyes met, hers showing the same delight he felt.

As embrace slowly turned to caresses, their bodies long since pressed against each other, they seemed to sway to a tune only they could hear. Just as he felt a new wave of longing rising in him, Daphne tensed slightly in his arms. A giggle bubbled out of her, one so childishly happy and unlike her that Harry was startled, blinking as he looked at her staring back with glistening eyes and a smile warmer than any he'd seen from her so far. He didn't get to ask her about it, however; she surprised Harry with a slow kiss that felt more meaningful than the others somehow.

And for a moment, they were just Harry and Daphne.


What a pain to write. Yet another point of view, all of that touchy-feely crap. Oh well, here's to first love.