Daphne sleeps for a night and then some. The shadows across her chambers take on a yellow hue by the time she tumbles out of bed, her father's screams for his potions or an object to swing or the like startling her awake. June appears at her doorway shaking in fear, so she trudges to his first floor study.
"What the fuck," Thomas says upon seeing her. Cheeks a candy-cane red, he inhales into an empty bottle of calming draught, eyes rolling backwards.
She waves her wand to summon a calming draught from their wares and chucks it at him. He goggles and grabs her wrists, but she'll have none of it—not today, not now—so before the reds and purples can form below her palms she slams her heel into his chin, squirming out of his hold as he yelps.
"Daphne!" he shouts. His stomps move nothing in his study; everything has been painstakingly charmed and spelled. "Get back here! Filthy, useless—!"
For the second day in a row she runs. Thomas' words cut away as she throws up a shield charm and races up the stairs.
Sick and weak. Sick and weak. One day she will fight him, her mom, and curse every ancestor that brought upon her this shit.
Before she slips into her room, she catches a glance of herself in an ostentatious swan-neck-shaped stretch of decor around a portrait of dear great-aunt Lydia.
"Hideous, dear. Maybe cut back on the drinking?" Lydia tuts. Another portrait glides over to see the commotion.
Daphne's hair is plastered to her forehead. Her eyeliner and mascara run black rivers down one cheek, the freshening charm somehow intact around the other eye. Her nose is blotchy with red spots, presaging a breakout of acne in the next few days, and she's in her nightgown. Daphne Greengrass never wanders in her nightgown.
She looks worse than Pansy returning from a night at a club in Knockturn Alley.
A broken statue.
Anyway, the numbness persists and she's quite intent on sleeping the rest of afternoon and evening away, were it not for the letters June slipped on her desk while she dealt with her father.
The names are plenty. None are from Tracey, meaning none from the Ministry or Pot— oh, no , the numbness begins to evaporate—but among the senders are Blaise, Millicent, healers from Georges-Pompidou, Professor Flitwick, a smattering of old acquaintances from Beauxbatons, and a pureblood friend she met on a girl's trip to Belgium.
It's an odd set of names coalescing at one time (it's not her birthday and she's already received inquiries about Astoria's health), so Daphne orders June to tell her mother, should she ask, that she's with Tracey, locks her room, and sleeps.
She wakes again when June slips another parcel onto the pile. It's from Padma Patil. They had been corresponding over contacting those healers in India that Finch-Fletchley mentioned, but the size of the parcel strikes her as odd.
She tears along the bottom edge. A pure-blood newspaper—the Noble Arcanum —slips into her hand.
Greengrass,
I'm working on getting that translator you asked about but my mom is going to send over the reply she got from a healer she knows in Goa.
Page four. Parvati is obsessed with your dress. I wanted to ask if you and Nott would be interested in doing a full spread for Witch Weekly. Nothing invasive, you can pre-approve the questions.
Padma Patil
And what is on page four? Daphne can guess. She doesn't know why Patil has a subscription to Noble Arcanum , but there, on page four, is a grainy photo of Theo pulling her to his chest, her face blessedly hidden. The loop stops as he takes his first step towards the floo, her in tow. The title is a simple Theodore Nott Courting Eldest Greengrass Daughter —pure-bloods are above scandalous sensationalism, so goes the adage—and the small paragraph mostly discusses public record of Theo's assets without mentioning his Death Eater parents, ending with a description of Daphne's accomplishments (Hogwarts graduated, well-bred, age twenty-six, still unmarried and older sister to the newest Missus Malfoy, has daring interests). Daring here is a euphemism for libertine behavior. Hah.
Like running out of a Ministry gala, dress hitched to her knees, suitor—unbetrothed suitor!—behind her.
She half expects Adorabella to blast her door open.
No. Adorabella fights without a wand.
Daphne floos to Theo's.
Theo is waiting for her as she shoots out of the fireplace. Her shout of Nott Manor would have had to alert him, and he kindly opened the floo for her instead of letting her bounce back into her foyer.
He looks unbothered, dressed in a vest and trousers suitable for a day at home.
She scratches the back of her neck. "Have you seen the—"
"Yes."
"Has my mother—"
"No."
"Are you—"
"Fine."
"Don't interrupt me." Daphne feels adrenaline ripping through her entire system. As it dissipates, exhaustion takes its place. Her shoulders sag. "I am sorry."
Theo considers her for a moment. Crying in front of a friend should elevate them to a new level of intimacy, she assumes, but they're both slow to adapt to the vulnerabilities and trust that others find so easy.
He escorts her to a seat. A house-elf brings a calming draught.
"Did you come here for me?" he asks.
"I didn't see a letter from you. I assumed…I worried…" she trails off. This is all uncharted waters.
Honesty, that.
Theo sits next to her but leaves a gap big enough for a giant to scoot into. "You seemed unsettled yesterday…I waited until your house-elf confirmed you were retired. Draco floo-called me this morning but I'd already read the papers by then, and thought I'd give you some time and told him the same."
