Chapter Title: SIDE B: He plans
Timeframe: May of 2011
Characters Involved: Daphne Greengrass and Harry Potter (Ginny Weasley, Petunia Dursley, Dudley Dursley, Teddy Lupin, mentioned)
Point of View: Harry Potter, third person limited.
Notes: Okay, this was supposed to be up last friday, but it was Valentines and I was busy busy. Anywho, sorry for making you guys wait. If you guys have anything to say, mention, question, or just I don't know, bash? Just leave me a review or send me a PM.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all its contents is owned by JK Rowling.
SIDE B: HE PLANS
If you know Harry Potter, then you know a fixed schedule, a plan, or some semblance of control would not exist in his line of work; he runs on instincts and gut feels and hunches and harsh whispers of the wind, he doesn't do logic.
(Or at least, he doesn't anymore.
He used to, back when he was just Harry, the little boy under the stairs: he follows a schedule to not upset Aunt Petunia, he plans routes and makeshift directions to get ahead of Dudley when he's off Harry hunting, and he ignores hunches and harsh whispers and the bad gossip that runs the suburbs of Privet Drive.
That was a long time ago, the recklessness of Gryffindor led him to forget and the impetuousness of youth made sure it remained forgotten).
But then he met Daphne Greengrass and it made him both careful and reckless and precise and impetuous and smoke muggle cigarettes and drink whiskey and follow rules and lead people in a way that made him run on instinct.
He loved it, he loved every single second of it, and if he's being honest with himself, he still loves it.
But he can't.
He knows he can't.
He's married now.
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Harry married Ginny Weasley four months after they resumed dating, three weeks after he told Teddy, and six months after he broke it off with Daphne Greengrass, permanently.
It was a small muggle ceremony in a garden in the middle of London that made them sign contracts in black ink and filed under the British Empire rather than a sacred circle in Wiltshire or a grand Cathedral in Rome that forces them to bind their magic and sign in blood.
No, it was simple, beautiful. The bride wore white, and Harry wore a summer suit.
He smiled in all his pictures and he felt a tear prickle the corner of his eye when Ginny walked down the aisle.
But the thunderous heartbeat nor the sweaty palms never did come.
Nor did the scent of tulips and cinnamon.
At that exact moment, Harry knew he was making a mistake.
But he knew when to let an act carry on and when to continue playing a role, so he dabs his eyes, and pretends he's marrying the love of his life.
(She messed with his head, she pushed him to hard, Harry swears he's never met a being more stubborn than the Ice Queen).
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He's been married for a week and he already feels like he needs to break it off.
He's in the middle of his honeymoon for merlin's sake, he shouldn't be like this.
He's made a commitment and he should stick to it; but looking out the balcony, he feels like he shouldn't be seeing the Eiffel, like he should be looking at something else.
Harry's instincts had always lead him to where he needed to be, (but his plans kept him safe, kept him normal), so he flips a coin.
Heads, he'll apparate to where he feels like he should be; tails he'll stay.
(It takes him four glasses of whiskey for him throw the coin).
He looks at the face of a Hungarian Horntail.
He pops out.
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Around this time last year, he was in Rome.
All he remembers is eating pizza, driving a Vespa, and a certain Slytherin snorting at the legend of the Trevi Fountain.
Then again, they were only there for three hours, it was a mere stopover before they headed off to Florence.
He barely remembers the rest of the trip, actually.
(His memory is a jumble of different tastes of wine, different colours of paintings, and different positions in bed. It was a right mess.
It's also one of his most treasured memories).
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Harry has a whole lot of things he wants to forget and only so few of things he wants to remember.
Most of the things he wants to forget are the things he sees vividly when he closes his eyes at night.
And the things he treasures most in the world are the things he could barely remember.
He thinks its unfair.
(But when has life ever been fair to Harry Potter?).
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When he appeared in front of the Trevi, Harry knew something wasn't right.
And when he saw a familiar head of blonde tumble down the fountain edge, he knew he's not drunk enough for this.
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After the war and before he entered Auror training, there was a three month grace period of him doing anything he wanted to do.
He had access to two of the biggest fortunes in Wizarding Britain, a symphony of traumatic experiences, and for the first time in his life, freedom.
(He can't even remember those three months, it was a flash of the Blackjack table of the casinos in Monte Carlo, the Black property in the South of France, and a giggling French witch named Katarina.
He wasn't proud of it).
He learned to out drink sailors and generals and outbid corporate high fliers and business tycoons, he learned to lose a million galleons in one sitting and win a yacht named Alexandria, he learned to brew a hangover cure while still suffering a hangover and he learned how to enjoy life the way it was supposed to be enjoyed.
(He may have channelled Sirius during those days, but he's pretty sure he's gone a long way from the old mutt.
He's oft compared to his mother now, so he thinks he's matured a bit.
(Lie. He's his mother before her seventh year. In denial about everything she feels and blindly follows rules and customs).
He used to be a functioning alcoholic, highly dependent on his chosen substance.
Daphne figured it out and bled him dry for three days, she made sure he wouldn't look at an alcoholic beverage like its an escape for years after.
But she isn't anymore.
He thinks that's a cause to raise a glass (or seven) of Johnnie.
Maybe he should just let it go.
Maybe he shouldn't.
Who cares anyway, nobody notices little problems until they become big and Harry's alcohol tolerance make people question his ancestry.
