Acknowledgment—The following is a work of fanfiction, written and posted solely for the enjoyment of readers. The author thanks Ms. JK Rowling for allowing writers to set work among the population and locations found in the Harry Potter series of books. Everything belongs to Ms. Rowling and the author of this story neither seeks nor receives remuneration.
Two Daughters
Chapter Six
A Harry and Daphne Fanfic
By
Bfd1235813
Potter had been studying mind arts with his tutor for about six weeks when he had an epiphany. It came in the form of a question, an unanswerable one: 'Why wasn't I doing this before?''
If he had studied mind arts as a youth he might have had more success in his years of battling Voldemort. Equally, if he had a background in mind arts, he might have literally bitten off more than he could chew. Perhaps it was better he'd been forced to fight his enemy by conventional, if magical means.
Potter was sitting in his townhouse garden, a perfect outdoor space with flagstone pavers surrounded by tiered beds. The outdoor furniture was not plentiful. A friend had noted in a casual comment that Potter should resist the temptation to bring furniture in until the space was overloaded. If he focused on quality and good design the inherent harmonies that emerged would be much more impressive. Potter listened.
He was sitting on a chair made of steel. The metal had a black powder coat finish that worked well with the orange cushions padding the seat and back. Potter thought black and orange was a nicely harmonious color combination. The Black witches were at the patio table eating breakfast. Conversation lagged as they worked on their porridge and toast, subjects arising, holding attention and fading away to the sounds of spoons clinking on china bowls.
Potter noticed a rose bush covered in buds. In his mind, he formed a picture of roses, budded, opening, opened-up. When he focused on one bud it opened. A little breeze crossed the garden so the rose waved at him. He waved back. A group of buds began waving at once. Potter formed a picture of the group opening together, which they did.
"Wow," Potter said.
"Harry?" said Delphini.
"The roses just opened," said Potter. "I think I'll collect some. One bouquet each, how's that?"
The Black witches got two bouquets for their dressers. Kreacher, the Black family elf, used a powdered additive for the water in the vases that he swore maintained freshness up to three or four times longer than ordinary, untreated water.
Later on, when Ane wasn't in the room, Delphi asked Potter if he had opened the rosebuds.
"Oh," he said, "Well, it is kind of like, although not exactly because I can't replace Nature which is actually in charge…"
"Was that magic?" asked Delphi.
"Magic? Er, magic, there could have been some," Potter stumbled about.
"I can read the Daily Prophet, Harry," Delphi informed him. "I do it all the time. Did you forget? I know about magic and you can do it and so can Kreacher but his is different from yours."
That was how Potter found himself maneuvered into his first adult-child conversation about magic and how people who didn't use magic often resented those who did so it was best to know for sure just who you were talking to before saying anything at all about magic. After that, he stayed alert for an opportunity and within a few more months the Black witches and Potter were comfortable having private family conversations about magical subjects.
Potter also began using his mind arts training for something besides bringing on a rose's bloom. One of the first things he did was research a way to reinforce his cautions about using or discussing magic with non-magical people.
It proved very effective, as Potter found out when one day, Ane addressed him as such:
"Da-a-a-a-ad!"
"Ane?" Potter answered.
"You're in my head right behind my eyes!"
"Okay, why's that?"
"I wanted to say something to Delphi about magic and you said to ask myself if everyone around me could talk about magic because I didn't want to say something to the wrong person. You were right here!"
Ane pointed one index finger at each temple.
"Did it hurt?" asked Potter.
He didn't think it would but it was better to ask.
"Of course not, I could barely hear you," said Ane.
"Do you want it to go away? Do you think it's a bad thing?" asked Potter.
Ane looked away, her face going through several scrunchings as she thought.
"Not BAD-bad," she conceded.
"And you're sure it didn't hurt?"
"Not a bit," she said. "Not even a little."
"I can take it off," said Potter. "It was really meant to be a gentle reminder for when I'm not there because we can forget and let something slip by accident. If you'd like?"
Potter went through several preparation exercises, getting ready to remove Ane's mental reminder to not talk about magic. She saw and interpreted the signs correctly, Potter was ready to pluck his voice out and take it back. Ane thought about what that meant and asked him to stop.
"No, that's okay," she said. "It's like having a friend who never goes away. Can I change my mind?"
"Of course," said Potter. "Whenever you want me gone, just say so."
Potter enjoyed alchemy as a discipline. There was a strong element of puzzle-solving in alchemical studies and he always did enjoy a good puzzle. He found mind arts much more compelling because he seemed to be blessed with abundant natural talent. That positive feedback kept him coming back for more, week after week.