The warmth that envelopes in her chest for this man sends pinpricks to her eyes. Merlin, is she to be a weepy chit now?
But his unspoken question marinates: what happened?
"A lady's matter." She nods her head, half to herself. "That sort of distress."
"Not the dastardly plan?"
"No," she says firmly.
Theo shrugs. He won't accept the explanation, but again, they are normal, well-adapted individuals, clearly . So he doesn't pry, though she knows that he knows something is wrong.
"That…is a look," he says finally.
She glares.
"You can wash up here. There are six unused bathrooms."
"You don't have one for each day of the week?"
"My mother said to not comment on a lady's appearance but your breath is utterly rancid."
She should feel insulted and reconsider her shrinking charm.
Instead, she laughs. There must be a breakdown before a breakthrough, she supposes. Her shell is cracking, the statue or statuesque covering crumbling, and her world grows again to add Theo.
Theo appears befuddled, but under it all she catches a small smile growing on his face.
Daphne and Theo stand a respectable two paces apart in Astoria's room, which is as far apart as even the upgraded room will even allow. She's due to leave today with a month's worth of appointments scheduled out with Finch-Fletchley,
Draco's eyes are their usual neutral. But he conducts his questioning with a tad more vigor than strictly necessary.
Daphne understands him, truly. She would be the first to scoff at the idiot shenanigans had anyone other than herself pulled it off, but it's not fun being on the other side of it. In fact, she starts to wonder, why are there so many rules at all?
"—leaving me to plough through Granger and her bushy companion, and Commish had no idea what to make of it! Disappearing off like that, what are you thinking? I have to explain to not only father but Avery and Joko Fawley, both members of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, why my sister-in-law was spotted dashing away with Theo like a madman, looking like she wanted to vomit after being seen sitting with Potter, while he was busy dancing like a disjointed puppet with Lovegood—"
"Draco." Daphne stands pin-straight, the taper of her chin equidistant to her nose's upturned angle, outfit impeccable and teeth brushed, and makes a succinct point. "You sound like your mother."
Astoria snorts.
Draco's jaw falls, switching his attention to Astoria—at this point he may rebuke her too—and thinks better of it.
"I felt ill. Thank you for worrying about me, but you needn't have abandoned your post," Daphne adds.
"I wasn't worrying."
"It's okay, Draco." Astoria smirks. "I give you permission to worry about my sister."
"And I," Daphne places a hand under the crook of Astoria's elbow and gently lifts her to her feet, "give you permission to take my sister home."
As Draco busies himself with the front desk, Theo standing off to the side with nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs, Astoria gestures for Daphne to tilt her ear towards her.
"Mother visited me this morning," her sister whispers.
Daphne stills. Draco is muttering to himself about the bill, one he's wrangled himself into by demanding every upgrade possible for Astoria. Sensing trouble, Theo adds fuel to the fire by jabbing at the papers and scoffing. But the receptionist looks undeterred.
"How was it?" Daphne asks.
"Good. Brief, but she hugged me and apologized for not coming sooner." Astoria attempts a nonchalant lift of a one-shoulder shrug. "Strangely, she didn't insist I move my care elsewhere and it doesn't seem like she knows yet about you and Theo."
"There is nothing about me and Theo."
"Hm."
That can't be right. Adorabella would seethe if it were known that her daughter was with anything less than the best in her eyes—but Daphne ponders it for longer than a moment, and concludes that her mother was also struggling with the desire to not care for her at all.
There was nothing about Daphne Adorabella didn't know. Especially if it was in the society pages.
Something is not right.
Her gut continues to churn when she returns home for dinner. June informs her that Thomas wants to take his dinner in his study, alone, and Adorabella is out.
"Out where?"
Neither June nor Knobby know.
Has she left again?
It's possible, but Adorabella is exating with the way she wants things to be under her nose. Her mother will leave for prolonged periods of time, staying at other properties and sniffing out scraps of information and ingratiating herself with wealthy European nobles, but only after trusting Daphne to take care of it.
Maybe Daphne's lost that trust after the little show she made of telling her Astoria missed her. Or after the gala, her behavior caught and placed for all of their acquaintances to see.
There are more letters at her bedside, too, from Tracey—actually from Tracey—and Professor Slughorn. Tracey teases her cheekily and Professor Slughorn writes with a solemn flourish that most unfortunately, he must rescind her invite to his Christmas Eve party due to unforeseen circumstances. Hah. Old behaviors seldom die.
Behaviors.
Ideals.
Traditions.
There's a letter from one Anjali Patil, Padma's mother. Anjali's letter is brief, explaining that she manually translated the Indian Healer's—Healer Inaya—reply due to the highly technical vocabulary.
Healer Inaya's letter extends four pages. It pontificates at length on human 'genetic data' and 'genes' and how Astoria's malediction sounds like an 'autoimmune disease', meaning her body mistakes her own cells as dangerous and attacks them. This is why no blood replenishing potions administered in the past helped, why no amount of healing spells and countercurses changed anything, because the problem is not just in Astoria's blood, nor even her bones, but deeper: in the very stuff that makes a person.
