Similarity in difference

'I said I'm sorry!' whined Daphne, glaring at her sister and mother, who both seemed entirely too preoccupied with eating or cooking to not be eavesdropping. Why did her sister have to be up so early?!

Harry, looking up from under his still wet mop of hair, didn't respond.

'I really, really, really am sorry!' emphasized Daphne, lowering her head and making an apologetic gesture with her hands. It was true; she really was sorry – sorry that she'd missed all of what Harry had reluctantly described as a night of unrelenting sexual harassment. 'Tracey mentioned I was clingy in my sleep, but I didn't think it'd be that bad … I swear!'

Harry sighed, staring through droopy eyes at the cup of strong tea Daphne's mother had put in front of him. 'Doesn't matter. It's not like I was harmed and – luckily, I might add – neither were you.'

'You're pretty adamantine for a young man, Harry,' commented Ophala with a smirk as she set down the frying pan. 'But I guess it's all fair considering how you fell asleep on my daughter last year.'

'Mum!'

Truthfully speaking, Daphne was disappointed that the opportunity of a lifetime had gone to waste just because she hadn't been able to keep her damnable mouth shut, asking stuff she wasn't prepared to hear the answer to. And – surprise! – she'd completely lost it. She'd even got up the nerve to wear the negligée she'd bought with Tracey, and hadn't she been annoying about it, asking questions and being nosy.

She'd promised to tell Tracey when she wore it for effect, as they'd agreed to call it, but how the hell was she supposed to tell her best friend that she'd tried to push her luck with Harry, especially Harry, but ended up crying for half an hour before enjoying the best and deepest sleep ever? Then again, she couldn't shake off the impression that Tracey had already surmised that she'd bought the more than risqué nightgown with Harry in mind, no matter how much Daphne had protested the notion.

Right then and there, Daphne decided to deny the whole tragedy until her dying breath. Harry certainly wouldn't tell anyone, of that she was sure. It was kind of cute, though, that he hadn't been able to slip away because he hadn't wanted to disturb her.

… and, given the state he was in, wasn't it a success so far as to reminding him that she was a girl no more?

'Daphne, you're drooling!'

Daphne gave a start, looking around with confusion, wiping her face with panic. 'What the–'

Seeing her mother's expression, Daphne realised that she, at least, completely understood – and probably wouldn't let it lie ever. 'Stop daydreaming,' Ophala continued with a wink. 'We're expected in less than three hours.'

'So early?!' groaned Daphne.

'Do we have to do something?' asked Tori excitedly. 'We don't have to drone some mystic vows or something, do we?'

All eyes concentrated on Harry. It took him a while to realise they were all staring at him, but then he shook his head. 'Er, no. After the formal introduction, it's pretty much just agreeing in spirit. The rest is just long-winded waffle owing to centuries of pomposity.'

He really must be tired, thought Daphne, amused.

'Harry!' Ophala admonished the future Lord Black. 'What would your grandfather say?!'

Harry laid his head upon the table, closing his eyes. 'He'd say it's okay to let your guard down with your loved ones …'

They all stared at Harry.

'Aww …' Tori sighed dreamily.

'Come on,' whispered their mother, her frown turning into a fond smile. 'Let him snooze for a bit. We'll wake him when it's time.'

Memory Lane

'And I'm supposed to wear that?!' asked Daphne with horror, pointing at the plain, boring, and extremely chintzy white linen robes.

'Yes,' said Harry curtly, his voice sounding through the door. 'They're very modest robes, that's the whole point. There's a lot of symbolism involved, but – frankly – I don't think you'd appreciate me explaining it, so I won't bother.'

Daphne had to admit that he wasn't wrong.

'But linen?' protested Daphne again, hugging her naked figure and making a face. 'It's scratchy!'

'I dare say you'll survive a few hours. Grandfather and I'll be dressed in similar black robes. I'm already wearing mine; it isn't so bad.'

'Can't I wear something nice and soft underneath?' whined Daphne.

'No, just those robes and the sandals.'

'Nothing else at all?!'

'Well, there is one exception …'

'Yes?'

'If you feel like adding a touch of individuality, you can bear arms.'

Daphne stared with unseeing eyes at the white robes Harry had laid out for her until something clicked in her mind. 'What – like, swords?!'

'One sword and a sidearm, to be exact. But if you want to dress up sharp and impress everyone with your epee, you're very welcome to do so.'

'But I don't own a sword!'

'I'm afraid it's going to be just the robes then.'

'Who cares about swords?! What about underwear!?'

She heard Harry sigh from behind the door. 'Just the robes, Daphne,' he repeated patiently for the umpteenth time. 'No ornament, no hair-band, no makeup, no earrings – nothing. That's why I told you not to do your hair. Keep everything as simple as possible. You're not even allowed a wand holster – or your wand, for that matter.'

'But swords are okay?!'

'Don't ask me. Maybe someone complained really loudly until they just let them have their wish to shut them up. I suppose there are those persistent types,' said Harry with uncalled-for cynicism.

Daphne let it slide for now. This was more important. 'But why?!'

'Well, in addition to expressing humility and the slightly ironic willingness to forgo worldly possessions and rank, the actual ceremony after the greeting is meant as an accord of people on equal footing without the burdens of profanity. The vows given are to be bare truth, so – naturally – the people involved need to be true to themselves fi–'

'It was a rhetorical question!' snapped Daphne, irritated.

She heard him chuckle through the door. 'I know.'

'You're not doing this out of revenge, are you?'

'No, not this time. As I said, I'm wearing practically the same robes right now. Well, best get to it, or we'll be late. I'll check up on Tori. See you downstairs!'

Daphne continued to grumble and voice her displeasure, but with nobody to listen to her ramblings, she soon began to tire of her own whining. Peevish, she started dressing in what she felt was a fashion affront even paupers would surely turn their noses up at. It wasn't even much of a robe, she thought viciously, hardly better than a bit of dyed gunny sack. The sandals, too, appeared to be plain old cardboard with two ugly, raw leather strings attached. That the almost mythically wealthy Blacks of all people insisted on this crazy charade was … beyond weird. Wasn't it more expensive to find these almost religiously cheap clothes than to buy normal stuff? Who even made these pieces of cheap trash Harry had the nerve to call robes?

At least they were new. Daphne didn't know how she'd feel about the robes if heaven knew how many people had worn them already – starkers! The whole going commando thing was weird enough as it was. The only thing holding the robes in place was a single belt-like string of cloth. Daphne checked it five times before she was finally at least half-convinced it would hold.

She slipped into her 'sandals', taking a few experimental steps. They were about as comfortable as they looked, but what could she do about it? With a dramatic sigh, she opened the door and descended the stairs.

Harry and Tori were already waiting for her. Her little sister, wearing the exact same white robes, appeared completely unfazed, laughing about some silly remark or joke she'd told Harry, looking as if she were about to head out on a Sunday stroll through the freak-park for badly dressed witches.

Harry, on the other hand, looked sombre and … great. She wouldn't have believed it possible, but the simplistic, austere dark garment sort of suited Harry, who looked dignified and lordly despite, or perhaps because, of what he wore.

He gave a little smile when he saw her enter. 'See? They're not so bad.'

Daphne wrinkled her nose. 'Speak for yourself.' It wasn't only the garment; her hair was giving her trouble, too. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cut more than the ends. She knew Harry adored long hair, but no matter how much of a weapon in her fight for his attention it usually was, right now, blowing around uselessly, tickling her skin, getting into her eyes, it really was a royal pain in the arse.

'I see you're all ready?' Her mother stood in the door, dressed in identical robes of pure, dull white.

'It feels a bit like going out on All Hallows' Eve!'

Daphne, by force of will, managed to refrain from rolling her eyes. 'Yes, Tori.'

'Let's get going,' said Harry.

'Are we going by Floo?' asked Tori. 'Our nice robes will get all dirty!'

Daphne managed to turn her derisive laugh into a cough, earning a stern look from her mother.