The basic skill of peeking into a subject's brain—legilimency-eluded Potter completely when he suffered the tutelage of Severus Snape during his sixth Hogwarts year. When he returned to the field as an adult, Potter listened carefully, practiced the exercises his instructor assigned and, perhaps most importantly, calmed his passions with meditation. The fundamental principle of the technique he learned was to turn off the noise of the world along with the rattling of thoughts inside his own brain. Potter enjoyed the quiet. He didn't understand why meditation was so effective in getting him ready for a real mental workout. Before his next tutorial, Potter asked that very question.
"It goes back a bit over two thousand years," said his tutor. "Uncounted practitioners of one kind or another have commented on it. The only thing universally agreed-upon is that talk generates confusion while practice is clarity."
It was so succinct Potter adopted the sentence as a kind of personal sutra.
"Wandless?" asked Potter.
"Yes," said his mind arts tutor. "Not, strictly speaking, one of the mind arts. Nor anything else, as far as I know. It shows up all over the place, mainly because it is so convenient, for those who can do it."
"Who is that?" asked Potter.
"Neither rhyme nor reason," said his teacher. "A lot of very serious witches and wizards have given up and walked away in frustration. Want to give it a try?"
Potter did give it a try. He did well. Getting free of dependence on a wand was liberating. The more he used wandless magic, the more things he found he could do with it.
The law chambers of Daphne Greengrass contacted Potter a week after his initial consultation. Lawyer Greengrass had been in the law library, it seemed, and had some news for him. Once again, Potter went to Diagon Alley for some legal-talk.
"Welcome," said Greengrass when Potter had been ushered in.
Potter stepped into the private office. He glanced around the room, expecting to see an assistant ready to take notes but Greengrass closed the door behind him.
Her hand was still raised about halfway to ninety degrees so Potter extended his. The hands drifted together. Potter knew Greengrass didn't really shake hands. He didn't grip, but let her hand lay upon his for a moment before withdrawing
.
"Honored," he said, bobbing his head, just slightly.
Potter had worn a robe, since he was doing legal business. He didn't want to degrade the dignity of chambers, should some Very Important Person happen by. They had had plenty of time with few outside distractions and Bella had transferred a lot of information during their years of sailing around. One such tidbit was that it was considered a courtesy to dress appropriately when in some professional's play lot. That meant, when dealing with lawyers, a client wanted to send the subliminal message that one was a person they would not be ashamed to take before the judge. Bella had seemed to be completely serious about that.
Potter caught Greengrass studying the embroidered facsimile of his Order of Merlin medal. Her body language might have been saying she did not want to be seen as someone who took notice of such displays. Be that as it may, Greengrass let her brows get away from her, raising slightly in reflexive tribute. Potter gave her credit for trying, even though she failed. He'd formulated a theory that true snobs really couldn't help it, a condition only aggravated by growing up pureblood in the British Magical establishment.
"Thank-you, Counselor," said Potter, accepting an invitation to sit in one of the guest chairs.
Greengrass smiled, slightly and briefly, another reflex, Potter supposed.
"Thank-you for the remittance, Lord Potter-Black," responded Greengrass. "You must tell me if there is any aspect of our service that is not up to the mark. I am personally grateful you have chosen to become my client."
Potter turned his head slightly and nodded, trying for a modest obsequiousness.
"What news do you have?" he asked.
"It is much as we discussed at our last meeting," said Greengrass. "A near-void of precedent. Nothing exactly paralleling your…arrangement, let's say. With the late Ms. Lestrange and the service she attempted to render for the Dark Lord."
"Ah…so that means…" Potter began.
"I could find no grounds for any lingering claim on Delphini based on blood ties," said Greengrass.
"Good! So MY blood tie ought to be definitive?" asked Potter.
"Normally, I'd say yes," answered Greengrass. "However, my advice is to be extremely careful about protecting Delphini's privacy. No one but you and your solicitor need know the details. Gringotts' inheritance test settled the fact that she is your daughter and the Heiress Potter. If the circle of the knowing expands, each additional person increases the risk. In fifty years you and Lady Delphini may have a fabulous family history to hand down. If this comes out prematurely and gets sensationalized…"
"Ahh…you're right," said Potter. "We might have to go sailing, again."
Greengrass nodded.
"I agree, we need to keep that close-hold. One civil war per lifetime ought to be sufficient," said Potter.
Greengrass seemed to be loading up an actual guffaw at Potter's observation. Then she realized he was seriously passing on some hard-won personal experience. Greengrass caught herself and tamped it down.
"There is one other thing," said Greengrass. "If you're curious, there are some specialists who are very good at public records research. The firm has a relationship with a couple. They aren't cheap but that is elastic, depending on whatever value you put on peace of mind."
"Bottom line?" asked Potter.
"They have access to all the registries. Muggle, magical, birth, death, real property transfers," said Greengrass. "A thousand galleons ought to be sufficient. If they hit paydirt right away and you agree they'll stop work and stand down."