Daphne lounges against her pillow, hands steepled. The pages fall to her lap. There are a ton more letters to read, a copy of the Sunday edition of The Daily Prophet with a headline about vampires breaching British borders, but Professor Flitwick's letter has been waiting since morning.
She slices it open.
He writes kindly, but she can read his disappointment between the lines. She's no stranger to teachers viewing them with caution and skepticism, but admittedly, she and her friends didn't always make their jobs easy.
Miss Greengrass,
Finch-Fletchley is correct. I don't have any training in medicine, but indeed there are gaps we don't know. Magic cannot explain how the sun sets or why we require water, for example.
Remember the Olson paper on blood charms changing a human's physiology as is? It's entirely possible that curses are not carried through blood. It would certainly explain the resurgence of the curse in your sister after generations, but do not take this as medical advice. Best to consult Finch-Fletchley and other qualified healers.
A researcher's job is to look at the data points and find a model that explains it. Consider what we lose when we dismiss ideas simply because they are uncomfortable. Everything is ideological—even neutrality, like we so often perceive ourselves to aspire to.
You are an intelligent woman. Best wishes for your sister.
The part-goblin, part-wizard signs off with a fingerprint in lieu of a signature, as most goblins do.
She supposes some — many — might have thought Professor Flitwick carried a defect.
Daphne exits the fireplace into the Malfoy Manor's drawing room the morning of her father's assessment, pausing to see not only Narcissa but Lucius busy in astute observation over her sister. The placid couple sit at an oblong table, Lucius at the head and Narcissa on his right.
For her part, Astoria is busy reading The Quibbler. Draco stands behind her shoulder, pointing and making agreeable noises whenever they spot something particularly interesting.
Astoria's choice of magazine is extraordinarily impudent. Lucius's expression might have suggested she was holding dragon dung, but his surreptitious attempts to read whatever has Draco's attention undermines it.
"Ah!" Draco exclaims. "Warrington's been recruited for the Wimbourne Wasps. Of course, I had him shaking in third year during try-outs..."
"Daphne, do join us." Narcissa does the pureblood lady equivalent of waving her over—a minute head tilt in the direction of the empty chair on Lucius' left side—and Daphne obeys because she's not yet certain what to make of the situation.
The reason behind Lucius' presence becomes clear enough.
"Georges-Pompidou is prepared to send live-in healers to watch her. I sent a check this morning," he says imperiously.
With her face hidden behind the newspaper, the only hint to Astoria's unwillingness to entertain the notion are the papers crumpling in her delicate hold.
For a long moment, no one replies. Draco, even, seems subservient to his father's command.
And then he says: "She's not an animal in observation, father."
Daphne sees the concerned look Narcissa and Lucius share.
Astoria sets down her paper. Most color has returned to her cheeks but her collarbones protrude noticeably. "Oh, so you will let me walk the grounds myself?"
Draco snorts. Narcissa quirk's her lip and he backtracks uses his words this time. "Absolutely not. If something happens again?"
"Elby will be with me."
"Why can't I be with you? Is a house-elf's presence preferable to mine?"
"On occasion," Astoria quips.
He gawks at the top of her perfectly coiffed head.
A domestic squabble isn't what Daphne wants to be privy to this afternoon, so she stands to cut her visit short. She just wanted to see that Astoria was well taken care of, and clearly the elderly Malfoys, with every reason to see their daughter-in-law live to carry children, would do their part as doting parents. At least to Draco.
"Sit down, Daphne," orders Narcissa.
Daphne, her bum hovering a centimeter over the lacquered chair, freezes.
Oblivious to the strain on her thighs, Narcissa pins her with an icy look. "As you can imagine, Draco is in a highly overwhelmed state such that I fear his judgment is impaired. I want to ask for your input as the eldest Greengrass daughter."
Astoria resumes her reading, this time lowering the paper enough to reveal her eyebrows. Daphne sees them stitch together.
"Thank you, Narcissa, but perhaps tomorrow? I really must get going."
"Oh, it'll only be a moment," Lucius drawls. A shiver clatters up Daphne's spine. "You see, Astoria and Draco have made the choice, without consulting anyone else, that she will be treated by a muggle-born healer."
Narcissa nods at her husband. "There is no problem that he is muggle-born, really…" As she speaks, Daphne checks the state of Astoria's eyebrows (now disjointed with right one arching towards her hairline and the left one, flat). "But you see, he trained in muggle medicine and proposes to use them on wizards."
Astoria's other eyebrow reaches her hairline. The paper lowers another increment to expose a dark stare and flush sweeping down each side of her nose.
Draco keeps quiet. Based on the fact Lucius was not shouting and Narcissa's pallor was her usual alabaster and not dead-white, Daphne guesses she may have interrupted a fourth, possibly fifth, iteration of this argument.
"Astoria?" Daphne's inquiry is gentle. Astoria's unspoken ferocity is unbending.
Narcissa clicks her tongue. "Astoria's made herself clear. May she listen to an older sister who can provide wisdom."
So, a choice: does she want to jeopardize her sister's health and everything that she is for this ideal?
Put that way, no.
You are an intelligent woman.