Harry seemed merely amused. 'That would be tragic, wouldn't it, Tori? Especially since Daphne seems to like them so much!'

Tori sniggered. 'We should get her a set for her birthday next week!'

'I dare you!' snarled Daphne.

Daphne's mother cleared her throat meaningfully. 'I believe we were about to get going, yes?'

Harry nodded, looking around the living room. 'Aha!' With a smug expression, he picked up one of the comics Tori usually scattered all over the house. 'Can I borrow this, Tori?'

Tori shrugged. 'Sure! Finished that ages ago.'

'Harry,' said their mother with a hint of apprehension, 'don't tell me yo–'

'Portus!' His figure highlighted against the cyan flash of light, Harry turned to look at their mother. 'You were saying, Ophala?'

'… You wouldn't listen to me if I told you to stop that since you're not seventeen or a licensed specialist of the Ministry, would you? Portkeys can be dangerous!'

'Not a chance.'

'That was awesome!' gushed Tori. 'Show me how to do it later, Harry!'

This time, Daphne did roll her eyes. Her little sister wasn't stupid but asking Harry to explain the Portkey Charm was like asking someone who played the piano since they were three how they knew which keys to hit.

'Tori,' said Harry, his playful expression turning demure, 'I know you enjoy playing the fool, but what comes now is no joke. Just do as you're told, don't speak unless spoken to, and be polite. I know you took etiquette lessons – even if you hated them.'

'All right,' agreed Tori at once – to Daphne's utter amazement. 'But you have to go to the cinema with me as well this summer!'

Harry put a hand on top of her head, giving it a rub. 'It's a deal.'

Tori looked a bit conflicted about being treated like a child despite being fourteen, but she took it in stride, grinning like an idiot.

'Is there anything else, Harry?' asked Ophala.

'No. At first, nothing except simple greetings will be expected of you and your girls. But you should be warned that the site of the ritual is hidden. I'm unsure what approach Grandfather is taking to facilitate us moving there without you being the wiser but be prepared for something.'

Daphne could see her sister's eyes light up in excitement, but, mysteriously, she seemed to be able to quell her annoying nature quite easily if motivated properly. It was almost frightening how readily she did as Harry told her. Then again, was Daphne one to talk?

Harry lazily pointed his wand at the comic-turned-Portkey, and the little magazine started floating over, slowly revolving around its own axis and spinning along its length. He made it look so simple. Daphne doubted her little sister realised that Harry, just for the fun of it, had to be using four different charms – at the same time and wordlessly. He didn't even seem to be paying attention to what was undoubtedly beyond OWL-level.

'Take a hold of each other,' he said.

Daphne, with a smirk, put one arm around Harry's waist, and Tori – predictably – followed suit.

'Well, that works, too,' muttered Harry.

Their mother took Daphne's and Tori's hands, looking as tense as any of them.

'Ready?' asked Harry.

They all nodded in unison.

'Then let's go.'

With a flick of his wand, the magazine shot a few inches into the air, far enough for Harry to stow his wand in his sleeve and catch the falling comic with mesmerising grace.

The sound of a whistle, the feeling of being dragged through a hundred cold waterfalls – and they smoothly landed in the second parlour of Black Manor.

Memory Lane

Daphne, who had prepared herself for a rough ride, almost stumbled because the landing was so gentle that she could have brought her cup of tea and not wasted a drop.

'I suppose I'd better not ask how in Merlin's name you made such a smooth Portkey?!' asked Ophala with a sigh.

'I practised a lot this summer!' said Harry, flashing a cheeky grin.

'That's what I feared …'

Harry chuckled. 'We should find Grandfather first.'

'Harry! Harry! There you are,' called one of the ancient portraits Daphne didn't recognise. 'Arcturus is expecting you all in the blue saloon.'

'Thank you, Alphard.'

The portrait bowed deeply towards Harry and, to Daphne's surprise, made a much simpler bow towards them as well. Nervously, Daphne reciprocated the gesture, elbowing her sister to follow her example.

Daphne had been at the mansion often enough, but she couldn't remember being bowed to even once. The ancient Blacks weren't the kind of people to show respect easily; they were the ones to command it.

Harry stopped only when they stood in front of the door Daphne knew would lead to their destination. 'Brace yourself. The first part will be somewhat tedious.'

He turned to look over his shoulder, catching their eyes. 'You both remember how to participate in ceremonial greetings?'

'Oh, no! You don't mean one of those meetings?!' groaned Daphne.

'Yes, I do. Have I been unclear? You'll manage, won't you?'

Merlin's pants! thought Daphne with some amount of panic. I thought he said simple greetings. How could Harry be so casual about what was essentially the Wizarding equivalent to Muggles attending a banquet with royalty?! True, she'd learned that stuff years and years ago, but she'd never been required to actually use any of it. The only occasion for those rites that was still around – if vastly outdated and dying – that her teacher had mentioned were negotiations for contracted betrothals. This was weird. Biting her lip, she gave an insecure nod.

'Er,' mumbled Tori sheepishly. 'I, er …'

'Follow your sister's and mother's example, and you'll do fine. I know you will. Don't speak unless asked and addressed specifically, don't touch anyone unless the gesture is initiated by someone else, bow depending on perceived social rank,' said Harry with a dismissive wave as if he did this sort of thing every Friday afternoon. 'Ready?'

Ophala gripped both her and Tori's shoulders, and Harry, with a grandiose gesture, pushed both wings of the door open at once, boldly striding inside.

The man she was supposed to call Lord Black but who would probably always remain Uncle Arcturus was indeed waiting for them, standing near the far end of the room. He just stood there, no chair in sight, as if impressively standing in empty halls was a very casual thing to do. Just as Harry had said, he was wearing the same style of robes as his grandson, and just like him, an air of grandiosity clung to him that not even the parsimonious robes could diminish. He was old, Daphne didn't even know exactly how old, but no matter how sunken his face, how pale his skin, how much he leaned on his cane, he seemed to possess an odd kind of strength that no boy at Hogwarts did. Still, he wasn't wearing the same kind of grandfatherly face she was familiar with from her childhood. Maybe this was the face of Lord Black instead.

Slightly behind and flanking him, wearing equally mean but grey linen robes, stood two veiled female figures. One looked plump and crooked. The second one, however, seemed to be around Daphne's height – if decidedly leaner. To put it bluntly, it took Daphne a second glance to ascertain that the little bulges on her robes were more than misleading creases. She felt grateful that, at the very least, she didn't have to worry about that part of her appearance.

Neither of them gave so much as a nod in their direction, though they lowered their gaze at Harry's approach.

Harry stopped in the middle of the room, still almost fifteen yards from the other group, respectfully performing a neck bow, honouring his grandfather and the two women, the latter of whom returned the bow with even more pronounced deference.

Daphne stopped dead in her tracks three paces behind Harry, immediately following with a deep bow from her waist up, just like her mother, nervously staring at her feet. Tori, lagging slightly behind, tried to emulate them as best she could.

Nobody spoke.

During formal meetings, and Daphne wasn't sure she'd ever witnessed a meeting more archaic and formal in her entire life, it was customary for the one perceived to have the highest social standing to initiate what was mockingly called pleasantries. Harry had once told her that a great many feuds – even wars – had been fought between families because they hadn't been able to come to an agreement on who actually was whose better, because they hadn't been able to settle on to whom to cede the honour of speaking first.

Lord Black generously inclined his head for a fraction of an inch – and more silence followed.

Daphne felt skittish, uncomfortably aware of how the linen rubbed her skin, wondering and worrying if her sister could keep her mouth shut for a while. In Muggle-speech, this was as wild as participating in a show about 18th-century aristocracy, and they really could do without Tori yelling something asinine like 'Wicked!' at the top of her voice.

The second part of the introduction would begin only when the one chosen to preside deemed it necessary, and the speaking would largely fall to that person. A small mercy; Daphne had a feeling she wasn't exactly about to hear some chav-English.

'My name is Arcturus, and I speak for the Blacks. I bid you welcome to our home. You may raise your head.'