Potter barely paused before giving Daphne Greengrass a thumbs-up.
"Do it," he said. "Peace of mind."
After their meeting, Potter stopped by Gringotts and transferred one thousand galleons to a generic Greengrass escrow account. He wasn't very sophisticated about accounting but his lawyer explained some basic details. Chambers maintained the account because they had to handle client money from time to time. The account simplified things like real estate sales, to cite one example. Funds sat in the escrow account until the parties around the table shook hands, the documents were signed and one lawyer handed the draft, or sometimes a bag of cash, to the party who had just signed over the deed.
"Slick," said Potter, after Greengrass outlined how escrow worked.
Greengrass tilted her head back and looked down her nose.
"Indeed," she agreed.
"Who came up with that?" Potter asked.
"I'm not certain anyone knows," answered his lawyer. "Hammurabi, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Sir Francis Walsingham, take your pick."
He smiled whenever he remembered Greengrass taking him to school. Returning to the present, Potter had learned to sense when he was being dismissed by his lawyer so he stood and extended his hand.
"Thank-you so much," he said. "Sure we both have things waiting."
Greengrass let her hand drift over to Potter's. This time, when her palm touched his, her fingertips curled up and around, forming something like an actual grip. Potter took note and smiled. Greengrass looked toward her office door.
Recalling his day's work while waiting to go to sleep, something told Potter that Greengrass allowing him to find his own way out, rather than escorting him back to reception, held some form of meaning. He recalled the strange sensation he had in the Leaky Cauldron, when a phantom Daphne Greengrass voice spoke directly to his inner ear.
Potter forced himself away from thoughts of such partnerships. After all, he could never expect a nice girl like Greengrass to revel in treating him like a he-goat in rut. Potter smiled as he drifted off.
Autumn had not quite arrived when Potter got the results of the document search. The search firm reported that the civil authorities did not have a record of Delphini's birth. Potter did not expect there would be. Interestingly, the Book of Acceptance (Potter was cautioned not to ask how the researcher accessed it) had an entry already entered for one 'Delphini Black' whose birthdate was the same as Potter's daughter.
"This won't be confirmed in writing," muttered Greengrass.
"Acknowledged," said Potter as he added a short head-bob in gratitude. "Not Riddle. Not Lestrange. Thank-you, Morgana."
The first three fingers of Daphne Greengrass's left hand instantly formed a letter 'M' when Potter spoke of Morgana. It was barely a flash and very subtle. Greengrass wasn't putting on a show. She had been trained by her mother, grandmother and aunts, since birth, to make the sign so Morgana would be aware that someone near Daphne Greengrass had invoked the great witch's name.
"Amused?" snapped Greengrass.
She made it sound like a challenge.
"What?"
"Did you notice a witch practicing a quaint peasant custom here in a sophisticated London law office?"
"Counselor, I swear," said Potter. "I did see, yes, and I know what it means. It wasn't disrespect. On the contrary, I love all of that stuff. Even if I did have to learn it after I was an adult."
"Ah," said Greengrass. "I see. May I ask, where did you hear about it, if not at home?"
A cloud passed across Potter's face.
"I did learn it at home," he said. "My first adult home. On the boat."
Potter's terse comment was instantly clear, in all its dimensions, to the lawyer Daphne Greengrass. Her face reddened, quickly.
"Of course," she said. "I keep forgetting."
Potter regretted, instantly, his gruff response to Greengrass's innocent question. She was curious and who wouldn't be? Potter and everything about him assumed mythical dimensions among his fellow magicals. They neither knew nor cared that most of it was exaggerated or embellished to some extent. Even hard-core pureblood partisans acknowledged, as simple historical fact, that Potter had dueled and defeated the most powerful Dark wizard to come along for centuries. If they didn't go out of their way to show some respect, they had the good sense to keep their mouths shut.
"Counselor, my apologies," said Potter as he stood.
"For?" asked Greengrass.
"That sounded a bit rough, even to me," said Potter. "Your firm and associates have rendered a valuable service to me and the Blacks, Potters and our various configurations. Can I ask your forgiveness?"
"Nothing to forgive, Lord…Harry?"
"Please do, I'm honored," he said. "Now, you've let me go on and on. Whenever you want to discuss customs and the old ways, I will be at your service. Not while your office clock is running, of course."
Greengrass finally laughed out loud before standing and coming around from behind her desk. It looked like she began to reach for Potter's arm, then changed her mind. She opened the office door and stepped aside.
"Best to your witches," she said as Potter exited.
Potter thought it quite gracious of Greengrass to remember he had the two witches at home. Their unconventional origins would be off-putting to many, scandalous to a few. Potter sent Lawyer Greengrass a friendly wave as he turned the corner.
