Note: Daphne is complicated here. She's not a "always was good but had no choice" character. She is unreliable in her assessments of right and wrong; is hypocritical and after the war clutches onto casual bigotry. It will be addressed in a hopefully believable character arc.
The murmured ripples among the attendees are not because of her meticulously-timed late but not egregiously late emergence in a set of robes designed by Gabrielle Delacour, or the lovely vows her sister and now brother-in-law exchanged on this beautiful Saturday afternoon.
It's because Harry Potter is sitting two tables away, twiddling with the Mermish satin tablecloth.
Daphne's lips contort into profound displeasure. She is a well-bred lady who can hardly be bothered that the savior of the Wizarding world is a guest at her sister's wedding. Uninvited. Unannounced. Stealing the attention as his and his posse tend to do, wielding their do-goodness over her social circles as though they are supposed to lick the ground the walk on.
Mid-way through dinner, she steals a quick look at him again, only to find him holding back a grimace at something Professor Slughorn, one of his tablemates, says. The displeasure returns. She has purchased a second page ad for her sister's nuptial announcement in The Daily Prophet. A spread in the pure-blood society pages. Potter's presence alone threats to undo the effort she's made into making her sister's wedding a celebratory occasion.
As the night unfolds, her pique finally announces itself.
"What," she takes a long breath, "is he doing here?"
Pansy gives her a once over. "Breathe, or you'll look like you're one shade away from the pearly gates."
"She already is. You haven't eaten at all, Daphne." Tracey taps her plate. "A steak won't send your hips spilling out of that dress."
Daphne ignores her.
Millicent Bulstrode-Goyle leans forward conspiratorially, and in doing so exposes more of her bosom than Daphne ever wanted to acquaint herself with in her lifetime. "Hannah Abbott's plus one."
Well that was all swell, wasn't it? Abbott volunteered with an organization caring for orphan children that Astoria was a board member of, and the two had become rather friendly in the past year, much to the disapproval of both their parents. But their mother, a woman more coldly ambitious than Daphne could ever be, was never one to overlook an opportunity to rehabilitate the Greengrass name, and allowed the friendship on grounds that Abbott, at least, was a half-blood.
She toys briefly with theory that her mother was behind Potter's presence, and then dismisses it as impossible seeing his utterly befuddled expression, mouth slightly ajar and glasses askance. Scruffy with ill-fitting dress robes—at least he seemed aware of his own meddlesome existence, such that it lessened Daphne's irritability by a smidgen.
"I thought she was dating Neville Longbottom." Pansy sneers.
Daphne frowns and takes a sip of the white wine. Perfectly paired with the bitter mushrooms served as the third canapé.
"Longbottom had an emergency." Millicent swirls her glass. Intimate knowledge of the staff and faculty was due to her sitting on the Hogwarts Board of Governors. "They're going on steady, last I heard."
Tracey snorts. "So Abbott thought bringing the recently made bachelor and savior of the wizarding world to Malfoy's wedding was a good idea?"
"Maybe he's trying to make Weasley jealous," says Millicent.
"Weasley's got half of English Quidditch salivating after her," is Theo's addition to this invigorating conversation. Pansy smacks his arm. Hard.
"Yes, but none of them are the Chosen One." Tracey purses her lips, the only forewarning that she's about to say something manic. "Potter was promoted to Head Auror…imagine the muscles on him."
The entire table coughs. Tracey makes a small, amused snort as Pansy and Daphne stare at her, incredulous.
"What? Did no one actually watch the Quidditch matches at Hogwarts?"
Daphne searches for Astoria and is relieved to find her eating. "I find it apt to point out that I would happily discuss anything else at my sister's wedding."
Pansy leers. "No, no, Davis, I want to know. What exactly have you seen?"
Tracey Davis sets her chin atop the back of her hand. "What I wouldn't give to see it, but what I've heard—" she stops short at Daphne's glare, there are children present in the room for Merlin's sake, "—just look at the size of his hands, alright?"
No. Daphne would not look at the size of Potter's hands, or any appendages thereof.
Draco and Astoria finish their plates and set about to make their way around every table. Astoria is a vision in champagne white, her hair glossy brunette curls pinned in a silver-studded up-do. Draco's patrician nose has softened over the last few years since graduating, and sneers less than his mother. He is sharp angles all softened, Daphne knows, because of Astoria.
It's a privilege to witness the sort of genuine affection that her sister and brother-in-law cultivated when their culture tends to be what it is: betrothal contracts and expectations and a barter-like approach to marriage. Daphne doesn't mind their traditions, really—she is a Princess, a lady who can't be deigned to go through the motions of chasing whims when there were strategic alliances to build well—as much as she despises the lack of options. Unless she was willing to consider Russian or Bulgarian men, her options for a suitable suitor were quickly dwindling as she aged into her mid-twenties; a problem Narcissa Malfoy has little reservation in reminding her.
As Narcissa approached ahead of her son, Daphne conducts a quick assessment of the woman's robes (immaculate), expression (a small upturn of her mouth), and hands gripping an leather pouch (expensive, but not a well-known brand that others would know how expensive it was, which would be so gauche).
"Daphne, dear."
"Narcissa." Daphne stands to place a small peck on each cheek.
"A phenomenal job with the decor," Narcissa starts. "The cerulean is an interesting choice…but times have changed, and I am sure no one will leave disappointed."
Daphne's mouth twitches. Thankfully, Astoria and Draco sweep up behind her. Astoria tackles her in an enthusiastic hug, earning more than a few odd looks from the guests. Daphne spares her chastisement today.