(Once, he outdrunk an elf and a goblin; it makes him wonder sometimes, if that's the power he knows not).
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Harry dives behind her, breaking her fall. He feels the heels of her shoes push against his calves and the mess of her hair in his face.
He thinks of thoughts that shouldn't happen, and he hears her mutter his name.
He looks into her, and he says things he shouldn't have said.
"I'm here, Daph. I'll catch you."
It sounds like a promise he couldn't keep, but will do anyway.
It tastes of sin in his mouth, and suddenly, he hears her sing:
"Wait, they don't love you like I love you,
Wait, they don't love you like I love you,
Ma-ah-ah-aps,
Wait, they don't love me like I love you,
Wa-eh-eh-ait."
He hasn't heard her sing in public since seven months ago.
Since his last proposal; his forty-eighth failed attempt.
He foolishly thought she had said yes; they were in Mombasa then, a conference on magical and muggle traumatic healing that has Harry on one of the featured speakers due to his new array of spells on stabilisation and cardiovascular focii and he spent a few thousand pounds on making sure on every billboard that they pass there's a huge "Daphne, will you marry me?" written.
She ignored it until they reached their hotel lobby, then she stood in the centre and sang Emotionally Yours.
It was their song and he thought she said yes.
She didn't.
He left her the ring that last time, they broke up permanently twenty one days later.
He hasn't seen her since Christmas and that was when she dropped off Teddy and the elves' presents.
She didn't leave anything for him then.
He kissed Ginny under the mistletoe three hours later.
He doesn't know if she planned the entire thing or if he's just wary of being a strung puppet; he thinks its both.
She always thinks she knows what's best for the both of them.
He thinks she's wrong.
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"I'm sorry," she mumbles to the crook of his neck, "I'm sorry Harry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Daphne doesn't even know what she's apologising for now, but she needs to do it. She's made the biggest mistake of her life and she doesn't know what to do and she's losing her mind and she grips her arms around Harry's neck tighter so she wouldn't fall.
Harry responds by simply tightening his grip around her waist.
They're in the middle of Rome, clutching each other like there's no tomorrow. It's reminiscent of their appearance almost eight years ago.
But that's another story, Harry needs to focus on the woman in his arms right now. He needs to stop the wandering thoughts of his alcohol riddled mind.
"I felt a tug," he says, breaking her string of apologies and making her look up. "I was in Paris five minutes ago, and I felt a tug, and I apparated to where it was calling, and-"
"I fell into your arms, right?" Daphne tells him, her voice a bit watery. It makes Harry want to hide her back in Grimmauld Place and take care of her until she's back to her normal self; caustic and precise, cold.
"Yeah," Harry answers, "I think I married the wrong witch."
Daphne laughs at that, but as soon as the beautiful sounds reach Harry's ears it stops and Daphne wrenches herself free of Harry's grip and she titers on her feet before she pulls her left hand back and slaps Harry, hard.
"What the-" Harry reacts, his hand cradling his jaw.
"It's your honeymoon! What are you doing here?!" Daphne yells, only she doesn't.
It's three in the morning and they're in front of a national monument. Fighting in front of them is bad taste.
"Ginny's asleep," he tells her instantly, "She's easily winded and she doesn't care."
Daphne looks at him and narrows her eyes, "So, just because she can't go four rounds in one night, you'd ditch her for a simple tug!?"
Harry shrugs, he doesn't know. "Instincts," he tells her, "They've never lead me wrong."
Daphne slaps him again, "Idiot!"
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In their relationship, there were five things constant: Harry's proposals (creativity sometimes included), Daphne's humming, their mutual love for Teddy, sex, and slaps.
The first three were a given; sex is something they both enjoy and slaps were there because Harry is an idiot.
But he's Daphne's idiot, so she puts up with him.
Harry loves her, so he puts up with it.
It makes him a better Healer anyway.
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Harry doesn't know what happened between the yelling and the slaps and the apologies but the next thing he knew he was kissing Daphne Greengrass.
Her hands were tugging on his shirt and she was biting his bottom lip, and Harry's hands were in a mix of either her breasts and her ribs and the small of her back and her ass and he moans as she nibbles on his lips and he's losing it.
He apparates them to a ruined temple nearby and he pushes her up against the wall and his hand trails below her skirt and traces the her inner thighs and Daphne lets out a moan that makes him twitch.
"I missed you," he tells her in between him trailing kisses on her neck, "I missed this."
She lets out a throaty laugh, "Make up sex in the Foro Romano, you sure know how to please a girl, don't you Potter?"
He doesn't respond, but she gets what he wants to say when she's bucking her hips to his hand and lets her legs grip his waist and moans and groans and begs for release and Harry and please, please, please.
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The sun was rising when they started to put on their clothes, or when Daphne steals Harry's shirt because hers got ripped by eager hands and Harry finds his glasses in the edges of the temple because it got hard to see when you don't need to see.
They feel like teenagers that snuck out of their parents' homes; smelling like a mixture of whiskey, sex, and deceit.
It's got nothing on the kids on E4.
"This can't happen again," Daphne tells him, "You're married. I'm a blacklist. We can't."
Harry puts on his raybans, and sighs. "I know."
But I wish I didn't.
She smiles at him, "And I love what you do, but don't you know that you're toxic?"
He laughs at the line she sang, but before he could respond, she disappears with a pop.
He curses himself.
He should've known better.
No, he does know better.
She just also knows that too.
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