Potter had another project underway, along with managing the development of the Black witches, this one deriving from his dual office of Lord Potter-Black. Before he was born, his Black family had been split apart by prejudice and questionable choices.
Sirius Black's mad cousin, Bellatrix, had two sisters. Narcissa was beautiful and a dutiful pureblood daughter. Her parents encouraged her to enter a relationship with Lucius Malfoy, which led to marriage and the birth of their child, Draco. Narcissa loved her husband and son above everything else.
Andromeda, Narcissa and Bella's sister, was also driven by love. Her eventual husband, Ted Tonks, was a muggleborn wizard and thus forbidden fruit according to the Black's pureblood code. When Andromeda and Ted acted on their feelings and married, Andromeda was cast out by her family's chief and her face blasted from the enchanted family tree tapestry.
Potter, the current chief of the Blacks, was determined to return solidarity to the Blacks. He didn't think it was possible. However, he did feel it was. Something inside himself was pushing him to make the effort. Potter considered his options and reached out to a prospective ally.
"Draco," Potter wrote.
"Found something upstairs and would rather give it to you personally than owl it. I'll be around all day. Are you free to come over? Give me a call.
HJP"
Potter sent the note to Malfoy Manor by owl, then sat back with one of the textbooks from the magical children's preparatory curriculum. Just a few minutes short of one half-hour later, the hearth in the front salon whooped.
"Potter?"
"Malfoy."
"What's this about?"
"Black family artifact I turned up. It will mean more to you than it does me."
"How long?"
"Five minutes. Tops."
Potter remained near the hearth and caught a fragment of conversation from Malfoy Manor.
"Potter's. In London."
"Draco…what? Now?"
"Five minutes."
The floo picked up Astoria Malfoy's dramatic sigh.
"Five minutes? Narcissa will want everyone to get to the table."
"I know, I know. That's what he said. Five minutes."
After another short pause Potter heard, "Coming through."
Draco Malfoy stepped out of Potter's fireplace at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.
"Sorry," said Malfoy. "Soot."
Potter called Kreacher.
"Soot, Kreacher. Do we have any of that iced tea left?" asked Potter.
Kreacher had Malfoy's cloak clean with a finger snap. With another he had two tumblers of iced tea arriving on a serving tray.
"So?" asked Malfoy, taking one tumbler and sitting on one of the more comfortable chairs in the salon.
"Stay right there," said Potter.
He crossed to a small writing desk and opened a drawer.
"Here we go," said Potter.
He handed two boxes to Malfoy.
"Slytherin prefect's badge. Must have been Regulus' unless Sirius pinched it from someone else," said Potter.
Draco opened the little box. A silver badge with the Slytherin arms lay on a bed of emerald green velvet. The presentation showed taste, design sense and attention to detail.
"Wow," said Draco. "They did it up right, back then, didn't they?"
"They did," agreed Potter. "Now…"
He gestured at the long, narrow box.
"Tie?" asked Malfoy.
"Open it," said Potter.
The box did, indeed, hold a tie. It was a tasteful silk number featuring the Blacks' three ravens and a motto in tiny script: 'Toujours pur.'
"Nice," said Malfoy, standing as he extended his hand.
Malfoy looked like he was ready to remain standing until he could gracefully exit.
"Sit, sit," said Potter. "You've got five minutes."
Malfoy looked over, squinting.
"Well, I was standing right here when you were seeking Astoria's permission," said Potter.
"Will I ever learn?" asked Malfoy.
"Who knows?" answered Potter. "Here's the thing. I needed to give you those but the real reason I wanted to speak to you privately was to ask you to think about something. Talk to Astoria, if you think she'll be an ally. I'd like to take the Blacks sailing. All of us. The witches, Narcissa, Astoria, Scorpius and you, plus Andromeda and Teddy. What do you think?"
Malfoy could not have looked more surprised if he'd just been slapped across the face.
"Oh, Lord Harry, I don't know…" he began.
"Mother and Aunt Andromeda? So much bad blood…"
"I know," said Potter. "BUT. This is just between us, for now—Bella and I talked about all kinds of stuff. She told me some hilarious stories about growing up with the two of them. Bella hated the situation and blamed herself for a lot of the damage. Following Riddle and all. When we were both really digging down and letting go, what she described sounded like some kind of temporary insanity. When she was under Riddle's influence. Think it over. Astoria has good instincts. I think she has a feel for this stuff as well. Family bonding, blood ties. Feel free to consult with her. End of the day, it won't work without you so if you think the time isn't right we'll drop it. Okay, the five minutes are definitely up. Get home to dinner."
"Thanks," muttered Malfoy, shaking Potter's hand.
He raised the two boxes.
"I've got more, if you spill soup on that one," said Potter.