Slowly, Daphne did as she had been told.

'I am grateful for the hospitality you offered to one of mine,' Arcturus went on, barely lifting his hand to indicate that he meant Harry. 'And I shall be glad to extend to you the same courtesy.'

Once more, he inclined his head for the most carefully calculated fraction of an inch.

Harry turned around, performing a slightly more elaborate bow in their direction. He would have been allowed to speak, but he either didn't want to prolong this more than necessary, or he wanted to express that he had nothing to add to the head of his family.

And bow … thought Daphne. At least … fifteen per cent, I think, deeper than your next social superior. Since our whole family has entered the conversation as the supplicant, that's Harry, right?

And so they bowed once more, deeper than Harry, who himself inclined his head further than Arcturus, waiting. It was only when Arcturus finished his glorified nod that Harry completed his bow and – in turn – they were allowed to raise their heads again.

Daphne didn't envy the women in grey. They weren't part of the formal conversation and – as such – could not be verbally relieved of paying respect. But since moving wasn't a thing with these types of highly contemporary greetings, and the axiomatic rule of pure-blood etiquette demanded the act of bowing, they would have to keep at it for however long this 'talk' would last …

And last it did.

Every exchange, every bestowal of honour was to be preluded and followed by an elaborate rite. It took almost ten minutes just to formally introduce Harry as Arcturus' heir and another twenty to fully present Daphne's family. Luckily, her mother did all the talking; Daphne wasn't sure she'd nail the rather pretentious formal speech Uncle Arcturus and Harry were adhering to as if it was, at most, a minor inconvenience. Then again, she'd heard both of them talk to each other on occasion, and that could be weird as hell too …

After a lot more bowing, Uncle Arcturus took two demonstrative steps forward. Daphne saw Harry relax slightly out of the corner of her eyes. With confusion, she looked at her sister and mother.

'It's over,' said Ophala with a warm smile. 'The both of you did well.'

'What? Just like that?' asked Tori, looking around in bewilderment. 'How?! What happened?!'

But, apparently, it really was over. Both of the women raised their heads, the lean one audibly groaning, massaging her shoulders. And as for Harry – he was walking over to Arcturus, speaking a few hushed words. The head of House Black nodded, gripping his arm.

Together with Harry, he approached the Greengrasses. 'I'm glad you could make it. Might I be permitted to say that both of your daughters are becoming more beautiful by the day, Ophala?'

'I think they might be a touch too young for you,' retorted Daphne's mother.

Daphne froze, and so did Astoria, staring wide-eyed at their mother. After a terribly drawn-out second of silence, Harry began to chuckle.

'Ah, yes,' said Arcturus calmly. 'It really has been too long. I'd almost forgotten that fiery spirit of yours. I'm glad to see it burning brightly still.'

Daphne was still staring at the woman in the back, trying to figure out whom she reminded her of. Arcturus gave both Tori and Daphne a much more common, unsophisticated little bow which they hastily returned. 'It's been quite a while since you last stayed over, Daphne. I still remember vividly how you would chase Harry around the mansion every day, you know? The mansion grew rather silent in your absence. Did even you grow tired of chasing eventually?'

Daphne stared into those grey, knowing eyes, unsure if the double meaning was intended. 'He's got harder to catch,' she replied cautiously.

Arcturus' eyes twinkled kindly. With a gentle nod, he addressed Tori. 'And you, Astoria? How are you?'

'I'm fine, er, sir?'

Harry sniggered mischievously. 'Sir, she said, Grandfather!'

Arcturus looked, incredibly, almost embarrassed. 'You don't need to bother with that, my dear child. I know circumstances have prevented us from meeting very often, but you are my great-grandchild. Don't make an old man feel even older by addressing me so formally.'

Daphne wasn't entirely sure this was a wise course of action. Despite the lowered tension, this was definitely still a part of very formal proceedings, and if her sister started calling Lord Black 'gramps', it might be time to scarper.

'I suggest Uncle Arcturus!' said Harry with a wink at Daphne, who made a face at him behind her mother's back. 'That's what your sister's taken a liking to.'

'Oh, er, all right, Uncle Arcturus?' said Astoria, looking from Harry, to Arcturus, to Daphne.

'You must have been bored right now, Astoria?' asked Arcturus.

'I, er …' Astoria, finding help in Harry's eyes, wisely refrained from speaking her mind. With more tact than Daphne would have thought possible, she replied, 'It wasn't too bad. Strange, though. My teacher said these kinds of greetings weren't a thing anymore.'

Arcturus nodded, satisfied. 'They are almost forgotten by now, young lady, and not even we perform them regularly – no matter how it might have looked. I assure you Harry's matutinal greeting is rather along the lines of a stiff bow and a grumbled ''morning''.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'Then yours would be the rustling of paper, Grandfather.'

Arcturus chuckled at Astoria's disbelieving expression. 'He's not wrong,' he admitted. 'I know you must have been bored, and it must have seemed strange, but can you make a guess why we still keep these old ways around?'

'Well,' said Tori nervously. 'It'd be kind of sad if they just died out, wouldn't it?'

'I would have to agree, but others might argue that it's necessary for the old to make way for the new. Things change, Astoria, that's one of the fundamental truths of life. Clinging to the past for fear of change is like trying to stem the tide with your bare hands; eventually, you're sure to lose – eventually, the merciless forces of time will grind even the stoniest resistance to just a few more grains of sand on the beach of neglect. The human mind isn't equipped to think of time as a flowing thing. It needs the concept of a ''present'' as a crutch to help overcome the terrible truth of the meaninglessness of every single moment we live. But if each moment is as unreal, as fleeting as the next wave rolling towards the shore, what is there to give context to our lives, what is there to ground us, to tell us who we are? If the future is yet to happen, and the present infinitesimal, what is there for us to observe?'

Tori furiously furrowed her brow. 'The … past?'

Arcturus smiled proudly. 'Well done, young lady. In truth, it's rather more complicated than that, but there can be no doubt that comprehending the present, as fleeting as it may be, is all but impossible without studying the past. A friend of my father once told me this: fostering traditions isn't about trying to revive the ashes – but to share the flame. It is my hope that you'll be one of the torches once my time is up.'

Astoria nodded politely, but Daphne could tell at a glance that Lord Black's words had gone over her head. She didn't blame her. When Harry or Uncle Arcturus really got started, you were usually left with a lot of fancy words and a state of befuddlement.

'Before we proceed, you must have been wondering about our guests in grey? I'm afraid I'm unable to disclose their identities, but you may rest assured that they are family. I vouch for them with my life,' he said sombrely, adumbrating a bow towards the women.

In unison, they bowed back.

'But now we shall guide you towards the place where the ritual is to take place. I dare say Harry has mentioned that we won't be able to disclose its location?'

Ophala and Daphne nodded. Tori didn't react at all, apparently still struggling to unravel the mystery of Uncle Arcturus' words.

'Excellent.' Without looking back, Uncle Arcturus made a little flick with his hand, gesturing for the lean woman in the back to approach. She walked over silently, producing a casket of phials. A slow clockwise swirl of violet and blue, almost nebulous, was contained within the crystal glass, and Daphne could practically taste the valerian through the bottle. The swirl was stunningly pure and light – a work of art.

'They look like Forgetfulness Potions,' Daphne breathed excitedly. 'And they're beautifully made …'

Arcturus turned around, looking at her with surprise. 'And that's exactly what they are, Daphne. Well done.'

She was glad that her little uncalled-for observation seemed to garner approval instead of admonishment. Seeing her inquisitive glance, the Lord of the Blacks continued, 'Everyone except Harry and me is to take a sip of these. While normal Forgetfulness Potions, as our young potion mistress here is sure to know, will work similar to a Memory Charm, these have been modified to inhibit the ability to store memories. I find them to be a safer and more tactful alternative to obliviation. You shall simply not be able to recall how we get to where we're going. I assure you it's perfectly safe. I've already ascertained that only Harry and I are currently in possession of our wands, but – to demonstrate the sincerity of our words – we shall both leave them up here before you drink the potion.'

