CH23: Folly

October 24th

10:41am

Black Chateau, Isle of Man

Harry

With curtains drawn in front of the regal radius window and the dying kindling in the fireplace, the upstairs drawing room was a cold and dark place. In one of the upholstered wingback arm chairs, Harry sat unmoving, his mind dwelling on the pain he's caused in the names of his fallen friends.

'No parasitic soul pieces left to blame, it's just me.' He had thought the burden of morality would have become simple after ridding himself of the leech that ruined his life. However, with each passing catastrophe, it proved harder to make the right choices. 'Maybe it's always been me, maybe the Dursley's broke something yet to be fixed.'

He wondered if there were any long standing effects of the horcrux on his psyche. Having a megalomaniac festering on his core for a decade and a half can't have been healthy. I should bring Remus in on the secret, he's generally got a good sense of–'

Harry sighed and leaned back in his chair. No one had prepared him for loss. It had just happened again and again and again. The cruel joke of it all was it never got easier; forgetting they're gone, forever, just to live it all over again when you remember that they are.

"Harry."

'Damien.' Disappointment flooded Harry's mind at the mere thought of Damien's name. Harry stood from his chair, maintaining a disinterested expression as he turned to face the man. Damien looked rougher than usual, his slicked back hair was replaced with a haphazard attempt to keep it neat and faint vestiges of bags under his eyes spoke to a less than ideal sleep pattern. Still, he stood straight and met Harry's eye with ease. Tucked under his arm was a large tome with scraps of parchment that overflowed from the pages.

"I'm finished."

"Finished?" Instead of answering Harry's question, Damien offered him the book in his hands. Harry looked at the outstretched book with suspicion. Last time he was handed something he ended up a prisoner. 'Hell, if I end up there again, that would make things so much simpler.'

Harry reached out and grasped the tome, bracing as he came to realise how heavy it was. Written across the front in decorative letters was the title;

"Victory in Unity," Harry read, raising an eyebrow at Damien, "do you feel like we're united?" Harry placed the book on a long wooden coffee table and opened onto the first page as he sat down.

"No." Damien's tone had hints of accusation in it that gave Harry pause. He looked up to find the Greengrass patriarch giving him a hard stare.

Anger flared in Harry's chest. "Do we have a problem?" Harry asked antagonistically, the book became forgotten momentarily.

"Yes."

"Go on then," Harry challengingly began, "spit it out." He was standing again, blood rushed to his head and made pink his ears. Damien stood stock still, maintaining the hard stare without saying a peep. Harry grew more frustrated by the second. "Is your keen mind failing–"

"You have become a burden," Damien bluntly proclaimed with a raised voice. Harry's mocking expression snapped to one of shock, he'd never seen Damien angry, only ever calm and collected. With a defiant glint in his eye, Damien continued, "your carelessness, your disregard for your peers and your grief—"

"My grief?" Harry asked in disbelief. 'The audacity–'

"Yes!" Damien exclaimed, cutting off his mental tirade before it even began. "It burdens us. None more than my daughter."

"You mean the daughter that you abandoned?"

"She doesn't need me anymore." The admission looked to pain Damien who winced after saying it. "But she does need you," he began again, pointing at Harry angrily, "and you need her."

Harry grew silent, there was no way to refute what Damien had said without outright lying. So, he backtracked. "My grief is my own, I have every right to it."

"You do," Damien agreed, surprising Harry. Damien had the same 'gotcha' look Daphne has when they discuss things and Harry instinctively braced himself to be outfoxed. "But you alone? Tell me she doesn't grieve their deaths and I will name you liar."

'Damned Greengrass perception.' Harry's anger dissipated as shame rose in equal parts. Harry's attempt to avoid Damien's gaze led his own to the open book on the table beside him. The first page oddly contained just one sentence. 'Dedicated to my two beautiful daughters, may they inherit a world of dreams,' he read internally.

"She deserves better," Damien spoke suddenly, "and so do you." Damien took a seat in one of the armchairs and leaned forward to try and find Harry's gaze. "I'm not the only one who believes that."