It took a few weeks but Potter did get the Blacks and their close relatives together for a day of sailing. He started feeling so good out on the water that he began to think about extending the trip, sailing down to Land's End then turning north. Considering his reverie back at home, Potter decided it was due to an abundance of good will among his kinfolk. After an hour Andromeda and Narcissa broke some ice and reverted to their childhood nicknames, Andy and Cissy. The Black witches doted on Scorpius and Teddy. It wasn't rough at all but the young wizards needed to hang over the side, one time each. The witches were properly concerned, wetting hand towels and bringing them to their cousins. Safely back at the magical marina, everyone said good-byes with waves and agreement on getting together for some more sailing soon.
Potter kept a diary, of sorts, mostly little notations in a magical notebook and planning calendar. He didn't write down whatever mood the weather cued in his innermost feelings. The purpose of the book was to take note of significant events to have a record somewhere for reference purposes. That way his days didn't pass in a cavalcade of anonymity as the highlights were subsumed into the ordinary.
The short note about the Blacks' outing on the sailboat was comparatively voluble. He wrote up a passenger list, logged the departure and return times and praised the Black witches for their hospitality and assistance to their seasick cousins. When he was done, Potter sat looking at his new diary entry. There was something missing, something he had avoided admitting to himself or thinking about.
Potter knew he needed someone with whom he could talk over his inner conflicts, problems and deep-seated needs. Orphaned as a toddler, raised by unsympathetic foster parents, forced by circumstance into the role of a child soldier while simultaneously providing plot points for the output of a pulp culture industry, half of Magical Britain eagerly awaited his spectacular public flameout while the other half tsk'd in faux regret that he hadn't made something of himself. All while meeting their exacting standards, of course, which had nothing to do with his own.
He needed his old friend, Ron Weasley. He needed Weasley to come by and sit in the garden behind the townhouse. Unfortunately, Weasley was under another's thumb, a thumb belonging to Hermione Granger. Ms. Granger, soon to become Hermione Granger-Weasley, had decreed that Ronald Weasley could no longer be friends with Harry Potter, who she saw as something of a traitor.
Potter understood. Years ago he had made a choice, one with far-reaching consequences. The fact that he had reconciled matters in his own mind did not affect Hermione Granger's thinking.
Potter did have a back-up for Weasley, another veteran of the wizarding civil war, Neville Longbottom. Tracked down while he was doing some summer work at Hogwarts School, Longbottom agreed to come by Grimmauld Place for a butterbeer with Potter.
"What's on your mind?" Longbottom asked.
"Why do you ask?" Potter answered.
"There's something going on. The look on your face, the witches are playing quietly somewhere in the house…"
A crash sounded from inside, followed by a shout of, "Kreacher!"
"I'll amend that," said Longbottom. "The witches are playing somewhere in the house."
"Fine," said Potter. "I got accustomed to having someone around. A companion. Someone to talk to, about anything at all. I miss her. Then there are the witches. I'm okay as a wizarding parent and trying to get better. It's not the same. Bella knew all kinds of stuff young witches ought to learn, growing up. It just came over me recently, how every day is a lost opportunity for them."
"But it's complicated," Potter continued. "Most of the people our age are married or otherwise paired off. I met someone. Well, I didn't MEET-meet them because I've known them. I've known OF them, for a while."
"Harry?"
"Yeah?"
Longbottom looked at him.
"Spit it out or we're sending Kreacher for some more serious alcohol," said Longbottom.
"Okay," said Potter. "I think my lawyer is your cousin. Greengrass?"
"Yeah, we used to see each other at family stuff. Before everything went crazy," said Longbottom.
"Right. So do you think she would want to come over or go sailing or to a cultural thing or something like that? Once or twice a month? So the witches get exposed to someone like her?"
"Sounds like you're looking for a magical governess," said Longbottom. "Do you want to put the word out? Hannah hears about all kinds of stuff at the Leaky Cauldron. Situations, people seeking situations. Know?"
"I don't think so," said Potter. "Just an adult. Witch. They don't…They're not…"
"I'm sure," said Longbottom, before he took a sip of his butterbeer. "Owl her. The worst that can happen is she tells you to find another lawyer."
As usual, Longbottom had cut straight to the heart of Potter's conundrum. All that was left to do was think up a reasonable excuse for sending the owl. Luckily, Astoria Malfoy was recruiting attendees for a family birthday celebration in honor of Scorpius, to be held at Greengrass Manor.
"Listen to this," Potter said to the witches. "It's an invitation."
"Where?" asked Delphi.
"We're getting to that," replied Potter.
"You're supposed to wait, remember?"
In reply, Delphi sent a very dangerous look toward her sister.
"Scorpius is having a birthday party at his grandparents' place. That's Greengrass Manor. It says here that's in Devon. We'll have to start thinking about some party clothes and a present from each of you," said Potter.