"Draco," she greets.
"Daphne. Thank you, again, for everything you've done for Astoria."
Daphne eyes the tall blonde and offers a polite smile. "There is nothing you need to thank me for."
"Of course there is." Astoria smiles, brightening the entire room. "He'll be taking care of me from now on. It's only right he knows how high you set the standard."
As her sister giggles, a tinny noise grows at the back of Daphne's head. He'll take care of me now. I don't need you anymore, Daphne.
Astoria has never said those words. But since that fateful night at last year's Christmas dinner announcing Draco's betrothal offer, she might as well have.
Daphne presses a kiss in her hair. Astoria's astonishment is short-lived as Draco is already at the next table, and Narcissa resumes their conversation.
"A pity your father was unable to make it."
Daphne smiles, all teeth. "Even if his circumstance wasn't so, I'm afraid he's on slow recovery since Azkaban, as I'm sure you're aware."
Lucius Malfoy's fall from grace was more salacious than the Weasley-Potter breakup. The cowardly man remains sitting in the far corner of the room, face shadowed and hands wringing over a cane.
At least her shitty father doesn't pretend to be someone he isn't.
Narcissa tilts her head, her gaze snapping to her husband's for a small moment. "Of course, my dear…consider us family. Should the opportunity to plan for your wedding arise, I would be most honored to help plan."
"Thank you, Narcissa."
"I have some contacts with friends in France whose sons would be willing to marry someone of your stature."
Hah. Daphne wills her expression to reshuffle into one of thanks and bids the woman goodbye, sitting to resume delicate consumption of the soup entree.
Then, Draco and Astoria arrive at the table hosting the Potter atrocity.
The table is a slapdash group of those who didn't fit anywhere else. Daphne had poured over the seating arrangements for far more time than reasonable, but ensuring minimal disruption due to clashing egos was of utmost importance. The Greengrasses couldn't afford another scandal, and this was one point Narcissa agreed enthusiastically on despite her begrudging approval of the marriage.
Daphne's intricate knowledge of human psychology and personal histories lent itself well to sorting out all her family and pureblood elite. But that specific table carried placements out of necessity. She paid little heed to what should have been Longbottom, Abbott, Padma Patil, Ernie MacMillan, Professor Slughorn and Professor Flitwick, assuming they would show their faces and leave at first opportunity, except for Patil, a columnist for Witch Weekly, no doubt preparing a positive article on the experience of attending a Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood wedding (Daphne would see to that, anyway).
Astoria shakes Abbott's hand before pulling her into a hug. Abbott looks genuinely pleased.
And Draco…Draco's mouth is flat but he tilts his head in the minutest of nods towards Potter.
Daphne holds her breath. She senses others doing the same. It will be a disaster. She should have confirmed again this morning with every guest that the RSVP was up to date; emphasized the utter unprofessionalism in bringing someone who was not forewarned to be here at least to her, of all people, and Merlin, was that her mother making her way towards her, to tear her a new one for this deplorable oversight despite being gone most of the year—
Potter sets his shoulders, stands, and offers a hand.
"Congratulations, Malfoy."
Malfoy takes his hand, grips it for a beat, and nods once.
"Thanks, Potter."
Draco moves on. Abbott's shoulders visibly sags in relief—idiot girl, why did you bring him—and Astoria, the naive, charming girl, stands to press peck to Potter's cheek before moving to greet Professor Slughorn.
Amidst Professor Slughorn's boisterous laugh about how happy he is to be at such a momentous occasion, with so many celebrity faces, Daphne watches the blush spread over Potted's face. It starts at his nose and spreads outwards, like a blooming virginal flower. He rubs the back of his neck and sits down. Nearby onlookers twitter in hushed whispers over the exchange.
How on earth did a man like that kill the Dark Lord?
Most of her former housemates were not there to see the famous Last Fight in the Great Hall, and Draco, who had been there with his parents, was rather reserved in conversation when the topic did arise. So on the occasion she gave it thought, she imagined only violent, manic power was enough to crush.
And, thanks to Tracey—Daphne very much noticed his strong grip and tensed tendons.
Potter and Abbott are not among the first to leave. They're not even among the second group, composed mainly of families with younger children and professionals with weekend job commitments the next morning. They meander, socializing with others. She even spots Potter speaking to Theo near the orchestra while the dance floor turns more erratic and takes a sensual turn.
Many a man, mostly half-bloods and unknown pure-bloods, ask to dance to with her.
She declines, enjoying where she's stationed herself at the bar. Blaise Zabini, Draco's Best Man, saunters up to her and clocks the source of her annoyance immediately.
"You didn't know about Potter and Malfoy?"
Daphne sets her glass down with a tad more violence than intended. "Why, is everyone insistent on bringing up the man? It's a new era. The war is over."
Blaise scoffs. She glares at her empty cup, willing more libation to appear.
"Potter's heading the team examining the Malfoy Manor. The warrant went through last week."
"I was rather busy ensuring the bridal party's clothes were fitted and keeping the menu plan from devolvement into disaster to care for wayward ministry bureaucracy."
Blaise leans against the temporarily erected bar. He is handsome and he knows it, and she just hopes he has enough sensibility to not go down the route of his mother's seduce-and-murder financial schemes.
Her mother recommended Blaise as a suitor once. Daphne knew it wouldn't work, and he himself told her he respected her too much to sleep then abandon her.