"Healer Finch-Fletchley identified a potential solution for a disease we've been told was incurable for two decades. If Astoria wants to switch her care to a competent healer, I support her."
Astoria folds the magazine in her lap. She's smiling.
On the day of Thomas's assessment, Auror Terry Boot and Tracey convene in her dining room. Tracey's appearance isn't necessary but she gives Daphne words of encouragement disguised as noncommittal interest.
"Head Auror Potter is on another case today," Auror Boot says. He's taller than Potter—than most Aurors she's seen so far, actually—and has a crooked gait about him, like he's fought many giants and has been lobbed in his right side one too many times.
Daphne tilts her head inquiringly. She didn't expect Potter to be here today, anyway. Monthly assessments usually only involved a Ministry-appointed healer, her father's attorney, and a junior Auror sent to do rote procedural work.
"I understand he's taken personal responsibility for this case, but it's unusual for the Head Auror to be highly involved." Boot's eyes flicker to Tracey's and then back to her. "Even if he submitted the petition."
"Okay," she says again. Boot's in-depth explanation was unnecessary and strikes her as odd, but she doesn't pay it too much heed. There are more pressing issues.
Tracey remains in the dining hall as Daphne and Auror Boot enter Thomas' study.
Adorabella is there.
Her mother's blue eyes frost over. A tick tightens her jaw as she locks eyes with Daphne. The force of it is so brutal her kneecaps struggle to keep her gait pitching forward.
Thomas' appointed healer starts by examining his magic-suppressing bracers and then questions Daphne on draught and potion dosages, new symptoms, and the like. Their family solicitor, Burns Clotwell, a mawkish man distantly related to the Flints, represents her father. Clowtwell is a lackluster presence, checking his watch every few minutes.
Boot reads the terms of his parole and remaining years. And then—
"On October second, an anonymous petition was filed on behalf of the Greengrass family. They seek to reevaluate him for fitness related to his role as Head of Household."
The first thing Daphne notices is Clotwell fumbling to straighten, his briefcase knocking into a table.
The second is Adorabella's lips pursing together until they disappear.
But her mother doesn't look shocked. Surprised, yes, but not dumbfounded. Like she knew something was amiss, but not what form it would take.
Boot continues, "A request for a complete psychiatric evaluation, citing incomplete health documentation—"
"Absurd!" Clotwell shrills.
"—has also been attached and submitted to the DMLE, the Committee of Prisoner Health Management, and Department of Health."
Clotwell lurches for the file Auror Boot hands him. He flips through the papers at a pace faster than any human can possibly read.
"He will resume the Greengrass seat after four years as agreed by the Wizengamot," Clotwell sputters, looking at Adorabella. "Lady Greengrass can fill the seat in the interim."
"This is for a permanent revocation."
From where he's been encased in a bubble of spells, Thomas leaps to his feet. A hollow noise rips from his throat.
"What the fuck? Who filed this petition?"
"That is confidential," says Boot.
"This is my family!"
Nothing in the room shakes due to Daphne's potent charmwork. But his voice rattles her insides, and she resists every bit of it, maintaining her posture and unaffected countenance.
Adorabella's gaze remains unwaveringly focused on Boot. She can't deign to see her own husband break down.
Thomas rakes a hand through his straw-like hair. He takes a step towards Boot while Boot places his hand on a hidden holster (Daphne knows from Potter's first visit to her home about the hidden pocket sewn into the trousers).
Then Thomas looks at Clotwell, who's finished sifting through the file. When he snaps it closed soon after, Clotwell regards Daphne with a wary expression. Thomas notices.
Then, like a storm brewing on the horizon, Thomas's voice cuts through the air.
"You," her father spits in venomous accusation.
Her wrists begin to hurt already. She hears the healer backs into a bookcase, Clotwell making worried noises.
"You foul bitch—who put you up to this? Your lovers in the Ministry? I gave you everything , girl—" foamy spit pools in the corner of his mouth and through his coughs he trudges forward, looming, snake-like, but he is sick and weak.
"Mister Greengrass," Clotwell interrupts with all the forewarning of a solicitor, "It is but a petition, we can submit a counter petition, and otherwise comply—"
Thomas spares him no attention. His fingers dig into his right bracer, teeth clattering as he grunts and face turning a violent red. His sick words slur into indecipherable cursing.
"Your sister—a squib—and my heir… a mudblood. "
"Mister Greengrass!" Clotwell shouts.
The healer lifts her wand to stop her father from clawing his flesh through. Boot points a wand to his torso, a stupefy at the ready.
Daphne is last.
The tip of her wand hovers at his nose.
"Did you know, father? I said I didn't want you back in Azkaban."
Thomas heaves, eyes cross-eyed like they were sewn together by her wand.
Boot's stupefy hits Thomas' chest.
Daphne's chest burns. Her ears and eyes are full of needles.
Thomas is kept in a holding cell in Level 2 of the Ministry. She feels she's floating through the flurry of activity in the third-person, seeing everything unfold but not an active participant in the unfolding. A healer administers a Pepper-Up potion and a rotation of vaguely titled administration employees pop their heads in to check on her. Tracey brings her food from her home and proceeds to handle everything else, but when she returns Daphne is still picking at her food.