The Black witches had two friends, which they shared. This was the ground for endless debates about who was whose best friend.
"I want to get Scorpius a nice present," Delphi declared. "Scorpius is MY best friend."
"No, he's MY best friend," countered Ane. "You know Teddy is YOUR best friend. We decided."
"Did not," Delphi replied.
"Did so," said Ane in rebuttal.
"Black witches," said Potter, his tone carrying cautioning overtones. "Teddy and Scorpius are your cousins and you don't have an overabundance of those so treat them both with care and respect, please."
"Of course," they agreed.
Getting their wardrobes in readiness for a country outing was less complicated than Potter feared it would be. The Black witches had no need for fashion statements or interesting color choices. They liked practical fabrics, generally cotton or wool, black in color. Fair weather, outdoor party clothes were, they agreed, black cotton with knee-length skirts and black flats. Hair styling was appropriately simple. They liked their hair parted down the middle, pulled back so it stayed out of their eyes, then tied with a black silk scarf.
The invitation said 'luncheon' at the bottom. Just before eleven a.m. on the day of Scorpius' party, Potter convened the witches in the front salon at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.
"You look perfect," he told them. "Exactly what two young, noble witches should look like at a garden party. I don't know who will be there so just remember, if we're introduced to someone older, you'll curtsy and say, 'Very pleased to meet you.'"
"And we thank Scorpius and his parents and grandparents for inviting us."
The witches agreed and Potter herded everyone over to the floo.
"Greengrass Manor," Potter called when he had dropped his floo powder.
A short exchange of identification was followed by an invitation to come through. Potter went on alert when he heard the voice from the other end. Then they were exiting the fireplace at Greengrass Manor.
"Well," said Potter.
"Welcome to Greengrass Manor," said Daphne Greengrass.
"This is an unexpected surprise," said Potter. "Do you witches remember our lawyer, Ms. Greengrass?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
The responses were delivered in unison, the two voices pitched just so, naturally harmonious. Daphne Greengrass was struck by the raw, natural beauty of the sound of the greeting delivered by the Blacks. Potter thought the totality of the scene was amplified by the muscular, barely-controlled magic that his daughters exuded in waves, only later reflecting on the effects of parental pride on his assessment.
"So nice to see you again, Miss Daphne," said Delphi.
"Oh, you are so proper, Delphini," said Greengrass. "Such a fine representative of your illustrious family!"
She snuck a quick look at Potter, who sent back a slight smile as another Greengrass sister entered.
"Oh, the Black witches!" exclaimed Astoria Malfoy. "Scorpius hasn't been able to stop asking, 'When will they get here? When will they get here?'' Let's go find him, he should be right down this way…"
Ane and Delphi fell in with Astoria Malfoy and exited. Potter saw they turned at a right angle and were lost to sight, presumably heading for another room and Scorpius.
"Counselor," said Potter, who'd been left behind in the room with Daphne Greengrass.
"Lord Potter-Black," Greengrass said, returning Potter's greeting.
"Oh, please, it's a children's' party…" Potter protested.
"Ah, so we should switch to something less formal, considering the occasion?" asked Greengrass.
Potter stood, blank-faced, analyzing his lawyer's question.
"If that's proper, Daphne," he said.
"That will work for me, Harry," she replied.
"Fine. Why don't I follow your lead, since we two have been abandoned here," said Potter.
Greengrass smirked, then motioned toward the door.
"Right this way," she said.
The two walked down a hallway of what was obviously a substantial country home. The interior did not overwhelm a visitor with cues to the magical character of the family that lived there. Potter didn't see anything analogous to Walburga's mounted elf heads or troll-leg umbrella stand. He did sense magic as a kind of hum, neither tactile nor auditory. That was something new, since he'd begun studying mind arts. His tutor explained it when the phenomenon first showed up. Mind arts was mostly the honing and polishing of a sense, the same as wine tasters and perfumers did in the mundane world. The traces of thoughts used magic as a medium so increasing his reception abilities to read, then subtly influence others' thinking naturally raised the practitioner's sensitivity across the spectrum.
Potter must have smiled, sensing the magic around him.
"What?"
"Oh, Daphne. Mind wandering. Sorry, I just got hit with the magical ambience in the house. It's strong and…very comfortable," said Potter.
"You're reading, our house?" asked Greengrass.
"Not exactly," said Potter. "This is just between us? I mean, you are my lawyer, right?"
"If you want," said Greengrass.
"I have been doing some independent study," said Potter. "She told me…that is, I was advised to keep working. New skills. Things we didn't get to at school. Keep my brain engaged. Personal growth."
"You really are brilliant, aren't you?" asked Greengrass.
"Don't know about that. I get them to go to sleep and do a little work on something," Potter answered.
"Something? That's why you ensured you'd benefit from confidentiality, I'm guessing," Greengrass said.