Anyway, on her never ending list of people to take care of and chores to do, was a reminder to warn any witch he had an eye on about his libertine tendencies. Not that she cared what other witches chose to do, but it was only fair the women knew what they were getting into.
"You could have agreed for help. Needn't do everything all on your own," he says.
True. But who else was going to do it, if not her? And would they be meticulous about it? No. She doesn't trust anyone with all matters concerning Astoria, least of which Narcissa Malfoy.
"I would have appreciated a warning."
"Better him than Longbottom." Blaise inches a hand towards her wrist, dark eyes pinning her in place. "Care for a dance, love?"
Daphne straightens, debates. The alcohol's worked through her system and loosened some of the knots carrying her the past few months, but her feet are sore from the heels and she doesn't think she has the mental fortitude to examine Blaise's every word. Unlike her sister, who's naïveté keeps her sane, or women like Pansy or Tracey, Daphne doesn't have the seemingly endless reservoir for games. She tires easily, leaves her snake skin far too quickly—and her father… her father's always made it clear how he's felt about that.
Weak. Useless. At least protect your squib of a sister if you can't do anything else.
She's not a squib.
The truth doesn't matter. Some lessons will be impressed onto you until they're instinct. Come here, Daphne.
Daphne's fingers dance over her wrist.
"Greengrass," interupts a new voice.
Daphne's attention lingers on Blaise, even as he tilts his head and shuffles his expression into one of distaste that anyone else would mistake for apathy.
"Evening, Potter. Or is it Head Auror now?"
"Potter's fine. I was hoping to have a word with Greengrass."
Blaise arches a brow. His drink arrives and he takes his time wrapping languid fingers around the base and sauntering off, not before pecking Daphne on the cheek and telling Potter, "Send my love to the Weaslette."
Potter is clearly left disturbed. Merlin, do they make no attempt to disguise their thoughts? How did these people evade the He-Who-No-Longer-Remains for so long?
A part of her wants to assure him that Blaise enjoys riling people. The other indulges the variety of expressions Potter looks at the departing man with: annoyance, confusion, disgust. She collates them in her brain and files them away among knowledge of other distasteful but important people.
Eventually, he returns his focus to her. Rakes a hand through that infernally disheveled mop he calls hair.
"Neville was supposed to come today, but Pomona had an accident. Entangled with a Devil's Snare and he's the only expert in the country."
"So I heard," she clips.
Potter takes off his glasses. Rubs the lenses with his sleeve as a heathen would. When he looks back up, she's startled at the bright shade of emerald glinting in the pulsating evening light. Warm, self-assured.
"Hannah didn't want to come alone and others were busy."
"I can't imagine why."
She says it without meaning to. Such easy offense was a weakness. She blames it on the drunken atmosphere beginning to materialize this late into the night.
"I know she would have been safe here," he clarifies, and she has half the mind to ask what person would invite a person to a wedding only to slaughter them, if this all-inclusive new world was still going to insist on histrionics over her people's demand for dignity and respect and ability to maintain their traditions, but she digresses. It sounds like a uppity speech from the likes of Hermione Granger, and Daphne would rather drink acid than subject herself to that comparison.
"Are you looking for another media opportunity, Potter? Patil would happily assist you."
Potter frowns. Irritation creeps into his tone.
"I came to apologize, actually, and request my attendance remain out of the papers."
Embarrassed, was he?
She says nothing; silence is the easiest way to make men speak.
"Security issue as we sweep through high-risk properties." He finally puts his glasses back on, and she's sure the shade of green she witnessed is not quite emerald, but a viridian. "And I'd prefer to read the Daily Prophet for actual news."
He nods and leaves, disappearing into the crowd. His bobbing head is easy to track, and soon enough, him and Abbott leave for the foyer and the floo beyond.
Interesting. She didn't detect a single lie on him.
She bites the inside of her cheek and resolves to send a gratuitous letter to the Abbott and Longbottom couple about the latter's unfortunate and glaring absence.
There is no sight nor thought of Potter since the wedding. Astoria moves into the Malfoy Manor, and the Greengrass Estate becomes utterly devoid of any joy—Daphne is sure a dementor could take up residence in the hideous place and not a single occupant would notice a difference—so she spends most of her time in a small office she's begun renting near Knockturn Alley, under Draco's name so her parents don't know. She tells her mother that she's spending time with Millicent learning about being a lady, and Millicent is happy to parade that lie as it bolsters her status in the Goyle family to be closely associated with the Greengrasses. If the Greengrasses are struggling, and the Malfoy family nearly escaping outright societal ostracization, then the Goyle family was on the bottom.
Her office has everything she needs to research. The second best thing to actually completing a Charms Mastery is quietly aiding Professor Flitwick in his research on blood charms. Greengrass women don't work—Thomas Greengrass forbids it outright, and as the Head of Household she is bound to obey him—but Flitwick's agreed to maintain her help on a volunteer basis so there is no financial trail, and thus legal violation of her estate. Which, no matter. Hogwart's pay is sickles, anyway.
She does hear of the aurors occasionally. After a sweep of the Malfoy Manor, which is soon declared completely free of dark magic, they head to Nott Manor, then the Lestrange estate. An outbreak of sicknesses caused by dark objects last year led to a revisitation of the oldest estates in wizarding Britain.
Soon enough, the call comes for her, some days after her mother departs for Merlin knows where.
Technically, the message is for her father, but he is too enraged to speak in coherent sentences to the poor sap the Ministry sends to drop off the engagement letter.