"Your mother's given her statement," Tracey says. "Blames inadequate healthcare on the Ministry's part and 'recent family discord' provoking him. I assume she means the Nott rumors."
Still, Daphne isn't hungry.
Tracey sits at the small gray table across from her, arms crossed. "Boot wants him tried for multiple things, but Clotwell is going to push ahead with the inadequate care counterclaim and blame the suppression bracers' side-effects."
"He technically didn't break the terms of his arrest."
"Boot and Fawley floated the word abuse around," Tracey says coldly.
Daphne pushes the hastily wrapped to-go box of food aside.
"Your mother knows?" Tracey lets out a thin stream of air. "What are you doing , Daphne?"
The room is small but it doesn't feel that way. There are windows on three sides that display different sceneries—monkeys in jungles, wind skiving off sand from dunes in the desert, the aurora borealis shining through a foggy night.
One day she will visit all of those places.
"Has it been?" Tracey urges her. "Abuse?"
Daphne has certainly never called it that. It was not a thing, or a contained force that one could label and square away.
Neglect , is what Potter said.
Whatever the term.
"I want to be free of it." She wants to see what sort of person she can be when there's no one to blame but herself.
"Merlin, Daphne." Tracey's hand starts to move, inching towards hers, then stops. She looks away. "I knew your mother was…" Daphne has words for that: cruel, sociopathic, saccharine manipulative. "But your father…"
"He was a Death Eater."
"Draco's father was one and never lifted a hand towards him," Tracey points out.
Yes, and Voldemort thought him weak for it, hadn't he?
What did Voldemort do for any of them?
Gods, she was wicked. They all were. And their depravity ruined how many? How many ravaged Lavender Browns did they collectively create?
Oblivious, Tracey barrels through her internal strife and raises a new problem. "Astoria has to know. Even if your father is released on a pretrial bond, news will get out eventually. Once the Wizengamot approves the petition, the case records will be public and there'll be a press release."
Astoria has just forgiven Daphne and Draco. If Daphne springs this on her, and on top of everything that Daphne has kept all of this from her, she can't imagine her sister wanting to speak to her ever again.
Daphne doesn't want to ruin any more lives. She has to move forward with this petition.
But she doesn't want to hurt her sister.
Gods.
Daphne tells Astoria, from the beginning. From bruises, because she wanted to protect a sister, to accepting the DMLE's offer to help her take control of her father's assets and title.
There are some things she leaves out, like realizing being just a good sister is not enough, and that there are so many amends that she needs to make, one day.
Astoria starts with making affirmative or horrific noises throughout, but by the end she is completely silent and twisting her handkerchief. Her nails leave little tears in it.
Daphne remembers her soft look just the evening prior. Mother visited. She hugged me.
The same face is haunted with the destruction of two decades of lies. Daphne writing to Astoria in her mother's name, conveying loving messages. Erasing every sign that their father was anything but a strict, emotionally distant but at least present, man. How little he thought of a squib-like daughter, her near abandonment and Adorabella uncaring as to her fate.
"Elby," Astoria says shakily. The house-elf appears at her side. "Call Draco. I need to go for a walk."
She trips. Daphne catches her. Astoria shrugs her away, insistent to cling to the edge of the sofa than to be carried any longer by her.
After a few minutes, Draco strolls in. Astoria latches onto his arm. The air is not silent; it is thick and loud with every unsaid thing between two sisters.
Astoria doesn't look back at Daphne. Daphne hears her low sobs fading into Malfoy Manor's winding halls.
She tries to floo home.
Adorabella has keyed it closed. Daphne sees the fading outlines of her home before it clouds over and she's ejected into Malfoy Manor's foyer.
Daphne's usurped the very name of Greengrass, and for a woman like Adorabella, it is better for the Head to remain with a sick, cowardly pureblood man than to a daughter who not only could not live up to her aspirations, but could not get out of the way.
Her mother is declaring war.
Astoria's perfume has long evaporated, so Daphne sits in the seat she previously occupied. Astoria left the torn handkerchief on the sidetable, and it mocks Daphne now.
Daphne clutches it, renders herself mute with a silencing charm, and sobs. Not the small, pretty cries the night of the Gala, but the heaving sort that make ribs ache.
She gives herself a few minutes, then folds the handkerchief into her handbag and wipes the tears away. There's no time for that. She only knows one man who knows how to win a war and save most of his friends in the process.
She rings Theo and asks to use his owl.
It's late. It's past dinner and terribly uncivil, but Tracey, like Astoria, is not happy with her. And Theo won't send her a hefty bill, only rankle her for further emotional damage.
Theo tells her to come, opening his floo. He doesn't ask nosey questions like Blaise as she pens a request for a meeting. Work or personal business need not be rearranged for this, she writes. It was a later this week type of request.
When she's done, Theo, in his resplendent evening robes, folds his arms. "Daphne…"
"Can I stay here for the time being?" she asks.
Theo's mouth does a funny twitch.