Harry respectfully offered his wand to Arcturus, who wrapped both Harry's and his own in a bundle of silk. With a snap of his fingers, one of their elves appeared. 'You are to take this bundle and place it carefully in my study, Kreacher. None of you or anyone else is to disturb us within the next hour. Keep all visitors confined to the rooms they arrive in.'

'Yes, master,' returned the elf, vanishing with a bow.

'And now,' said Arcturus, 'the potions.'

Daphne stared apprehensively at the delicate hands of the veiled woman in front of her.

'They won't last longer than five minutes, Daphne,' said Harry, revealing his uncanny knack of reading her thoughts from her expression.

She nodded, taking one of the phials she was offered, staring dreamily at the potion within. The substance was almost too beautiful to be drunk. The only potions she'd ever seen this close to perfection were the very potions Professor Snape had shown them during their first ever lesson. They hadn't been made by the same hand, she could tell, but they were leagues above anything she'd seen ever since.

'It is time,' said Arcturus. 'Please drink.'

And she drank. A soothing, cool sensation washed over her, but she felt no different than before. 'How can we tell if it works?' she heard herself asking.

Astoria, with a grin, walked up to her. 'One way to find out – hey!'

'What?' replied Daphne, squinting at the little devil suspiciously.

'You're a cow! Stop shoving your udder in Harry's face all the time! It's annoying!'

Daphne felt the heat of anger and embarrassment rise to her face, but before she could do more than angrily snarl, 'Why, you little–', Uncle Arcturus calmly raised his hand, putting an early end to both the ensuing fight and their mother's embarrassed ramblings about how sorry she was.

With the barest hint of a grin, he said, 'My dear Astoria, I'm afraid the potion will need a minute or two to take effect. I suggest you make use of that time by apologising to your sister.'

Tori's brazen grin slowly turned into a grimace of concern. 'Oh … That's a bummer.'

Memory Lane

The following few minutes were a haze of fleeting pictures. Even though Daphne knew she was descending into some unfamiliar labyrinth of catacombs holding Harry's hand, she couldn't for the life of her remember how she'd come to be there. She also vaguely recalled being very, very angry with her sister. She couldn't exactly say why, but she knew she had been furious for some reason. That would also explain why Harry was holding her hand, then; he knew she would calm down like that.

Daphne spent the walk down the narrow, eerie stone-steps wondering why Harry was holding her hand again, feeling like the answer was just out of reach. Strangely, she also kept wondering why she felt such irritation at the sight of her sister. She remembered drinking the potion, of course, but as to what came afterwards …

Hardly seconds after drinking the potion, they arrived in a vast underground grotto lit by torches. Daphne was simply enjoying standing there hand in hand with Harry. How they'd come to be there or where they were – she couldn't say.

The roughly circular cavern was at least twenty yards wide. Crooked, grey stalactites hung from the roof of the cave like drills stopped in motion. Crystals and sundry minerals, half-buried in the soil and rock, glistened in the gloam of the torches, lighting the vault like a thousand colourful stars gracing the earthly firmament. Every once in a while, a drop of water could be heard smattering onto the cold rock with an audible 'ping'. The air was humid and chilly. All was silent except for the sounds of the languorous slumber of mother Earth.

'Come,' said Arcturus, beckoning them towards the centre of the cavern where a big stalagmite had been artfully fashioned into a pedestal. The earth around it was cupreous. A simple piece of white cloth covered the stone, and on the cloth lay a single, wicked-looking knife with a serrated, black edge next to a selection of ordinary silver daggers.

'This chamber is where the Blacks first found a safe haven after crossing the sea, seeking a sanctum and retreat from their enemies. We keep its location hidden to preserve it, to help us remember those who came before us and to keep it alive. You might not know this because magical teachers rarely bother with physical intricacies that can easily be fixed by magic, but caves very much live. They grow, they age, they can get sick, and they die. This cave might well be the stony womb of my family, and we care for it.

'In contrast to what you might believe, this cavern is entirely natural – with the exception of the pedestal. But not only is it almost entirely natural, it's also religiously mundane. Even this,' he gave the table-substitute a loving pat, 'was fashioned from stone with sweat and ingenuity alone. The area around us is warded, naturally, but here, where we now stand and where so many before us stood, the air is as free of magic as anywhere. This is a place for man, not for the rather incomprehensible quasi-divine.

'As such, only a single magic is worthy of being performed here. Please gather around.'

Nervously, Daphne shuffled closer. Tori stood on Harry's other side, looking as queasy and anxious as Daphne hoped she didn't.

'This place, while beautiful,' he put forth his hands as if to embrace the starry roof of the cave, 'is physically no different from dozens of other flowstone caves in this country alone. But does that make it meaningless, mean, common, or even replaceable? Of course not.

'This place is sacred to us not because of what it is or was, the crystals hold no monetary value, the earth and stone no dark secret of magic. No, it's sacred because of what we made it, because of the meaning we instilled in it. Its real meaning transcends its nature. And yet, if any other person, Muggle or magical, were to wander down those steps, would they see, would they comprehend any of its vast importance? Of course not. All they would see is a flowstone cave like a dozen others.'

'But what if it dies?' whispered Astoria nervously.

Arcturus smiled gently. 'How can we appreciate life without death? There was a time, more than a thousand years ago, that our ancestors settling the mainland didn't know of this cave. Maybe there will come a time when we don't have it anymore. It does not matter. The physical is transient – understanding, however, is everlasting.

'The reasoning behind me telling you all of this is twofold. Firstly, I wish to make it absolutely clear that I shall brook no falsehoods in this chamber. Here we stand, clad in modest robes, to remind us that being honest always begins with being honest with ourselves. Vows, pride, and honour are worthless when worn by false faces. When the time comes to make the final decision, I wish it to be understood that I don't expect you to go along with it, I expect you to follow your heart. Do you understand, Astoria? Daphne?'

Daphne glanced at Harry, who was looking pointedly straight ahead, refusing to catch her eye. She nodded. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw her sister do the same.

'Very well,' continued Arcturus. 'The second reason is a bit more metaphysical. It is difficult to explain, especially to those as young as you, but I shall try my best. Kindly imagine the colour green. What if I told you right now that green is – in reality – red. What if I told you that humanity is doomed to see red and think green. What if a million races on a million planets and a million scientific and magical procedures could, irrefutably, prove that what we perceive as green is actually red. Now imagine, following some freak accident of fate, you were the only person left on the whole world to ever acknowledge this fact, the only person biologically capable, chosen by destiny to comprehend that green is red. All the other races, the other planets, the scientific and magical methods ceased to work, are lost to time, vanish.

'It's only you. When you ask your friends about the colours of Slytherin and they say green and silver – are they wrong? Are they lying? No, the researcher or scientist might argue, your friends simply don't know of an additional fact. The linguist might agree insofar that language is, after all, convention, to begin with, indefinite and abstract by nature. A philosopher might be irresolute, musing if the question itself is senseless, pointing out that denotation and meaning are not the same.

'Another example: what if two brothers grew up together, fostered by the same mother, received the same love, shared the strongest bond of brotherhood imaginable and then – on her deathbed – the mother revealed that one of them was a foundling, refusing to name who. Is their brotherhood a lie? Even their parentage? Are both not really her sons anymore because they can't tell which one is the foundling? Is all that happened a lie? Is their connection fake? Is family only defined by the tiny little line on your family tree? Would it have made a difference if she hadn't said anything? But if the truth of their brotherhood couldn't withstand one additional fact of reality, was it truth in the first place?

'You might think back to the cave now. To others, it's an unremarkable piece of hollow rock. They're not wrong. To us, it's as important as a thousand golden mountains and all the knowledge of Alexandria. Are we in the wrong?

'Family is a bond of blood – that is the case for all the Blacks. All the branches of our family can trace their line, at some point, back to us. But our family goes beyond that. For us, relation is not the distance you can measure with a compass and straightedge on your family tree. For us, family is nothing you can count by listing those you are related to by a certain degree. We choose to elect, to believe who is family. And through our belief, family is eternal, a common destiny voluntarily shared. Is it wrong? Is it not real? Others might say it isn't. We say it is.