Daphne sends the shaking boy away and unfolds the letter. A two week notice with a warrant is attached. She skims over the words Death Eater Activities and Office of Dark Artefacts and resolves to put up with it, as she always as, even as her father sold out the family for scraps in a mediocre-reasoned war.
His house-arrest ends in four years. His magic was heavily restrained, and the bracers that did so caused a slew of crippling side-effects that required around-the-clock care, and her mother was too busy reintegrating herself in society to be available every day.
Her father is angry. And when he's angry…
Daphne remains calm and unmoving, even as she leaves his office, welts lifting into purple bruises across her cheek and arms.
Astoria meets her in her office. The wounds have long been healed. Daphne is thorough. Astoria will never live having known that they have a father who is anything but a man who simply made poor choices but is on the route to redemption.
Daphne asks after her health. Sweeps her eyes in careful examination. Though she is not a healer, she has read everything there is to know about the blood malediction that chose her sister to ruin.
Astoria waves her away. "I am fine. I've never been better. Draco is…" a soft, wistful look enters her eye. "He's so good to me."
"Is he?"
"Truly." Astoria takes her hands in hers. "You need to find someone, Daph. I know you're happy as you are. But I want you to have better than what I have, to be taken care of—"
Daphne cuts her off. "How are your in-laws?"
Dropping her hands, Astoria bites her lip and looks away.
"Good. Narcissa is kind, but has many opinions on the way I should conduct my self. Only around Draco I see her genuine personality shine. Lucius… I don't think he likes me very much."
"They should be thankful they have you as a daughter-in-law."
"One who might not be able to give them a grandchild."
Daphne suppresses a hiss and it escapes as a thin whistle through her teeth. Seeing her discomfort, Astoria swallows.
"It's fine. I think he was supremely irritated because of the ministry intrusion and was happy to let us know he hated he weren't turning our noses at them." Astoria rolls her eyes to the ceiling. "I offered Potter and Terry Boot tea one time. Where are the manners?"
Manners indeed. Speaking of which, Daphne informs her of their estate's upcoming search and possible seizures. There are at least a dozen class three dark artifacts sitting in their library that would burn a muggle or Muggleborn to crisp, or unleash a curse on an adulterous Greengrass, and some illegal potions, but she has never ventured into the deepest secreted off corridors' of their home. Her father made it quite clear where the women of the family were and were not allowed, a lesson impressed on them at a young age, with a side of bludgeoned ear drums and bruises around her wrists.
"Let them do their work," Astoria insists. "This will be good for us."
Daphne inhales deeply.
She expects the blithering duo of a brunette and gangly redhead towering behind him. Instead, two Aurors she doesn't recognize appear early on a bright Monday morning, monotonously discuss their procedures, before stampeding with all the elegance of a flying car into their southeast foyer.
Her father rounds the corner, witnesses the events unfolding for all of two seconds, and a string of horrific curses escape his lips.
One Auror flinches. The other draws his wand. Daphne places a staying hand on the raging man's arm.
"They have to," she says.
Her father seethes. "Get out of my house. This is the last place I am allowed my freedom."
"If you hurt them," Daphne lowers your voice, "You could be sent back to Azkaban, or they will extend your house arrest. Please, father."
Thomas looks at her like he's always looked at her: through her, unfocused, sparing her little but a small scoff.
She doesn't have the time nor energy to feel a passionate anger towards him. All she feels is hollow irritation.
Regardless, one of the Aurors hilariously thinks the situation warrants calling more Aurors, and soon an unnecessary amount of resources are wasted on combing through her home. At the end of the day, poorly cast spells linger; some of the wards have been damaged, and she notices an off-color to at least three of the rooms' walls. The sticky residue of a detection rune is stuck on the ceiling. She is competent enough to fix it all, yes, but she sends a severe letter to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement listing every spell she detected and every lingering magical hole they left in their work.
They are still the Greenngrass family. They have pride and dignity and will be treated as such.
Harry Potter arrives mid afternoon the next day as four Aurors trample, with substantially less noise, their dining room.
She wastes no time voicing her opinion. "Inefficient and a wasteful use of resources."
"Hello, Greengrass," he replies, dreadfully dry.
She stares pointedly at an Auror flinging his wand at the ceiling.
Potter follows her line of sight and immediately his brows furrow. "Fungbury, that's a wand, not a sword. The rune won't stick that way."
Fungbury falters. The rune remains spinning against the domed ceiling. Potter mutters a petrificus totalus so Fungbury can start over.
Daphne frowns and casts Potter a sidelong glance. He dons the same outfit other aurors wear, with the exception of a dark purple collar instead of the usual brown. Black straps criss cross over his chest, and a long black outer cloak completes the ensemble.
Unlike the atrocious dress robes he wore at the wedding, this ensemble is fitted perfectly. She finds no faults other than the general protests Potter's presence usually incurs and a few wrinkles, and a spot of what looks to be a drop of cheese from his lunch, likely.
"You sound like Granger."
Potter smiles to himself like he's enjoying a particularly funny inside joke. "I almost failed the Auror program because of that very charm. Hermione had to send Ron and I a strict study schedule all the way from Hogwarts."
It was common knowledge that Potter and Weasley had opted to enter the workforce instead of completing their seventh year (aptly termed eighth years) like Granger. Their absence had been cause for celebration in the Slytherin dorms. What irks her, instead, is: why would he share this with her? Savior of the wizarding world almost failing a slightly-rigorous death-wizard hunting program?
Potter, it seems, is a Pygmy puff. Barely needed to poke it for one to get what they needed out of him.