Potter knew she had caught him out once again.
"Mind arts," he mumbled.
"No wonder," said Greengrass. "And here we are."
They'd arrived at a room that looked out on some beautiful gardens. Astoria Malfoy had already turned Scorpius over to the Black witches. Andromeda Tonks and Teddy Lupin had also arrived. Potter saw Narcissa and Draco Malfoy and another, older couple he didn't recognize. Those must be his host and hostess.
"Meet your parents?" Potter inquired.
Greengrass didn't answer, simply leading Potter over to the couple.
"Mother, Father, I would like to introduce Harry Potter, from my year at Hogwarts. Harry, these are my parents, Cyrus and Isabella."
Potter paused and took a deep breath, watching the couple closely for a cue to how he should proceed. He did not have the entire British Magical Order of Precedence in his own head. Some of his year-mates would have (he suspected Draco Malfoy to be one of them), so he fell back on age. Cyrus and Isabella most certainly out-aged him.
If Cyrus felt like shaking hands, Potter would wait for some indication. It did occur to him, in a flash of sorts, that Greengrass might be one of those people who had the Order of Precedence in his head for ready reference and was awaiting something from Potter, whose age made him junior but whose title made him senior. That put the two of them in a conundrum. It might go on and on.
The silence seemed to stretch then stretch some more.
Potter came to attention, heels together, fingers on his trouser seams.
"Sir," he said as he inclined his head.
Isabella appeared to infer what was happening and stepped into the breach.
"Delighted you've come to honor our home, my lord," she said as her hand came up.
Potter took the hand in his own, lowered his head and made a little smacking sound near Isabella's knuckles.
"Nonsense," he said, standing back up to his full height. "I am honored to be the recipient of your gracious hospitality."
Isabella seemed pleased by the exchange. Potter hoped that meant he was off to a good start. Isabella turned slightly, looking at her husband.
"Cyrus Greengrass," he said as he extended his hand, which Potter accepted for a quick shake.
"Honored," said Potter.
He noted something passed between the two Greengrass witches. He wondered what communication had gone back and forth, before tucking that thought away in a mental cabinet. It did appear they were not terribly displeased by the arrival ceremony for Potter and the two Black witches.
"Just in here," said Daphne Greengrass.
Potter felt her hand slide beneath his upper arm. Little pressure differences propelled him forward, turned him slightly and pulled back a bit when they reached Andromeda and Narcissa.
"My dear aunties," Potter said as they arrived.
"So gallant," said Andromeda.
"Our gallant scamp," teased Narcissa.
Hands were presented and Potter kissed them both.
"How are we doing?" he asked as he flicked his eyes toward the children.
"Perfect," muttered Astoria Malfoy as she arrived.
Potter turned to Greengrass, to include her in the conversation.
"At their briefing I advised them they don't have an excess of cousins so they needed to remember to take good care of these," said Potter. "We have presents, when the time comes."
"After lunch," said Astoria.
There was no further need to steer Harry Potter, he and Greengrass having arrived at the main body of the party. Nevertheless, Potter noticed his upper arm was still in contact with Daphne Greengrass's hand. He didn't object. In fact, he liked the way it felt. He began to think of things they could attend so that she could return her hand to that spot.
Potter sensed his emotions slipping out of his control. Next thing he knew, he would be thinking about sharing a townhouse and, eventually, a country seat like Cyrus and Isabelle's. He decided it was time for a little course correction.
"Need to say hello to Draco," he said to Greengrass. "Care to?"
"Go ahead," she replied. "Catch up later."
"Love to," said Potter, wondering in that instant if he was so forward with his reply that he'd driven Daphne Greengrass away.
A stray thought passed through, two Black witches sound asleep, upstairs at Grimmauld Place, Potter pouring coffee for Greengrass, perhaps in the second drawing room, where one entertained family and close friends.
'Bloody hell,' he thought as he walked over.
"Draco. Great day for a birthday party," said Potter.
"It is. How's it going, Harry?" asked Draco Malfoy.
"Great. The witches—Scorpius made their year, I think. Inviting them to his party," said Potter.
Malfoy began to reply but as interrupted.
"Gentlemen—"
Malfoy and Potter turned and saw that Cyrus Greengrass had joined them.
"Lady Greengrass informs me the elves have everything in readiness," he said. "In other words, lunch!"
"Excellent! Something we can all agree on," Malfoy observed.
"HA! Alright, Teddy, Ane, Delphi? Lunch time."
Play stopped and the children ran over. Astoria arrived and took charge of washing up and getting seated. Potter found his place card and immediately wondered what subtleties went into the assignment of seats. Lord Greengrass would sit at the head of the long table, Lady Greengrass at the opposite end. Draco was seated at Lady Greengrass's right. Harry was to sit at Lord Greengrass's right and Daphne to her father's left. The children were in a group of four in the middle, Narcissa, Andromeda and Astoria on the fringes. Presumably, the senior witches would assist if needed and encourage the youngsters to eat a healthy lunch.