'We are a community of fate, more devoted than any other, transcending the elemental bonds of kinship and familiarity other mundane clans might share. We are an end in itself. Contrary to what you might have been given to understand by others, we commit ourselves to our family alone. Everything else is subordinated to this grand maxim.

'If I were to call you family, I would fight a thousand hopeless battles to save every last one of you from certain death, pay any amount of gold if I knew it brought you happiness, make any sacrifice – no matter how terrible – to ensure your future.

'And if you were to call us family, you would vow to bind your destiny and that of any and all of your chosen descendants to this, our name, forsaking any other designation and oath of allegiance as bare necessity, vow to keep this family safe by any means – just like we shall safeguard you from any harm and enemy in turn.

'You would be no servants, and we would be no masters. We are but arms, legs, wands, and heads of a single living purpose under a single name.'

Once more, he stared with those piercing grey eyes at each of them. Daphne's head was swimming, but the decision was made. She feared neither grizzly fate nor death – what she feared was being left by those she loved.

Lord Black was still gazing at them as Harry took a step forward and, with the utmost care, reverently took the black knife in his right hand, the backside of the blade resting against the back of his left hand. Daphne noticed that the lean woman in grey winced the moment Harry picked it up.

'It is customary,' Arcturus went on without looking at his grandson, 'for the pact to be made between both the supplicants and a member of the family – to symbolise our entwined destiny. I shall warn you one last time that the bond is entirely irrevocable by nature. It is a bond beyond life. If your conviction wavers during the pledge, your life and that of the bonder may be forfeited.'

Daphne frowned, her gaze wandering from Arcturus, to the knife, to Harry. 'No … NO!'

'Yes, Daphne,' replied Harry calmly.

Lord Black looked at her, tilting his head. 'It was Harry who asked for this, Daphne. I doubt you will be able to change his mind. Ophala, I suggest you refrain from speaking any comment that includes the word adult or child. Harry made this decision knowing full well what it meant.'

Daphne's mother grimaced, silently closing her mouth.

'B– but what if something goes wrong?' asked Tori in a raspy voice.

Arcturus shook his head. 'This is no spell you cast with your wand, Astoria. It is something older, something different. It is fuelled by intent, by your emotions, by the ancient designs of magic itself.'

'What? How?!' asked Tori helplessly, pale as a ghost. 'I don't know anything about that! Do we have to sign with our blood or something?'

'No. I shall leave the rest of the explanation to your bonder. But keep my warnings in mind.'

Daphne gaped at both Arcturus and the entirely unmoved Harry, feeling tears and panic drawing near.

Arcturus turned around, looking at Harry with an unreadable expression. Then, to Daphne's surprise, he bowed deeply towards Harry, taking a place in the middle of both women in grey. Harry was left to stand elevated above and in front of them.

'I want you three to listen to me very carefully,' said Harry, his voice unwavering and smooth. 'The edge of this blade is draped in the most deadly of poisons. A single scratch is enough to kill the victim in the course of half an hour. If I were to stab someone, they would die in a minute at most. The poison was designed by one of our ancestors, and he never parted with the secret of its design, leaving only this perpetually coated knife behind. There exists no antidote, and we haven't been able to find a single spell to cure the poison either. It is, for all intents and purposes, almost assured death.

'You need not understand how it works but know this: any wound inflicted by this dagger is absolutely fatal and cannot be healed by anything but – presumably – the most powerful of magics, magic normally well beyond any of us here – not that casting such a spell would even be possible right now. I want to reiterate one last time that we did not cheat you – neither Grandfather nor I have our wands. As I said, even if such an incredible healing spell existed, there is no wand to cast it. Do you understand?'

Daphne, nervously chewing on her cheek, nodded.

'There is but one form of magic available here to overcome this toxin – Blood Magic.'

Daphne felt a shiver run down her spine, but she couldn't tear herself away from Harry's calmly presented words.

'Blood Magic works in wondrous ways. A bond of blood, blood willingly given, the desire to protect and restore, the overwhelming force we call love – these are all fundamentals of what constitutes these ancient rites. A single drop of blood willingly offered is worth a thousand reluctant sacrifices. Do you understand, Astoria?'

It was strange to hear Harry call Tori by her real name. Tori jumped a bit – as if her name had been a strike to emphasise the gravity of the situation. She nodded meekly.

'Ancient magic is different from lobbing spells with your wand. It is – for lack of a better word – alive. It feeds on the caster in every sense of the words. As such, the extent of your sacrifice and its intention governs the strength and purpose of any spell or ritual. If your intention is pure, so is the resulting spell. If you wish to harm, that will be what your spell does. No matter what you want, the spell shall always deliver what you wish for. This is why it is impossible to force someone to perform this magic. If your heart yearns for water, and your brain demands food, water is all you shall ever have. There is no trickery possible, and this is why we do what follows as a test of conviction and commitment. If any of you hold second thoughts, the outcome of the pact will be disastrous. If any of you actually wished me harm, my demise would be a certainty. If any of you are not committed at this point – step back right now!'

Daphne's heart threatened to jump from her throat, but she didn't move. Her mother, looking grim, grabbed one of the silver daggers with a frightening amount of intentness. She, apparently, had understood something Daphne hadn't. What am I supposed to do?!

'Pick a silver dagger, Daphne, and you, Astoria,' ordered Harry calmly. 'You need not worry; they carry no malicious enchantment.'

Nervously, Daphne held the little blade in her hand, perplexed what to do with it.

Harry, meanwhile, was drawing the cloth-belt even tighter around his waist, his arms slipping out of his robes, baring his lithe torso to the cold air of the cave. Daphne could see that he was taking long and unnaturally deep breaths, but she was far too scared to actually register that Harry stood more or less naked in front of her.

'I repeat: we have no potions here except those made to forget. We have no wands to heal a cut on any person. A single prick with this blade will lead to death within the hour. Do you all understand?'

Ophala nodded, gripping her dagger tightly. Astoria, too, seemed to finally comprehend something – but Daphne's thoughts were clouded by nothing but overwhelming fear. Harry looked first at Daphne's mother, then Tori, and finally Daphne, waiting long enough to receive a nod each time. His gaze lingered on her, and she got the feeling that he was trying to tell her something, but Daphne's mind was a complete blank. There was only fear. Something terrible was about to happen – about to happen to Harry!

'This kind of ritualistic magic is also different from wand magic because the … workload … can be shared between all participants of the ritual. There are three of you, so you might want to arrange whatever it is you think you need to do. Harmony will serve you well. But I shall make it even easier for you,' he said, taking a very conscious breath, sweat running down his chest as he closed his eyes. 'I will provide all that's necessary, but I will leave the most crucial part to you. It is you who must fuel it. I trust all three of you. I apologise for what you're about to see, but it's the best way …' To Daphne's horror, he brought the tip of the blade towards his left thumb. She could do nothing as he pricked his flesh just enough to draw blood. His expression didn't change a bit as he started to scribble a great many unfamiliar symbols on his chest with his own blood.

Daphne's eyes were riveted to Harry's bleeding thumb. Harry was about to die! Already she could see the flesh of his fingers beginning to look grey, veins standing out in purple and angry red against his fair skin.

Her mother and Astoria were looking with confusion from Harry to Arcturus, clearly unsure if their test had already begun.

But something much more pressing seemed to preoccupy the other three. The crooked, older woman that, until now, hadn't been bothered to do anything except bowing hissed all of a sudden, and Daphne could hear a sharp intake of breath from the lean woman on the other side of Arcturus.

The unhealthy, poisonous-looking veins had by now reached Harry's shoulder. His entire left hand looked grey and flaky. Daphne began to shake as cold shivers ran down her spine. There was this strange ringing in her ears, like the whistling of a teapot on the stove.