Fungbury bungles another attempt at launching a rune past their 300 year old chandelier. It shakes with the fury of a hurricane.
Potter rolls up his sleeves to his elbows and in one smooth motion congeals the falling rune. Another charm, and the chandelier moves out of the way.
Not a Pygmy puff. Potter rises a smidge in her esteem because no man that competent in charms was entirely hopeless.
Room after room, Potter oversees the procedures. In having unwittingly summoned the Head Auror, she becomes unusually privy to Potter's abilities. It's a startling thing. There are rumors of him wielding a secretive powerful wand, and that his expelliarmus was among the world's most potent spells, but she begins to grasp at the edges of how…powerful this man really could be. How precise and quick to act was he during the war? While she and her friends were waiting in the dungeons for their families to get them out, how did he slaughter the greatest dark wizard of the last century?
And she is, at first, befuddled; Harry Potter is annoyingly competent, and worst of all, he has no idea of it.
She concedes to break the silence first. "Not bad."
The two words draw up his right eyebrow. "For a Head Auror?"
For the wizarding world's savior. She reigns in a bite. "The Ministry has standards."
"Of course. A fine institution that Voldemort could control and where the employees," he shakes his head, "theoretically passed defense against the dark arts."
His gallows humor and casual reference to the Dark Lord's name erects her spine. "With the sorts of professors we endured, I am surprised any did at all," she replies carefully.
"I imagine Slytherins had nothing to worry about."
She pauses, tone going frosty. "Ah, the favoritism of the Carrows demanding we practice torture methods or be tortured under a tyrannical headmaster. Who later was exposed to be a force of light."
He quiets. They walk down the corridor, passing the dining hall. The chandelier is in perfect shape, as is the rest of the home—possibly in a better condition than it was before the searches started, due to the scrupulous scrutiny one Harry Potter uncharacteristically offered.
"Snape did the best he can," he starts. His throat bobs. Snape's turnabout had also become well-known, the wily man even honored with a posthumous Order of Merlin, due to the Golden Trio's vociferous defense during the Death Eater trials. "But I suppose you're right. None of us really had the headspace to think about you lot, but in hindsight…I wonder if there's something we could've done differently, too."
Bleeding-heart insufferable need to save them all.
She doesn't know many honest people. She doesn't know many truly kind people, and the unwanted knowledge of his self-reflection churns her stomach.
Daphne begins counting the crystals dangling above. "A spotless array detection rune combined with an arresto momentum to slow the rune's decay. Why not use a ward?"
"A ward is detectable, and technically, the residents aren't supposed to know we're adding preemptive measures." He squints at her. "Passed charms and Ancient Runes too, did you?"
She obtained twelve NEWTs. Not as impressive as Granger, who could yank a mandrake out of a pot and be adored worldwide, but Daphne and Tracey were easily among the most in-demand tutors in their dorm.
She offers a small smile. "Hardly."
A beat.
He guffaws. A full-belied laugh, the type that starts deep in the belly and bubbles out. The chandelier doesn't shake, but she imagines it would have if he weren't so ridiculously good at his job.
"Pity. And here my receptionist was adamant we hire you as a charms consultant."
Despite her best attempts to stifle it, her heart does a flip into her chest. He assumed she was brilliant?
He moves on from the room like he hasn't thrown her completely off-kilter.
In the foyer, the Aurors report having caught two violent wards, cordoning those off to be reported to the Head of the DMLE.
"I assume you're the primary contact for this estate?" Potter asks. His entourage lingers behind him, exchanging notes before disappearing one by one through the floo.
Daphne doesn't know how to answer him. An affirmative would be a lie and count as perjury, but no would mean seeking out her father.
Potter's competence doesn't extend to psychoanalyses. He assumes her silence is a yes.
"The cursebreakers will come tomorrow to remove the illegal wards, but overall it's gone quicker than expected so we should be done within three weeks. I don't anticipate needing to be here again but," and the corners of his eyes crinkle at this, "if another letter reviewing our work comes in—"
"Harry Potter. In my house."
They turn. Thomas stands near the door. He used to be intimidating; larger than life, with broad shoulders and dark blonde hair, piercing eyes.
Now he is a sick and weak thing. Sick and weak, she repeats to herself.
Potter straightens. The amusement in his eyes shutters behind levels of steel. His hands don't move. He doesn't see her father as a threat, but he treads carefully.
"Mister Greengrass."
"You and your little band of fuckers put me in Azkaban."
Potter's breath hitches. It fogs his glasses and he takes them off. Green blinks rapidly. "That is what happens, sir, when you slaughter a muggleborn's family."
"Those filthy mudbloods—" before he can say something more damning, Daphne rushes to him and yanks him around a corner. His shock is what leaves his body weak, but as soon as she lets go he unfolds like a bird, only mere inches taller than her but looking for all the world a snake looming above its prey.
"If you say something they will send you to Azkaban," she warns, an edge of pleading.
"So I'm supposed to fall in line for the rest of my life like a dog? All because a deviant infant refused to be put down?"
Daphne swallows. Her eyes flicker over his shoulder, where the door to the foyer remains open.
"Aren't you tired of living like this?" she dares to ask. "We could have—"
He grabs her wrist. His preference was always the tender flesh above her hands, because most wandwork came from subtle movements in the wrists. And the thought was, if he could render them immobile simply in fear from a young age, then she would be trained to never lift a wand to his face.
First is the blood rushing out of her face, and then she feels the pressure meet bone. She tries not to cry out in pain.