Harry eyed him, confused.

"I spoke to everyone," Damien brought his hand up and began counting with his fingers to each word, "aurors, medical staff, herbologists, potioneers, parents and even children. I wanted to know what everyone else's idea of a perfect world was before I went and wrote one up." Harry's scoff did nothing to impede Damien's monologue, for he was on a roll. "And do you know what the most common question I received was? What does Harry think? Not out of fear, that this was some ploy to root out traitors, but out of respect for you and your sacrifices."

'A bunch of people who don't really know me. It's easy to put your faith in a symbol.'

"But there was one man I came back to the most, who's measured insight was invaluable to me."

When Damien wasn't forthcoming, Harry looked at him with a calculating expression. Damien's solemn face said all that it needed to. "Remus," Harry whispered knowingly.

"That man lived a terrible life, faced prejudice that neither you nor I could begin to describe and yet still found the courage to forgive and the strength to be kind. His wisdom, I hope, will be a core part of our new society."

Harry couldn't remove his eyes from the book. For the first time since Remus' death, he imagined the man as he knew him. Kind brown eyes and a tired smile, tweed jackets, complete with elbow patches to make him look every part the professor that he was. The way he'd hide his smile when Sirius was up to mischief and the longing glances at Tonks across the meeting table. 'A good man died for this; my uncle died for this.'

"Your grief is real, your anger is real," Damien pointed at the book, "but that can be too; the future." Damien stood and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "You will need to decide how to make it real. By being a mindless killer, or something more."

Damien left him there, his footsteps fading into nothing. Harry didn't know how long he sat there, it could've been hours, staring, thinking but eventually he picked up the book and turned the next page, then the next and the next. He didn't notice Dobby light candles and levitate them around the room for him, nor when he threw a blanket over Harry when he finally fell asleep, book in hand.

October 25th

6:23pm

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

Voldemort

Voldemort's bare feet slapped against stone as he descended into Malfoy manor's dungeon. Those familiar with the Dark Lord's usual gait would recognise that he had a certain spring in his step. The door to the dungeons let out a soft click as Voldemort approached. To the shadow behind him, it looked as though the door opened on its own, but it was a subtle display of his wandless prowess.

"Prepare yourself Severus, I may have use of your mental facilities." Snape had an unimpressed look on his face as they waited by a cell door. Voldemort squashed his ire to unassumingly query his spy. "You look troubled, do my orders offend you?"

"No, my lord," replied his voice humbly low, "merely my skills pale in comparison to your own."

'Grovelling slime.'

When his followers would prostrate themselves before him, their fear rolled off them in droves and there was nothing more sincere than fear. When Snape would approach him calmly and speak in measured tones, Voldemort saw it as a sign of his commitment to the Dark Lord. But since Harry's escape, each interaction with the spy bred more suspicion. Reverence felt disingenuous and flattery, simply a distraction. "Nevertheless, you are sure to enjoy this."

Voldemort held his hand out and twisted it. A 'click' echoed through the stony cellar as the door slowly slid to the side, seemingly disappearing into the wall. Inside the small cell was a woman in chains. Unkempt golden curls adorned her head, and she had thick fingers tipped with crimson nails that looked like talons or claws.

"Rita Skeeter, famed reporter and illegal animagus." Voldemort stepped into the cell with a thin smile. "I trust Bellatrix has treated you well?"

Rita groaned groggily, her right cheek was an angry purple and blood dripped down her face from a split in her eyebrow. There was further bruising around her neck and nape, suggesting Bellatrix had put to use her hand of conjured steel for more than thuggish beating.

"What is her form?" Severus asked curiously.

"Speak, journalist." Voldemort used the title like a slur. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of her hair and lifted her head

"Beeble," she slurred, the blood in her mouth made it hard to pronounce the letter 't.'

"And she hasn't tried to escape?"

Voldemort gestured behind them to where the door was, except there was no door. Just a wall of stone, no gaps or cracks for anything to get in or out. Nor were there any windows or vents. The chance of escape was at a comfortable zero.