"I am without a home."
"Astoria?"
"She's not fond of my face at the moment."
"And there aren't enough rooms in the Manor to hide in."
"Narcissa will force a ladies tea time on a daily basis." Daphne squeezes her eyes shut, feeling the early onset of a migraine. The other option would be to stay at her small office, but there's no Floo Network in the building, and even after the war Knockturn Alley is not the safest place to roam, especially at night. "Please, Theo."
His arms fall. "I'll be honest. I really don't know what you want from me."
"I would like a friend," she says quietly. "Thank you for taking me home on Saturday."
"Merlin, Daphne. That's not—"
"You're….you're a good man. I don't know if anyone has told you that."
He flinches.
His owl soars through the window, narrowly missing the rim of the springline window. Theo yanks it open and a small note falls into Daphne's hands.
At the Leaky Cauldron. Come?
Come. Though he's likely with friends, or coworkers, or a girlfriend, and a number of things could go wrong.
"I need to go," she murmurs, stalking towards the fireplace. "Will be back soon."
Her fingers grab a handful of powder. Soon, she's whisked away, Theo's shout fizzling to nothing behind her, and she lands in the midst of a thick, heady fog.
Daphne immediately slaps on her usual choice of glamor: black hair and brown eyes. Only a few faces caught her appearance, but there are stranger sights in this pub than a tired, svelte blonde: a lip-locked couple (one seems to be half-troll) at one end of the long table down the middle of the room and an wrestling match entirely composed of overgrown biceps near the entrance to Diagon Alley. The pungent, stale odor of sweat transforms the atmosphere into an olfactory assault. And was that the clinical tang of vodka?
Standing still until her nasal passages adjust, she scans the room again and this time focuses on faces. She spots Potter sitting at the bar among a tightly packed row of rowdy companions. The matching Auror boots indicate a group of coworkers out for a pint.
A witch Daphne vaguely recognizes as a Hufflepuff a few years ahead of them in school laughs at whatever the bartender said and jostles Potter's side. Half his drink sloshes onto his lap. As he pulls out his wand, eyes moving about to ensure no one saw the embarrassing spillage, his eyes find hers.
Trousers dried, he sets down his tumblr and excuses himself from his rowdy group. The aforementioned half-troll immediately seizes the empty barstool.
He plants himself a pace away from her, to her right.
There's a lot she needs to say. Can say. Should say, really, but she hadn't anticipated seeing him again so soon.
"Drink, Greengrass?"
"Are you sure it's alright that I'm here?"
"I'm not on a reconnaissance assignment, if you're asking."
"A free evening, I take it." The half-trolls partner waddles over to the bar to sit on his lap. "And I am. Asking, that is."
"I'm not really known for a healthy work-life balance," he quips.
The couple starts sucking each other's faces.
They grimace.
"I'll take you up on that drink," she says.
They find a corner booth tucked away behind the stairs. She's never gone to the hostel portion of the building—has been to this bar only once, actually, when Pansy's mother during Christmas holidays in sixth year asked that she help find the elusive girl. Unbeknownst to them, it was the beginning of Pansy's addiction to frequenting cheap bars and clubs. Daphne eyes the broom closet across the room she remembers finding Pansy in as she sits on the bench seat tucked against the wall, adjacent from Potter.
Come to think of it, Daphne hasn't seen Pansy since the afternoon in Flortescue's.
A bald, toothless man drops a tray of greasy chips and two bottles of firewhiskey onto their table. It shakes. One leg sounds like it will snap at any moment.
"Good to see ya, mister Potter. How's the Weasley girl?"
"Oh, er, good to see you, Tom." Potter stares at the firewhiskey. "Ginny's…fine."
Tom roars. "We were worried there. Ol' Stan kept saying you was broken up, and I told him no, Potter's been making eyes at the girl since he was a wee whelp. Bring her next time, yeah? George Weasley owes me for turning my broom into a candlestick, too…" he stumbles away, his hunched back hitting a coat rack and sending it careening into the next booth. No one blinks an eye.
"Charming." Daphne internally debates the wisdom of rescheduling.
"Right." Potter uncorks his bottle and takes a swig after casting a muffliato and a few other privacy spells.
It's not as difficult to look at him as she had imagined. Last night, she tossed in place, thinking of ridiculous shades of green and trying to inculcate fondness in Theo's immaculately-kept dark brown hair instead of floppy, disheveled locks. If she was going to have a type, could she at least prefer impeccably-groomed ones?
Assessing him now, she finds she doesn't mind it. She likes his short, nails cracked in places—attributed to chasing men of evil—and the scar on his face gives him character, like a dashing protagonist who doesn't care about fussing and other laypeople-level concerns. And actually, he is well-groomed, she corrects. Just because he's not aristocratically so doesn't mean he is lazy. He smells of salt and sweat and hard work. Two buttons are popped open and it would be very hard for any person of reasonable sensibility to not admire the flesh it exposes.
As dramatic the realization was the night of the gala, denial slips easily into acceptance. It's as simple as drinking Turkish Daphne tea and determining she likes it.