Her father didn't need magic to destroy. His magic only worsened what he could already do.
Tears pricking at her eyes, she twists out of the hold, but refuses to take another step back. She holds out her wand.
"You were always poor at combat," he murmurs. A dark smirk flits over his face and he sidesteps her, strolling toward the library.
Like he is a fucking father.
Daphne's accio summons a sweater. She slips it on, willing herself not to shake. Just carry on. Sick and weak. That's all he is.
Harry Potter is still in the foyer, examining a lamp.
She knows better.
And like the rest of his gang, he has no fucking sense.
"Greengrass—" he starts.
"Not a word."
He closes his mouth. When he sweeps his eyes over the burgundy sweater she's added to her outfit, she knows he's made the terrible decision to continue.
"We can help."
"I said—"
"His next assessment is in a month. I've seen other…cases like this. There are options. You could file an anonymous petition, or move him to a rehabilitation center. I could file on your behalf—"
His glasses are still off. He's being utterly honest. Raw green pierces her skill.
It makes her angry. His competence where she is the very bastion of competence; his free inundation of information that she is used to carefully and intentionally fishing for.
"Should the Head Auror be here overlooking a minor former death eater's home? Is there not enough real work?" She doesn't face him, looking at the lamp he was pouring over earlier. "Or do you have too much free time now that you don't have Weasley to save?"
She hears his breath catch in his throat. Feels his glance sear the side of her face, and the silence that follows is almost, ridiculously almost, worse than when she returned home after Astoria's wedding to a cavernous home.
The sound of glasses slipping onto his face. Her wand lifts to him, and for a moment his stance changes to one she imagines he settled into when facing enemies that actually wanted him dead.
A gentle anti-fog charm settles over his face.
"I fixed your glasses," she says.
She is sorry to see him go.
For a week, a disproportionate chunk of Daphne's brain spirals. A retinue of Aurors and cursebreakers arrive at her home every morning, but there's no Potter.
On the weekend, thirty minutes into her charms studies and she's replaying the steel look of a fight on his face at her. The disappointment when she refused his help.
The hurt in the stare she couldn't see.
She abandons her work and marinates in confusion at Fortescue's. A woman of her stature can't be seen at a bar at this hour, forget perching on a barstool in a place like the Leaky Cauldron, so she chooses the nearest place to snack, and it happens to be an icecream parlour.
On a whim, she uses their floo to send Pansy a summons. She doesn't expect the woman to show up but less than half an hour later a pair of dragon-hide boots breaches her vision.
"Is Astoria up to no good again? An announcement about popping out a blonde infant in the next year?"
Daphne cranes her neck. Pansy's maroon lipstick and form fitting robes catch more than a few stink eyes at the ice cream shop mostly occupied by families.
They sit at a table outside.
"My entire life isn't about Astoria," she mutters.
"Isn't it? She's off on her fairytale romance and you have no idea what to do with yourself anymore."
"Has anyone ever told you that a piece of chewed gum is preferable to your company?"
"You called me, Greengrass. You're a masochist." Pansy swipes a tongue up her ice cream in a slow, obscene movement. A small moan. "Double mint chocolate chip. Delicious."
Daphne's own vanilla suddenly appears less than appetizing. She watches the dollop of ice cream melt into a semi goop like consistency before answering.
"Have you ever felt regret?"
"Merlin, Daph. Give a girl a warning." Pansy pulls out a cigarette and hands it to her. "Astoria's not around to know. C'mon. Be a little reckless."
"I am." But she takes the cigarette anyway. "There's a man."
Pansy stops sucking her cone, lifting her mouth to swipe a tongue over stray dribbles of mint chocolate chip.
"Oh?"
"I was mad and said something unwise."
"The idiot probably deserved it."
A mild rush of aggravation. "He's not an idiot."
"Yeah?"
"Pansy."
Something in her tone must truly impress upon her friend the severity of the situation. Pansy abandons her cone entirely, much to the relief of good society, and puts her tongue back in her mouth where it belongs.
Daphne pulls a lock of hair behind her ear. "He was trying to help. His approach was less than optimal, but my response was also…less than optimal," she finishes lamely.
"Was this Draco?"
"No."
Pansy's eyes narrow to slits. "You talk to other men?" Daphne opens her mouth. "Blaise doesn't count." She closes it.
"I talk to plenty of men."
"Not enough to be having a crisis over any of them."
She places the cigarette between her lips. Inhales. It doensn't make her feel any better. "I don't…know what to say."
"Then don't. Never see him again."
"But—"
"So you want to see him again?"
Daphne extends a leg and presses her heel into Pansy's new dragon hide boots. The woman's mouth falls open, kicking her away under the table. A very violent brawl consisting of feet ensues under the fine premises of an ice cream store in Diagon Alley.
"I don't want to live with this feeling," says Daphne.
Pansy takes a long and hard look at her. She slurps the last of her melting ice cream and finally sets her cheek on an open hand. "Regret hurts like shit, doesn't it?"
Pansy would know. Daphne watches her own goop melt further into some sticky liquid concoction.
"What do you regret? Bullying Chang until she cried, casting crucios on first years, or…?"
Pansy's eyes harden. "Yes, I'm a bitch, Daphne. Don't let this turn into a conversation about my greatest hits." She gets up to leave.
"What did you do about it?"