'Harry …?' said Arcturus, and Daphne wasn't at all relieved to hear more than just concern in his voice. 'Are you sure that is wi–'

But Harry had finished whatever runes he'd written around his heart and held up his dead-looking hand to silence his grandfather. He gripped the knife tightly and peacefully closed his eyes. For one blissful second, Daphne began to hope that her intuition had deceived her.

'We vow to be of one mind and one body for all times to come,' he muttered in a level voice. 'Offer yourself to us, to fulfil this pledge so that your lifeblood may be the living bond to bind us, join us. May your promise live on in our veins through me, and let this be my sacrifice lest we forget.'

It seemed as if the runes Harry had drawn were beginning to shimmer, but if this was actually true or a trick of the light, Daphne couldn't tell – before she could have a second look, a fast, jerky motion made her jump back.

Daphne stared at the hole in Harry's flesh, the knife plunged into his body, feeling her own heart grind to a standstill as a gush of Harry's blood sprinkled her robes. She heard the black knife hit the floor with a loud 'clang', but her eyes were glued to Harry, who was painfully collapsing to his knees, his breath rattling. His mouth moved, but there was no sound – only the erratic spasms of his muscles and the steadily growing pool of blood. The whistling in her ears was deafening.

She gave a blood-curdling scream, instinctively ramming the silver dagger with a sickening crunch through the bone of her hand, pulling the dagger with reckless abandon over her arm – until it all faded to black.

Memory Lane

'I'll be right back! Don't worry, sweet pea!'

'I'm scared!' she cried, desperately clutching her mother's hem.

'Don't worry! Everything's going to be fine! Your father's here – and Harry! You'll be fine. Look after your sister!'

She gave Daphne a quick hug, nodding at her husband, before she rushed through the door, hands held up high. Behind Daphne, her sister was wailing, held by her father. As young as Daphne was, she still spotted the haunted look in her father's grey eyes. It frightened her that even someone like her father could be anxious. Harry, the strange boy who never warmed up except during his stupid thunderstorms, was staring with dull eyes at the floor in front of him, wobbling forwards and backwards as if the attack on their home was no concern of his.

His apathetic face angered Daphne, and she made to walk over to shake him out of it when her father caught her with one hand. 'No. Let him be.'

'But he's just sitting there!' shouted Daphne.

'He's sitting there because he knows there's nothing he can do. He's gone through something like this once before … Leave him.'

Daphne scowled, shrugging off her father's hand, peeking out through the gap between the curtain and the window. Her mother was steadily approaching the edge of the clearing from where the attack had begun, hands still very visible in an obvious gesture of surrender.

It was starting to get hot. The north wing of the house, a towering, spitting spire of flames, groaned under the weakening support of the beams. The air was full of smoke, ember, ash, and fear.

There was light at the edge of the wood, revealing a few tall figures in robes. Her mother was shouting something, sinking on her knees, begging – until a fierce orange light caught her right on the cheek, slamming her with a thud onto the ground, blood spraying through the air.

'NOOO!' screamed Daphne. 'We've got to help her! Mummy's hurt!'

Her father was standing next to her, Astoria in his arms with her face resting against his neck. He put one hand on Daphne's shoulder. His hand was twitching, but he wouldn't let go. 'No.'

'But she's hurt!'

'No, we've got to stay inside …'

Two of the figures detached themselves from the group, approaching her mother, who still seemed to be pleading.

A soft rustling of clothes was all the warning she got before she noticed that the boy, Harry, had stood up next to her. Daphne was taken aback. Instead of the fleeting, rare moments of joy that sometimes shone through the dull facade of his face, instead of the dejected, shy shell that bored her, there was now something she'd never seen before – pure, utter hatred.

'I know him,' he said, pointing into the dark at the two approaching figures.

'Prewett,' cursed her father. 'Should've known. Damn the man!'

Daphne looked up in time to see another man, a raw-boned, cruel-looking Auror, viciously backhand her mother, who screamed with agony, audible even over the cracking of burning beams.

'NOOO! Mummy! No! NO! Let her be!' she screamed, trying to free herself and run towards the door, but her father's hand, shaking more than ever, just wouldn't let go of her.

Her little sister was screaming, too, not that she could see anything. When the cruel man raised his wand, Daphne's father suddenly jerked her around so she couldn't look.

But her mother's scream tore through the night.

'Make them stop! Make them stop hurting Mum!' she whimpered, crying into the robes of her father.

'Daphne,' said Regulus Black, his voice imperious and calm. 'Take your sister and calmly walk towards the stables.'

'I don't want to leave! I'm scared!'

Her father looked down at her, smiling sadly. 'This is no time to be afraid. You need to be strong to protect your sister.'

Right on cue, another volley of spells hit the wards of the mansion, gripping the stone and wood with terrible force.

'Listen, take your sister and walk towards the stables. Wait for me there! I'll be right along, don't worry!'

'Mummy said that, too!'

Her father's face twitched, but his stern gaze prevailed. 'Now is not the time to argue, Daphne. Do as I say!'

Daphne sniffed, nodding. 'And him?!' she asked, eyes darting towards the boy.

'I need to have a quick word with him. Harry will be with you in a second. It'll be fine! Your mother and I will be with you shortly.'

'She's not badly hurt?'

'Of course not,' he said smoothly. 'Don't worry. Take your sister – now! Go!'

Daphne took her confused sister's hand, ambling towards the southern side of the mansion. Casting one last look over her shoulder, she could see her father talking fast to Harry, who looked first determined and then shocked. He could see him arguing, actually arguing with an adult, when they made it through the door.

But she'd promised to protect her sister, so she didn't linger.

'I don't want to!' cried Astoria. 'I want Mummy. I want to go home!'

But this is home, thought Daphne with terror-induced clarity. Or was. She gripped the hand of the little girl even tighter, rushing through the darkness of the gathering smoke. Daphne knew every last corner of their home by heart, but as she navigated the biting haze, trembling whenever some spell hit their crumbling sanctuary, she felt like a visitor. The living room, almost torn in half, one part of the back wall blasted away, soot and ash covering their cosy furniture, didn't look at all like the place where her father would read her old stories every other night.

She felt like a dreamer shambling through the ruins of her past.

When they finally reached the remains of the stables, she hid with her sister behind a few large barrels, sneaking anxious looks around the wood every once in a while to see if her father or at least Harry was coming.

But for several minutes, there was nothing but acrid smoke, faint shouting, and the trembling of the ruins as spell after spell bombarded their home. She whimpered with every curse that destroyed her childhood, but she didn't cry. Instead, she gently rocked her sister, muttering calmingly that Father and Mother both had promised to be along.

A voice, clear and cheerful, startled her. 'Daphne? Astoria? Where are you my dears?'

Confused, Daphne looked around the barrels. Near the line of rune stones, a figure wearing simple robes was walking up and down, calling. A very familiar figure. Her mother! 'Daphne! Come out, please. Daphne?! Where are you? Everything's okay now! You can come out!'

She was about to duck out of cover when a small hand forced her down again. Bewildered, she turned to stare at Harry, who crouched down next to her. 'No, look,' he whispered. 'Your mother was wearing a dress. That person isn't. And why isn't she coming inside?'

Daphne frowned, looking at 'Mother' again.

'Daphne, sweetheart, please come out!'

For a second, she wanted to go regardless, but when the moment passed, she saw an unfamiliar scowl pass over her mother's features as the person stamped the ground in frustration. 'Told you it wouldn't work.'

'Bugger that,' called another, bodiless voice. 'Keep trying. They're just brats! The wards won't be holding much longer anyway. I'll be over that way.'

They waited for a few more minutes, hidden behind the barrels, ignoring the calls and sounds of fighting from the other side of the mansion. At some point in time, she felt some indescribable change in the air around them, but nothing else seemed to be happening. The boy, Harry, looked worried.

The imposter cautiously put one toe over the line of rune stones. Nothing happened.

With a cry of triumph, the figure jumped over the threshold, rushing towards the stables. 'Daphne, sweetheart,' the imposter called with a sickeningly sweet voice that didn't sound like her mother's at all. 'Ready or not – here I come!'