"I have learnt my lesson in prisoner detainment, there will be no miracles for Ms Skeeter." Voldemort bent at the hips until his upper body was approaching completely horizontal so that he could whisper in Rita's ear. "Only pain, should you withhold what I wish to know."

"Information is a currency," Reeter said, sounding every bit her spineless self, "what will it buy me?"

"Perhaps it will buy you your life," Voldemort sinisterly answered. The Dark Lord reached into his robes and pulled free a roll of parchment with a ministry stamped seal. Waving them in front of her, he asked with a menacing tone, "do you recognise these letters?"

"I do."

"Speak to me of your assignment by the late Minister Scrimengour." Voldemort spat Scrimengour's name out mockingly. 'Defiance served him poorly and he died a fool.'

"He asked me to spy on Potter and the Greengrass girl, wanted to know where they called home."

"And? Did you find them?" Voldemort asked impatiently. Rita looked at him, her eyes showed hesitation and guilt. 'The cold reporter has a heart after all, how touching.' Voldemort's wand dropped into his hand, and he pointed it at the woman.

"Yes! I found it!" she yelled hoarsely. Her eyes were wide with fear and the chains rattled with her shivering uncontrollably from fear. "It's on the Isle of Man! A-a-a-a Black Ch-chateau!"

'Black chateau… this place is unknown to me.' Voldemort, just to be sure, whispered legilimens and his mind was assaulted with images. 'Black chateau,' he thought, and the whirlwind of images came to a halt. He saw a deed to a plot of land on the isle and a memory of the boy and girl using a ministry fireplace to floo to this 'Black chateau.' He broke off the mental connection and turned to Severus who watched on impassively.

"She speaks true." Voldemort crouched in front of Rita and gently wrapped his bony hand around her chin, gently lifting her face higher so that she would meet his eyes. "Your barter is successful, you will be released, only after I have crushed this loyalist insurrection."

Rita's shaking was amplified as she began crying. "Th-thank you," she whispered and bowed her head as Voldemort stepped away.

"Walk with me Severus."

Voldemort and Snape left the cell and climbed the steps of the cellar. Snape stayed a step behind his lord as was expected. 'Always the respect, as if he has a checklist in his mind.'

"The war will be over soon, Severus," Voldemort kept his eyes forward and head raised, "and you have served me faithfully for… how long has it been?"

"Twenty years, my lord."

"Twenty years… and what is your price?"

"Price?"

"Yes," Voldemort said as though it were obvious, "surely you believe you are owed something for your service?"

"I am owed nothing; I serve at your pleasure."

'Humility… or falsehoods.' Voldemort stopped in the middle of the hall and spun on his heel to face the potion's master. "I would reward you my friend, whether you wish it or not."

Snape's mouth pulled into a sneer as he spoke. "Allow me to kill the Black mutt and the filthy half breed werewolf and I will ask for nothing more."

'That is true hatred, could he swallow it to defy me?' Voldemort laughed, a high and piercing sound. "Bellatrix and Fenrir have laid claim to the heretic and the half breed, but, if they are captured alive, they are yours to torment."

Severus dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "I am grateful, my lord."

"Come Severus," Voldemort beckoned, "a dawn of a new age approaches and you, my most loyal, will reap all that you have sowed."

October 25th

9:32pm

Black Chateau, Isle of Man

Daphne

Daphne flicked her hand and the final candles alit in the bedroom whooshed out. She climbed into bed and pulled the silk sheets over her body. Immediately, she recognised it was too cold a night for a single sheet. She pointed an open hand at her nightstand and said, "accio wand." Her wand snapped to her hand, and she pointed it at the cupboard on the opposite wall to the bed and this time thought, 'accio duvet.' The cupboard opened and the blanket levitated its way over gracefully, laying out on the bed perfectly.

Daphne put her wand back on the nightstand and slid further under the covers, sighing appreciatively at the warmth of the hippogriff feather duvet's ability to trap heat. She closed her eyes and simply relished the comfort for a moment.