She swivels on her heel. "What I did, Greengrass, was suck it up and live with it." She sneers. "What use do I have for their forgiveness anyway? I ran into Potter at a jeweler last year. Was buying something expensive for Weasley, to save their relationship, probably. Or maybe the git was proposing. You know what he said? Nothing. Fucking nothing. Smiled at me like he didn't remember me selling him out to a snake sermon. I didn't sleep any better that night than any other. Take it from me and don't worry your pretty little head over it.
Daphne sends off a letter. She lists the problems she's found in the cursebreakers' work that week, and that Monday, Auror Terry Boot, the quiet Ravenclaw she remembers as being one of Professor Snape's favorites outside of Slytherin, arrives to oversee that day's work.
Fine. She sends another letter to the DMLE, this time with no passive aggressive undertones—she's not sure anyone in the Auror office would detect the sort of subliminal messaging she was a master of anyway—and her request for a meeting is left simple. In relation to the search of the Greengrass estate.
A secretary replies that Auror Boot is available for a meeting the next day.
Daphne replies, not an emergency, but of such nature requiring the Head Auror's attention.
The secretary replies: Head Auror Potter is out of office on confidential matters. May I reschedule with Auror Penelope Fawley?
Daphne primly folds the reply and mutters a quick incendio.
She doesn't know anything about the man to plot a surreptitious run-in, any letters she tries to send to him directly return unopened. Which, great that the Head Auror takes basic security measures, but also how is anyone supposed to waylay the elusive man?
She's forced to resort to reading The Daily Prophet, in which Potter features at least every other day, usually in the positive but occasionally negatively, especially if Rita Skeeter is the author.
His name is usually in semi-interesting updates about the state of the Ministry. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was the most popular department after the war, seeing an 400% enrollment increase the Auror program. But within three years, as most bad wizards and witches were locked away, the department began to gain a reputation for hearsay; running after petty criminals and becoming an unreasonably intrusive force. When Head Auror Robards resigned, Auror Potter was immediately promoted to take the reigns and clean up some of the messes the department's overreach had created.
Occasionally, she found his name in the Quidditch section. He seemed to enjoy attending Quidditch games, but hadn't been seen attending any after his ex-girlfriend left him and joined a Quidditch team. One article discussed how the teams he supported often shaped the sale of merchandise. Skeeter wrote with obvious disgust about the man, reframing his success in recently relocating illegally imported creatures to their home as a liberal show-off valuing the lives of animals over humans and remarking on the fact the man had female friends as evidence Head Auror Potter hasn't changed since his Hogwarts days, seen flirting with Quidditch players as early as his fourth year.
Daphne snorts delicately. Potter was hardly a specimen then. Everybody and their mother knew the boy had eyes only for the Weasley girl.
Their breakup was the highlight of last year, their measures taken for privacy only fueling gossip. But it reminds her of what she said to him, what media circus she herself endured during Astoria's engagement, and that flicker of regret becomes an all-consuming force.
Fine. She'll do it for her own sake, if only to sleep well at night.
The next morning, after a thorough perusal of The Daily Prophet in which one Ministry update confirms Head Auror Potter's successful return from resettling a nundu in Kenya, Daphne pairs her finest white coat with simple gold heels, adds a dose of strong sleeping potion to her father's breakfast, and floos into the Ministry.
To her luck, she immediately passes Lucius Malfoy. Or attempts to, but her blonde hair is nearly as blinding as Draco's, meaning they are unfortunately easy to detect in crowds.
"Mister Malfoy." She plasters on a small smile: not too wide to be considered flattery, but not absent to give him reason to find fault in her.
Lucius is dressed in his best robes. Coming out of a Wizengamot tribunal, she concludes. The Malfoy seat was unfrozen only after the man completed his time in Azkaban, but his glory days were over. Draco would soon take the seat and personally, Daphne thinks it is ridiculous that the man who made dubious choices that nearly got his family killed would be sitting on trials deciding the fate of teenagers causing accidental magical damage. As difficult as Draco could be, at least he wasn't…Lucius.
"How is your father?"
"Fine, thank you for asking. How is Narcissa?"
Her attempt to change conversational direction doesn't sway him. "She asks after you often. Do visit us. You are part of the family."
Unease filters through her body. To be reminded of her relationship to the Malfoys by both Lucius and Narcissa within a few months spelled disaster. "Astoria has asked me to visit, but I wished to give her time to settle in."
"I see. But the DMLE is after your estate for time being, yes?" He asks for confirmation as though he doesn't know the entire department's schedule through some dubious means. And that she would think he doesn't know either. At her silence, he cocks his head, both hands atop his cane. "Malfoy Manor is open to you. You are young and your mother…" a small sneer that to passersby would be mistaken as a frozen of concern, "You are the future head of the family. Narcissa can help see to it that the cards fall as they should." A mirthless smile and farewell tilt of the head later, he's gone, and Daphne left standing between two fountains in the Ministry's lobby.
Water shoots above in a magical arc. Stray droplets falling to her head and shoulders jolt her out of a reverie.
What was Lucius planning? Was that a threat to her father, or a threat she fall in line—securing her as an ally before she became Lady Greengrass?
She makes a small noise. It was just Lucius. He was no different to any other pureblood trying to play a game of conversational wizarding chess.
"Greengrass? Daphne Greengrass?"
A granola bar hangs out of Fungbury's mouth. His collar is unbuttoned and his wand is precariously at risk of falling out of its holster.
She turns.
"Are you okay?"
Fungbury is definitely a Hufflepuff or Gryffindor. Daphne swallows down her last bit of pride.
"I was hoping to meet Potter."