Potter turned his attention to the food, happy to see the witches would have a selection of nourishing dishes, should they choose to partake. He was just finishing unrolling his napkin and arranging the silverware when Daphne spoke up.
"Harry, Father says he's seen you at Session but the two of you haven't spoken before today?"
"If we have, I don't recall a specific instance," Potter replied. "Are these steamed?"
He'd scooped up a tablespoonful of beets.
"They are, grown right here," said Lord Greengrass.
"Good. I love beets," said Potter. "They're really healthy, especially if they're steamed."
"I'd no idea you paid attention to any of that healthy living stuff," said Daphne Greengrass. "When did that start?"
"Oh, fairly recently," said Potter. "I must have been reflecting on my years of dangerous living. Or it could just be that some responsibility has devolved on me."
He glanced down the table at the Black witches and Teddy Lupin.
"Excellent. A fine example for the next generation," said Cyrus.
"As for the other, I guess we simply didn't need to work closely on anything," said Potter. "Plus, I was gone a lot of the time."
He looked at Cyrus, who was looking down at his plate.
"Well," said Cyrus, his voice barely audible, "I was scrupulously neutral during the conflict. Whatever happened I would have to do business in the post-war world."
At one time, Potter would have launched into a diatribe, scolding Greengrass for his sins of omission and commission, questioning whether he would even have the opportunity to sell a single beet had the madman won. A little later on, he might have alluded to those times in a wizard's life when he had the chance to stand for right and he pitied the likes of Cyrus Greengrass who turned their backs on history and hoped for the best.
"I suppose I was a bit shy about extending my hand," said Cyrus. "I didn't know where you stood regarding people like me."
Potter was surprised at Cyrus' semi-confession. It had to have hurt him to get to the point where he grasped where he stood, or might stand, in the estimation of his fellow magical nobles. It would have hurt even more to say it out loud at his grandson's birthday luncheon. Potter pondered how to respond, feeling like he needed to say something.
"Well, my lord, you have the backbone to acknowledge your position, back then, letting the chips fall wherever. That's more than can be said for some."
Something about his comment seemed to find favor, both with Cyrus and Daphne. Potter wasn't close enough to the other guests to gauge reactions. Daphne seemed to be signaling something. Unfortunately, Potter was not a polished interpreter of facial telegraphy. Perhaps they'd get to it later.
Following lunch, Scorpius was required to stay still and open presents. He was very gracious in his thanks. Potter suspected some pre-party drills with Astoria, one or possibly both grandmothers. Those three were quite pleased with his responses.
Ane and Delphi hadn't picked out their gift. Instead, Potter visited the Wizengamot Herald's office and commissioned a scroll with Scorpius' full name in intricate Gothic lettering, topped with a coat of arms recognizing his four lines of ascent. Those being Malfoy, Greengrass, Black and Asturias.
"Is that correct?" Potter asked Lady Greengrass. "You're Spanish royalty?"
Isabella burst out laughing.
"Technically," she said. "A great-great grandfather was a third or fourth son. He fell in love with an English witch on a visit, married her and we've been here since. I don't think he had much of a future in Spain. I've heard he and my Great-great Grandmother dined out for decades, courtesy of that title."
Potter looked across at Daphne, who was rolling her eyes.
"Well, everyone in Europe today is allegedly descended from Charlemagne," said Potter. "I say revel in it."
Isabella smiled, then turned toward Scorpius. Potter knew Narcissa adored Scorpius and it looked like Isabella did, too. He wondered if some competition was brewing between Scorpius' grandmothers.
Present-opening wound down. Scorpius thanked everyone another time, winning him a subtle wink and nod from Astoria. The guests began to stand, stretching, getting the kinks out. More than one popping joint was heard.
"We thought now might be a good time for a walk," announced Astoria. "We've made a nice mess for the elves so we're due a bit of exercise. There's a lovely lane just this way."
The Black witches looked to Potter, who nodded his agreement. The children fell in behind Astoria, Teddy with Scorpius, Ane with Delphi. It wasn't until the group was away from the house and the lane was visible ahead that Potter noticed the chaperones consisted of Astoria and Draco, Daphne Greengrass and himself. He wondered at the design, or if indeed there was one. Whether there was or wasn't, Potter and Greengrass brought up the rear of the procession, just behind the two Black witches.
Forever afterward, Potter would look back to that post-lunch walk and wonder what he and Greengrass found to talk about. He remembered them conversing about something. The subject matter was displaced by memories of warm, rosy sensations wrapped in a soft blanket of Black magic that radiated back from the witches.