Her world expands to include the fact she likes Harry Potter. More than Draco, absolutely.
He looks at her expectantly.
She opens her mouth to give an explanation for what happened at the gala; a number of suitable lies (I was ill, there was an emergency) and some truths (your bluntness rendered me ill, you seem to be delusional enough to think I can be good like you and I am delusional enough to believe it) flit through her mind.
Instead: "I lifted a wand at my father."
"Good, the sick f—" he backtracks, "the least of what he deserves."
He's not surprised in the least. He must have already read the testimonies or at least was informed by Boot.
"Potter, I told you I didn't want my father in Azkaban. It was for my sister's sake."
His throat bobs as he takes another drink. He lets the bottle go. Sets it too close to the edge as he nods, apprehensive.
She bites the inside of her lip. Then pulls it all the way back and bites harder, knowing she might draw blood.
"I told Astoria what you have only seen in shades and what my friends barely know. I no longer want control, but him out. Where he should have been all this time and can no longer hurt anyone." She places her fingers on her temples, squeezing her eyes shut. Her tongue doesn't let go of the words easily. "I can give you more names. All of them. Those who were bought out by my mother during his trial or falsified evidence. Others who've been sowing corruption since then."
For a long moment he doesn't speak. She hears her statements bounce off the walls and echo back into her ears.
Astoria was never proud of her for being a good sister the way she was for her being good. Like the smile she gave her after openly supporting her decision to seek care with Healer Finch-Fletchley.
"I looked into Harrison Cresswell's records," Potter admits.
Her eyes open slowly. "And?"
The edges of his face come into focus before the center. He's fatigued, as usual, but there's something else there: disappointment.
For a moment, she worries it's directed at her. But she already knows what that looks like. No, this is a chilling exhaustion that comes from doubting your entire life's work.
She knows that too.
"Nothing solid we can point to. We can't access all of his Gringotts records without jumping through some procedural hoops, but what I was able to find…he claimed to have come into some inheritance after the war, in 1999."
Daphne looks out to the people lounging about. How many family members and friends did each one lose in the war?
She strains to remember, putting together memories during the war, the frantic meetings of some purebloods during the trials, documents she'd seen of shadowy transactions.
"Lucius made contact with him in early 1999," she recalls.
"Spectacular."
"Do you have parchment?"
He shakes his head. She doubts this fine establishment carries fresh parchment and settles for using the crumpled napkin that came with the chips.
She uses her wand to scratch out a list of names. The big ones that she remembers, but she'll need to go home to find the records—and that's if she can find a way inside, and Adorabella hadn't already moved them after finding out about the Auror's search.
But Lucius…
A rumbling noise stops her. She coils an arm around her stomach and sets down her wand.
Potter stares. "Have you never had chips?"
"I've had chips , Potter. Not spoiled potatoes bathing in oil."
"There isn't fine dining for blocks."
Making a light hissing noise, she slides the napkin to him. "I can enjoy good cuisine wherever it may be."
Her stomach throws another tantrum. Returning Potter's potent stare, she picks up a chip with her fingernails and tosses it into her mouth.
It's decent.
For good measure she uncorks the other bottle. She sniffs.
Potter taps his own bottle. "Plain dragon fire-barrel aged firewhiskey."
"I know what Ogden's firewhiskey is."
"I didn't say you didn't." He arches a challenging brow. "But you haven't had it before."
"Yes, I have." She tips it backwards and immediately coughs at the burn trickling down her throat.
A hand steadies the bottle. "Hold on." A glass flies to their table. He pours about three fingers worth and hands it to her. "Here."
She glares. He's given her the equivalent of a sippy cup.
Cheeks flushing from the slow-building inebriation and general rancorous atmosphere, Potter nudges her hands.
"I have," she insists. "Millicent Bulstrode smuggled a few bottles during seventh year."
"Under the Carrows?"
"She hid them in a jewelry box and told the Carrows it contained a cursed snuffbox." The alcohol begins to work its way through her system too. Instead of the gentle weaving she's used to from bitter wine, the firewhiskey bludgeons around her organs, breaking the tense knots holding her muscles together. She slouches against her seat, downing the glass in three gulps. "Firewhiskey, it turns out, is particularly helpful in..."
She stops.
That was a mistake.
Classmates disappearing on a weekly basis, Carrows accusing their house of treachery, demanding answers and growing more paranoid, torturing them with litanies of dark spells. Only for most of said classmates to emerge from the Room of Requirement at the end of the year, ready to fight.
"What's a mistake?"
Merlin, she'd said that out loud. She pours another glass, insides feeling more fluid than ever before.
"Helpful in numbing the effects of a crucio ," she finishes.
Potter's face is mostly red. Her own cheeks warm.
The din beyond them has marginally quieted. The half-troll couple has finally made their way upstairs, and the wrestling champion spends his winnings nursing a vat of vodka. Tom hurries to wipe down tables before the next groups of patrons arrive. Potter's coworkers also start to sway and sing quietly, dozing off on each other's shoulders.