Right at that moment, the small bundle in Daphne's arm stirred. Astoria's head turned. Seeing the familiar figure, she shouted, 'Mummy!'

The world stood still as the imposter turned his head, a gleeful grin disfiguring Daphne's mother's stolen face. 'There you are, my darlings! Come to Mummy!'

Astoria squirmed and turned in Daphne's grip, scratching and yelling for her sister to let go. Daphne didn't, but that didn't really matter. With a few long strides, the fake was there, reaching over the barrels, lifting them both by the scruff of their necks.

'Ow!' yelled Astoria. 'Let go! You're hurting me, Mummy!''

'I'm so sorry, dear,' hissed the fake. It stank of sweat. 'But your father's been very naughty, and I need you both to punish him. Now, where is the boy?!'

'Let go!' shouted Daphne, wiggling and trying to get free. The grip tightened, and she cried out.

'No, no! We'll have none of that. Be good little girls and let me do my job. You needn't be afraid; we're the good guys!'

From out of nowhere, a small figure with wild black hair leapt at the fake, clawing, biting, scratching. The imposter looked more surprised than anything until Harry clawed mercilessly at their eyes.

'Bloody hell!' screamed the fake, letting go of Daphne and ripping Harry from their shoulder, tossing him onto the ground. With a painful groan, the small boy smashed into a few molehills and didn't try to get up again.

Daphne, finally coming to her senses thanks to the screams of her little sister, bit the hand of the fake as hard as she could. The imposter screamed with rage and pain, pushing Daphne bodily to the ground before he slapped her twice in the face. She was yanked up at her tuft, seeing some red spell strike her sister, who immediately slumped down.

'You're a vicious lot. No wonder, considering your family, Miss Black, but I would have expected better from a Potter,' sneered the figure, shaking Daphne, who screamed in agony.

'Let her go!' Harry was struggling to get to his feet again, his left eye already swelling up.

The person holding Daphne didn't though. She was being cruelly yanked back and forth as if she were merely a point in an argument. 'No, Mr Potter. You shall come with us. Let's get this over with without any unpleasantness, right?'

'Leave her alone!'

'I'll do no such thing. You will–'

'LEAVE HER ALONE!'

'Mr Potter, I can see you're understandably upset but–'

There was a loud crack, an ear-splitting scream, and Daphne fell in the mud, dimly aware of a dull thud behind her. Something hot was trickling down the back of her head. Nauseated, she touched her hair. It came away sticky and wet – and yet she didn't feel dizzy. Her head hurt a bit from where the man had grabbed her by the hair but …

Confused, she looked up.

Harry was standing a few feet in front of her, shaking from head to toe, looking at something behind Daphne with a mix of vague fascination and horror. Seeing her get up, he jumped forward, taking her hand. 'Come on, we need to leave.'

'Did you hurt him?' Daphne heard herself ask, not daring to turn around.

'I … I don't know. I think so. Get your sister!'

'But … Father – he's still …'

There was a crash from somewhere deeper within the house.

'No,' insisted Harry, dragging her towards her younger sister. 'Regulus gave me something to escape with you should the air flicker and die.'

'The air?' asked Daphne, failing to understand.

'I don't know,' said Harry, casting anxious glances over his shoulder. 'I've seen it happen before. The air flickers and others can get inside. Come on – we leave now!'

They were about to pick up the unconscious Astoria when the mansion gave the biggest shake ever. The entire north wing, which happened to include Daphne's bedroom and the nursery, came tumbling down, beams, glass, dust, and dirt whirling through the air in a cloud of debris. For a few seconds, they both gaped. They could see a few flickering tongues of flame shine through the biting haze – already the fire had spread to most of the main wing.

'Let's go!' shouted Harry again, more urgently.

Rummaging in his pockets, he produced a little silver lighter Daphne immediately recognised as her father's.

'Ready?' he asked.

'For what?!'

He fumbled with the little gadget until it suddenly started glowing in a faint cyan light. A second crash from within the house – much closer this time – caused them both to turn their heads.

It was Daphne's father. He was dragging one foot, holding his ribs and wincing painfully.

'Leave!' he shouted. 'I'll follow. LEAVE! You promised, Harry. You promised!'

Daphne felt the boy next to her tense up. The next moment, the world began to spin. But as the world around them turned, they saw a bunch of people appearing from within the smoke or simply coming into being from thin air. A few of them cussed and trained their wands at them, but two people in robes aimed at Daphne's father.

One last glance, one very last look at the relieved smile of her father – and then his body shook, his eyes widened … and they were gone.

'WHY DID WE LEAVE HIM THERE?!' screamed Daphne, shaking the boy even as she heard hastened footsteps from somewhere within the house they'd arrived in. 'WE COULD HAVE TAKEN HIM! THEY HURT HIM!'

Mad with terror and grief, she hit Harry even as tears streaked down her face. 'WE COULD HAVE TAKEN HIM WITH US!'

Harry didn't fight back. He simply averted his head. 'He made me promise.'

'Promise what?! To leave him behind? Don't be stupid! Why did you help me at all if you're so happy to leave the rest of my family behind! I hate you! Why?! WHY?!'

She shook him, daring him to fight back, letting the rage and despair all out.

'Because I don't,' he said under his breath, still not looking into her eyes.

'Don't what?!' she demanded, jerking the scrawny boy this way and that way.

'I don't … hate you. Sirius, Regulus, Ophala, you – you all are about the first family I've ever had that's not gone, that's more than some picture on a wall. I … I don't want to be alone again.'

Memory Lane

To her own surprise, Daphne was still alive when she came to. She instantly knew she was alive because of the burning, all-consuming torment that was her left arm. Death shouldn't hurt like that.

Her limbs felt heavy and feeble – her mind floating, feverish. She forced herself to blink through crusty eyes.

Numbly, the world settled into focus, and she found herself gazing at a ceiling she didn't recognise. A small figure with messy black hair clad in dark linen was resting its head on her stomach. Daphne felt her throat go dry. Harry? But how …?!

Confused, she glanced down her left arm. Her white robes, unremarkable and innocent with no trace of blood, were the same as ever – except for the left sleeve, which had been cut off entirely. In its place, her arm was now wrapped in thick bandages. She didn't want to disturb Harry's sleep and made to move her left arm to run her hand through his hair, to feel if he was real, but a sharp, searing pain forced her to relent with a cry of pain.

The sound caused Harry to stir, and he lifted his head, staring at her through watery red eyes. Her breath caught. Had Harry been crying?

For an eternity or two, they just locked eyes.

'Harry, I–'

'You BLOODY FOOL!' yelled Harry suddenly, making her shrink back from the force of his voice. 'Didn't you remember?! Didn't you remember what I told you only yesterday?! You nearly died!'

Despite his blustering tone, he carefully scooped her up from her bed, pulling her into a gentle embrace. The inside of Daphne's arm felt like molten lava, but she didn't even flinch as she hugged him back.

'You stupid girl … Why didn't you just do as I told you?'

When Harry eventually broke their embrace, he gently pushed her shoulder down. 'How do you feel?' he asked, his voice husky, with a nod at the bandages.

'My arm feels like it's about to fall off.' She stared for a second at the hole in Harry's robes. She could see his skin underneath. It looked completely normal and healthy. 'Harry, what happened?!'

He sighed, leaning back and ruffling his hair. 'Maybe this is my fault … You would've died if the daggers hadn't been enchanted, Daphne. You sliced your entire arm open, cutting through muscle, bone, marrow, and all!'

'I thought the daggers hadn't been …'

Harry flicked his tongue. 'No, I said there was no malicious magic on the daggers.' He sighed, running his hands over his face, hiding his eyes. 'You scared the living daylights out of me.'

'I? I scared you?!' she repeated, hysterical. 'Harry you stabbed yourself right in front of me!'