Fungbury takes a large chomp of the granola bar and swallows without chewing. "I'm on my way back from lunch break. I could take you there, if you'd like?"
Yes, she would very much like. Enough that she endures the rattling elevator zipping them up and across countless floors with a messy man who leaves bits of oat in his wake. A hufflepuff, she concludes, and from his name and demeanor, a half-blood. A good contact to have regardless in the DMLE, if he worked directly under Potter.
Fungbury directs her into a rotunda waiting area. She deposits herself on a sterile chair next to a small table with a water dispenser.
"What time was your appointment?"
She smiles, ensuring it reaches her eyes. "I don't have one, but it's a bit of an emergency, as you can see."
As expected, Fungbury blushes and scratches the back of his neck. "It's training day but I'll see if he has a few moments."
"Thank you."
Ten minutes later, Fungbury pokes his head out of the wide double doors leading to the department and indicates she can come inside. He escorts her through a maze of cubicles and rooms, him and her both aware that her presence is not unwelcome but most curious, and she's left standing in front of an office labeled HEAD AUROR HARRY JAMES POTTER for a few tense minutes.
She recognizes the disheveled bobbing head, glasses, and then the rest of him comes into focus around a corner.
"Greengrass." He waves a wand over the office door, not looking at her. The door opens and he gestures for her to enter first. "Apologies. Typically I schedule out and any emergency goes to Boot first."
He pulls out a chair and settles across his desk, steepling his hands. His glasses lenses are so translucent the could be mistakes as nonexistent.
His office looks well-lived in. Most horizontal surfaces are covered in papers, pictures of smiling friends and family, and odd-shaped trinkets likely from his travels. Or gifts, maybe, from friends and lovers.
Formal. He's too formal. He's staring at her, but his eyes are flat, walls erected deep behind emerald irises.
"I'm here to apologize."
"Ah." He waves a hand. "No need."
His air of pretend indifference cuts more than a show of genuine hurt would. Maybe this hasn't affected him like her at all. Maybe in his huge world of do-gooding and ragtag friends and changemakers one short conversation during work meant nothing. He fought the Dark Lord. A couple of mildly mean words would be nothing to worry over.
She swallows what feels like a dozen needles, resisting the urge to dismantle her up-do and hide behind a curtain of blonde hair.
"There is," she says quietly, and her insistence appears to confuse him. She continues before he can dismiss her again or she loses her nerve. "It is rare that I speak with someone who means what they say. I—do not say this as an excuse, but as an explanation. Your free volunteering of information, when it could very well be exploited and manipulated. A brash show of trust."
He flattens his hands across his desk. A faint twitching smile. "So you showed me a lesson in exposing weaknesses."
She bites the inside of her cheek. "I am sorry."
"Greengrass." He leans back in his chair. "I was making conversation. The sort of thing you do with a former classmate."
"Even one such as myself?"
He shrugs. "I admit I was...You proved I still cling to old-school rivalries." He looks at the ceiling. "You weren't wrong, exactly. Ginny…used to point out that I have a bit of a savior complex." He winces, like it pains him to admit it. "This job requires making a lot of assumptions very quickly, and my—history doesn't help."
She wonders which part: the being orphaned or fated to die.
"Ginevra Weasley would be correct."
"You're an independent woman and whatever you…well, I—the DMLE can help. If you want," he finishes awkwardly.
She considers. The occasional fantasies she indulge in often feature a present mother and absent father—but like Potter said, she's an independent woman. She has no need for either of those things.
But is she independent, truly? Running after Astoria, now floundering to find something else to tie meaning too (a better way to word what Pansy so crudely vocalized)? Without her father's burdens weighing her down, she could be working somewhere. Studying in Brazil, attending conferences in magical theory. Working with Professor Flitwick.
At the same time, sending him back to Azkaban would kill him. Inflicting her father on someone hapless soul and abandoning the Greengrass estate was not an option. She was the remaining harbinger of the Greengrass name.
She chooses her next words with care.
"Admittedly, your…complex is not a terrible thing, so long as there are people who need help."
Something sparks to life. He curls his fingers into a loose fist and she knows he'll pursue a thread to the end once given it.
"A few conditions," she adds.
"Depends. Name them."
"I don't want him back in Azkaban."
This seems to surprise him. Still, he rubs his chin, thinking. "The law is the law. If he's done something to break his parole, it's left to the Wizengamot to decide."
"He is still the Head of Household."
"Right." Understanding washes over his face. He grumbles. "Hermione was right about pureblood property law. Do you have brothers?"
"No. No uncles on his side, either."
"A judicial order. More the Wizengamot's purview, but I can put in a request to review the case. If that doesn't work, do you want him evicted from the grounds?"
Such an easily spoken question with no clear answer. Except one.
"I don't want Astoria to be hurt."
He leans forward. The curiosity on his face is palpable, so easy to read. She can hear the questions spinning around in his head that he wants to ask—about her mother, maybe, or why she tolerates what she does, but he doesn't speak. She remains resolute in her posture and clasped hands, and finally, he nods once, pulling out a parchment.
"I'll see what I can do."
"My name will be left out of it?"
"If a hearing is approved, you would have to testify in person to take over as the Head if he's declared unfit for the Greengrass seat. Other members of your family would be notified to be given a chance to put forward their own name. I'll check with Cho."
She can work with that. "Anonymous until then."
He squints, and that mischievous openness from before is back. She hopes never to see those walls again. "Sure. Unless there's a headline about 'Potter's Complex' tomorrow."
"No complex," she promises. "Take care of it, Potter." Take care of me.