"It's not—" she tries to wave a casual hand but it flops to the table, "I don't hold grudges, really, and I understood the risks of reaching out to—Death Eater spawns, but it would've been nice—if—we could've helped too, I suppose. Fighting against the Carrows. I tried to. Millie tried too, sometimes. It was too much by ourselves."
She hiccups. She tries to pour herself a third round and misses the rim narrowly—okay, greatly. Potter grabs her wrist. Right over where newly faded bruises were, from when he first visited the Greengrass estate and overheard Thomas.
It's a nice hold, for a change.
"One more," she mutters.
Regrettably, Potter lets go. She resumes her endeavor for a third glass but he changes tactics by grabbing the bottle and cradling it against his chest. His glasses are so askew that they don't cover his eyes at all.
"Tom," he calls. The toothless innkeeper materializes at his side in time to hear an order for suspicious items.
Minutes later, Tom places a bowl and a cup of steaming tea in front of her.
"This is porridge," Daphne says, half to herself.
"Are you an Animagus, miss?"
She looks up. Tom cackles. "Not to worry. I've seen stranger things." He says winks at Potter. Potter groans.
"Your glamor is fading," says Potter.
"Hm." She spoons a smidgen of porridge into her mouth. Her stomach greets the nourishment warmly, but it's less fulfilling than the chips.
He tightens his arms around her firewhiskey. "The hair looked weird, anyway."
She snorts. "It did not."
"Did too."
"Did not."
"Eat, Greengrass."
"I am not a lightweight," she declares. She proceeds to eat more. "I can take care of myself."
"So can I."
"No, what you need is competent colleagues, days off, better coffee, and someone else to save the day."
He wobbles in his seat a bit. In doing so his glasses slip right off his nose. They catch onto his shirt, and she swipes them away, folds them, puts them on the center of the table, patting it carefully like one would a particularly acerbic cat.
"But I'm the Chosen One," he mutters. Is that snark she hears?
"Survive the cupboard beneath the stairs, slay the basilisk, establish an army, fight the war, kill Voldemort, kill the men of evil, is that it?"
He looks at her askance. "How do you know about the cupboard?"
The resulting flush on her, they will both later attribute to the alcohol. But in reality it's from embarrassment and inability to confess that she devoured his biography in one day.
She casts a narrowed glare. "I want my whiskey back."
He scoots away from her.
She lifts her spoon in an attempt to be threatening. A dollop of porridge plops to the floor.
"Give me my drink."
"It's on my tab."
"I can pay for it, I have money," she bristles.
He lifts his fingers, counting. "I do too. From—mom, dad, and Sirius, and—"
She slides into the adjacent bench towards him, hands outstretched. He scoots out of reach. She does it again, but he can't scoot anymore unless he wants to fall off the edge or stand.
Daphne slides right into him. She grips the bottle's nose and attempts to pry it out of his embrace. He twists his torso away and brings her with him. She's flung forward onto his lap.
Firewhiskey spills over her hair.
Potter's hand grabs her hip to steady her.
When she looks at him, he's swallowing slowly. Nervously? She's too befuddled to discern.
"Potter?"
Potter's non-responsiveness cuts through her confusion. She straightens, acutely aware of the pressure at her hip. One of her hands grips the table in a steadying attempt to prevent a ful collapse onto him.
"How did you recognize me through the glamor?"
His head rolls against the wall, facing the bar. The back of his neck is a petal-pink.
"I wouldn't be Head Auror if I couldn't."
That's a reasonable response. It doesn't quite make sense, as her glamor charms are among some of her best techniques, but she's in no frame of mind to pursue the question further.
She hiccups again. "You're a good Auror."
His head swivels around so fast she doesn't notice in time. Their noses bump and their heads nearly slam into each other in what would've been a disastrous accident.
Without breaking away, her hand searches for his glasses. She lifts them to him.
He looks down, back at her face, and then down again. Sighing, she unfolds them, tucking each arm behind his ears. Viridian orbs blink rapidly.
"Here," he acquiesces when she's done, holding out the bottle.
She breathes through her nose. There's whiskey dripping through her curls, of course, and porridge churning in her stomach and her hands are sticky and oily.
She clasps the bottle, hand over his. "I'm going to help you. The Potter-reformed Ministry will be the best yet."
He tucks the napkin with the names into his breast pocket. They tumble out of the booth together, knobby-legged and thoroughly baffled, but unwilling to make any sense of it yet.
"I don't actually want to be Minister," she hears him mutter under his breath as she totters towards the floo.
"Okay," she clips.
"Okay?"
"You should rest," she informs him indelicately. Any further conversation would be little more than a slurring of syllables. She blinks slowly in a last attempt to capture this world of his, his coworkers bumbling about, toothless Tom grousing to himself, the irritating patrons and random segments of society letting loose on a Monday evening.
The clock ticks.
She should leave.
She heaves herself into the fireplace.
"Greengrass Estate," Potter announces for her, holding out the floo powder.
"Nott," she corrects.
"Er, not your home?"
"Theodore Nott."
Potter throws powder behind her and corrects to Nott Manor, his frown the last thing she sees as The Leaky Cauldron fades and Nott Manor materializes ahead in the dead of the night.