Of course, that was the second Harry decided to open the door and flood the room with the hall's light.

Harry seemed to see that Daphne had been in complete darkness and lying in bed. "Sorry," he whispered in case he had awoken her from her sleep.

'Hmm thoughtful at least. Unusual as of late.' Daphne pushed herself up by the arms so that she could rest her back on the headboard. "I wasn't asleep."

"Okay that's… that's good." Harry nervously said. He was hovering near the door; he'd left it a crack open so she could see that he wasn't moving.

"Are you okay?" Daphne asked as she held back a yawn. 'I should've been asleep half an hour ago.'

"I'm… can we talk?"

"Of course," she instinctively said. 'What is bothering you so? Just this morning you were as absent as ever.' Daphne could feel herself waking up more by the second. "Come sit down."

Harry kicked his shoes off and sat at the end of the bed cross legged. He placed his wand in front of him on the duvet and breathed out a heavy sigh before meeting her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I've been so stupid lately."

Whilst she could see that he meant it, Daphne needed to know he knew what he was apologising for and so; "For?"

"For not realising that you're grieving too." Harry scrunched his face up before he spoke again. "Not only that," he continued, "but for becoming a burden to you, whilst you're hurting."

"You knew them better, you loved them like family," she pointed out. It is true that she had become close with Hermione, and she knew Remus to be a good and honest man but her pain lay deeply intertwined with him. 'I failed and that got people that you loved, killed.'

"I am. That doesn't mean I should disregard your feelings." Harry shook his in disappointment. "You've picked up the broken pieces of me so many times… I'm grateful."

"Thank you for acknowledging that," Daphne said appreciatively. "We're partners, I just want what's best for you and us."

"I don't know what's best for me, I'm still figuring that out." He looked at his wand, the death stick, with something akin to loathing. "But I won't let my lust for revenge cloud my judgement anymore, if only for you." Harry locked eyes with her again. "I lo– care about you, that's all I know for certain."

'Was he? He was…' Daphne's heart had skipped a beat at his slip up but she recognised pushing him on it wouldn't be right, especially if she didn't know if she could say the same. "If you're only certain about one thing, I'm glad that it's us."

Daphne reached her hand out to Harry and gently pulled him in when he accepted it. Harry rested his head on her chest and Daphne lightly ran her hands through his hair. With her off hand, she waved the door shut. They laid there together, not speaking a word till they fell asleep, just enjoying the comfort of each other's embrace that had been sorely missed for some time. All wasn't well, no one's pain had miraculously been healed, but they were together and that's all that mattered.

Author's Note

Alright this one is a doozy… doozie? Doesn't matter, important stuff is happening.

Damien's role in the third book has sort of fallen by the wayside a little after his separation from Daphne. It's weird, sometimes I feel like I have too many characters and then other times I find myself running out of characters. I've been saying that Harry needs a bit of a kick up the ass for a while now. Will this be enough to completely change his tune? You'll see, I guess. As I was saying in the earlier chapters, Remus' death gains more meaning after the fact. I'm hopefully doing him justice now.

Props to anyone that guessed Rita Skeeter was the 'her' from the previous chapter. That plot point has now come full circle. Little bit of word play between Severus and Voldemort, I'd like to think I've made Voldemort's skepticism real enough that you guys don't know which way this'll go.

Harry Potter apology time. Even if Harry's attitude to others doesn't change, I know some of you are glad that his relationship with Daphne is on the mend. Harry's still at a point where this war has taken in psyche so far to the extreme that he's got a bit of an identity crisis. In that storm of uncertainty, Harry knows that he cares about Daphne and no matter where he lands, that is still going to be true.

Nearly dropped the 'L' word there too. Its coming, but it'll be at the right time, not in an apology.

A little update on my progress, I've written up to chapter 2. I'm going to have to pick up the pace a little to stay on schedule, but chapters 30-32 are awesome (coming from me lol).

Hope you all enjoyed!

RevanchistVII