'I did it to make it easier for you!' he shot back instantly. 'Blood magic will only ever work if you mean it with every fibre of your being, I told you, remember?! Who do you think you could save more easily? Me, seriously injured – or a veiled stranger you had no attachment to?!'

Daphne's brow wrinkled. 'But even if–'

Harry interrupted her once again. 'You would have died, Daphne. Don't you understand? If anyone of you – you, Tori, or Ophala – had shown anything less than the purest wish to help me, to heal, if there had even been a hint of disharmony, it would all have been for nothing. That's the way it is with old magic.

'I went out of my way to make you listen, and I even made you give me that promise because I had a feeling something like this might happen! I wasn't even supposed to tell you that much! Daphne, I told you the sacrifice needs to be proportional to your wish. Three lives don't pay for one! You never had to go so far!'

'I … I just saw you lying there, writhing in your own blood. I … sort of blanked out. I just didn't want you to die – is that so hard to understand?!'

Harry was about to shout something, but he bit his tongue, forcibly calming down. 'You were lucky,' he repeated again. 'We did our best once we rushed back up here, but it was a very close thing.'

Daphne stared through the haze of her exertion at the bandages, but she still couldn't bring herself to feel that she'd done anything wrong. 'How are you?' she asked, her eyes drawn once more to the skin above Harry's heart.

Harry clicked his tongue. 'I'm fine – more than fine. My wound closed in about a second because you came so damn close to killing yourself for me.'

Daphne sagged with relief. Talking was tiring. And wasn't it all okay if Harry was fine? 'Tori … Mum?'

'They're both fine as well. Both of them understood, too, I might add – even Tori! You attempting to chop your own arm off shocked them more than anything. They're both asleep upstairs. Magic like this is taxing.'

'You don't look … tired,' mumbled Daphne, fighting for her vision to stay focused. 'And wasn't it your spell …?'

'Yes, but – in contrast to any of you – I'm … used to it.'

Once more, they gazed at one another. Daphne shivered a bit as she weakly raised her right hand, running it over the hole in Harry's robes. 'Don't do something so ruddy scary ever again!'

Harry actually snorted, poking her shoulder. 'Look who's talking.'

Despite herself, she smiled a bit. 'So it's done?'

'It's done.'

'A– and now?' she asked, yawning.

'Nothing now. I told you nothing's going to change. You need to get some rest, and then we'll s–'

Harry was interrupted by a giant crash coming from the floor above. It sounded as if half the library was tumbling down, and the entire mansion shook.

Daphne was about to get up when Harry gently pushed her down again. 'No. You need rest. I'll check it out and be right back; you'll be perfectly safe.'

Daphne's right hand shot forth and clutched his robes.

Through heavy eyes, she saw Harry sigh wearily. 'If you don't want to rest here, how about we go up and you sleep in my room? I promise I'll be back soon!'

Sleeping in Harry's bed …? Half a second after fully comprehending his words, Daphne was already shakily getting to her feet. Harry slung one arm around her to help her along, shooting some strange charm at her that made her feel warm and fuzzy.

'Come on – slowly.'

The enticement of Harry's bed was the only thing that helped her overcome the endless, painful climbing of the stairs to the third floor. When they finally arrived, she just stood there, wobbling, drinking in the air and odour as if it were water before she simply collapsed on his bed. If Harry hadn't caught her, she would have fallen on her left arm, too.

'Sandals!' she mumbled, her voice stifled because she couldn't be bothered to raise her head from the pillow.

She felt Harry undo the straps, pushing her legs underneath the blanket. 'Come on,' he said, 'you should try lying on your back for now. It'll hurt worse than ever when you wake if you sleep on your left just because I numbed the pain.'

With a groan, Daphne rolled over, and Harry seized the moment to pull the duvet up high. 'I'll be right back.'

'Good night … kiss …?' muttered Daphne sleepily, her eyes already half-closed.

'You really are a handful … Get some sleep,' said Harry with a chuckle. 'Don't force yourself for something so silly.'

''s not … silly …' mumbled Daphne petulantly, drawing the blanket close, forcing one burning eye open. 'Don't … sleep like … this!'

Harry bent over her, and she could see the exasperated smile he so often wore around her. Softly, he kissed her on the brow. 'Sleep now.'

'That's … not–'

But the world simply seemed to dissolve in feathers and light, leaving her behind.

Memory Lane

Harry made sure Daphne really was asleep and wouldn't further hurt her arm before he hurriedly got dressed in decent clothes and gingerly closed the door behind him, tapping it with his wand to seal it off. Cranky should know to keep others from leaving the first floor so long as not all of the traces of the ritual had been dealt with, but there was no benefit in taking chances.

The voices came from his grandfather's study, and – strangely – Harry didn't recognise all of them. Even stranger still, a queer pong he associated with the sea made him wrinkle his nose. He was about to knock politely on the heavy wood when Arcturus' voice rose over the ruckus within, 'Enter, Harry!'

Following those words, he heard the door unlock. It seemed that his grandfather wasn't in the business of taking chances as well.

Curious, he did as he was told, and the first thought he had as he took a step inside was 'what a mess!'

Seaweed, algae, driftwood, and little pools of what looked (and certainly smelled) like brackish water had ruined the precious, antique Persian carpet he loved; the walls looked as if a sea monster had fumbled around blindly, ripping off tapestries, bookshelves, and pictures; a sickeningly sweet, biting smell of biological waste, tar, and sulphur hung heavyly in the air; and in the middle of it all, a small mound of mouldy black rags – a moving mound, to be precise. Its movement, however, seemed mostly restricted to tongue and mouth; Harry couldn't understand the hissed stream of cursing and gibberish that was interrupted by unhealthy sounding fits of coughing and wheezing but he got the gist of it. Someone was angry.

Bellatrix and Rodolphus were offering what looked like lukewarm soup and water to the pile of tatters, speaking animatedly under their breath.

'The door, Harry,' said Arcturus with almost perfidious serenity, watching the whole spectacle from behind his desk.

Harry nodded, mumbling a charm to seal the door behind him as well.

The incantation seemed to rouse the rag-clad sea monster, and it spun around. Eyes shone from behind a curtain of seagrass-like hair like lights at the end of a very, very far tunnel.

''o's'at?' it cawed with a voice like sandpaper.

'That is Harry, my heir,' said Arcturus with a hint of sharpness in his voice. 'I expect you to favour him with the same courtesy you show me.'

The figure on the floor lifted its skeletal head. The face was so haggard that the eyes looked to be in danger of falling out of their sockets. It was a wonder, Harry mused, that he – or she – could move at all.

For a second, a glimmer of understanding – but then it was gone, and the figure crouched down again, coughing wildly. The wheezing sounded hollow and painful.

Harry stared coolly at the winding wreck of a person. 'Could be pneumonia. It may well be fatal given the bad physical state our guest is in,' he commented, aloof.

'Won't die!' The figure gave another dry, winding cough that would make most people cringe. 'Not f–from this!'

'We'll take care of you immediately, Rabastan,' said Arcturus with a nod in Harry's direction. 'You needn't worry about your well-being or safety.'

Rabastan Lestrange, thought Harry, eyes widening. He didn't know much about the man, but Harry had to admit not everyone would have been able to make whatever torturous journey he had behind him. His claws – hands – were bloody and raw, and it looked as if he'd dragged his maltreated body forward inch by inch at some point. Harry knew the man hadn't been in prison for nothing, but he had to give him credit for sheer tenacity.

'But first, I need you to think over what you just said – and very carefully. Are you absolutely sure?'

With Bellatrix's help, Rabastan sat up, holding his left side. ''s I said – just as I said. Looked everywhere. Every cranny, every nook. Wasn't there. Maybe they took him. They take people, they do,' he repeated feverishly, 'and never bring'em back.'

'Who?' asked Harry despite himself.

'… The men – with the black robes. They took'em, and they never give back.'

'No, I meant whom were you unable to locate?'

'Him. Sirius.'

It took a few moments for these words to fight through the disbelief and incredulity they elicited. But then they came crashing down on Harry's mind like a rain of hammers.

'What?!'