In the six years since the war generation graduated, one Lady Bluebird made herself quite the name.
What follows, you see, is a tale in which a witch, one Daphne Greengrass, but better known as the neighborhood bitch (Pansy's fondness for rhyme never faltered), rather jaded in disposition and sour with any matter outside finding a match for her sister, found herself ironically bemoaning the restraints of her status.
"Then do something about it," Pansy had scoffed.
"How very mundane," drawled Daphne. But she took her friend's advice, a friend who was rather jaded in having become a social pariah, far from the glory years ruling the Slytherin House. Both now in the real world of fighting for honorable, decent matches that didn't involve aged men, Daphne turned her talent for wit and churned out the equivalent of a gossip rag.
Or so her mum, Erecta Greengrass, thought of it. Erecta was married at a time when community bonds were strong and her parents trained her for good breeding. Along the way, Erecta became seduced by the appeal of nonconforming. Good for her, Daphne thought, except it lead her to marry a man who would later become a Death Eater, and neither deemed it important enough to train their girls to be ready for the marriage mart.
Even Pansy, stained by her schoolgirl mistake to sell off Potter, initially had better prospects than the Greengrasses. Pansy was trained in all of the necessary qualities to be a valuable wife: finance and record-keeping, manners, languages, dancing, artistry, beauty, music, fashion, personal upkeep, household management. Pansy was very much a product of a noble lineage with parents who knew to prepare her for a future.
Daphne, however, arrived on her first day at Hogwarts with unbrushed hair and mistook Malfoy for Longbottom.
It took two months of reading Witch Weekly and Tracey Davis begging her mother to send a book of genealogy for Daphne to enter Malfoy's good graces.
Between a father who was a high-ranked Death Eater—and therefore not present nor financially capable of maintaining a governess for them—and a mother who preferred books over hosting lavish galas, the Greengrass sisters were left to fend their world alone.
Worse, when Astoria's curse manifested symptoms in Daphne's third year.
Whatever designs Daphne may have had for a novel future ended there. Astoria could not survive in this world. But Astoria was not strong enough to leave this world, either—look no further than Andromeda Tonks, or Sirius Black, and what it cost them.
So Daphne left her ambitions to die and focused on doing the job her parents could not. She loved and taught Astoria. She raised Astoria into a desirable and beautiful woman. She taught her the manners king men would look for and the beauty rich men wanted, but also how to detect the slimy sorts.
Daphne was nothing if not a good judge of character.
"What about Burke? He's in the blue mask. An out of town cousin, I'm told."
"No. The Burke family has too many dark connections. The Ministry would trail you for the rest of your life."
"Hm. And you are quite sure about Zabini?" Astoria's eyes wandered lightly around the ballroom. The glittering swan mask covering the top half of her face was charmed to stretch its neck up the bridge of her nose every two minutes.
"If his vanity wasn't an issue, his poison-happy mother is."
Astoria hid a cough behind a delicate silk glove. Zabini had the riches, even after Ministry upheaval post-war, due to his mixed Ethiopian and Italian heritage and family's less direct involvement with the Dark side. Mrs. Zabini delighted in mariticide, not worshiping Dark Wizards.
Or so said the Lady Bluebird column. All unconfirmed speculation, said the column, aside from Blaise Zabini's vague comments in the Slytherin common room. Daphne had thought, more than once, if it had been a risky ploy to make in that it would make the gossiper's Hogwarts identity obvious, but seeing him here, identifiable by his height alone, accosted by curious men and women drawn to the danger kept other, better prospects open.
And, it was clear to anyone with half a brain from the beginning that Lady Bluebird was a Slytherin. It could not be a foreign national; the gossip was too English-centered. Gryffindors would have no qualms about hiding an identity nor would they care for succeeding in a marriage market like this. They cared too much for love. And a Hufflepuff would not make the snippy remarks Lady Bluebird did about the Davis family's diminishing coffers and the Goyle family dealing with their son's various progeny born out of wedlock.
Daphne allowed herself a moment of guilt. Goyle was a terrible prospect, even if he was a pureblood and never mocked her or Astoria. But his sister had expressed interest in a visiting Bulgarian scholar, one that Daphne thought well of for Astoria at the time, so Daphne made clear in a subsequent column that Goyle Senior's gambling habit combined with Goyle's increasing spousal and child support responsibilities would destroy any self-respecting family in the long run.
The scholar himself retreated back to Bulgaria thereafter with a young man. Efforts wasted? Perhaps, but it was also the column that made her contact at The Daily Prophet offer a corner on page eight, under entertainment.
Entertaining, indeed. If Daphne was left in permanent service of her sister, why not allow a modicum of enjoyment in the process? After all, the theme for this year's season was hidden love, as announced by Narcissa Malfoy, declared this year's Lady of the Season. Each ball was to be masked, as though anonymity would help Draco's prospects.
Nothing slipped Daphne's eye, unfortunately for Narcissa. This game, she was born to play.
"And the fellow over there?" Astoria nodded her head towards a blonde meandering near the orchestra.
"French," assessed Daphne. The general composition of his face and the upturn of his nose was too obvious, even through translucent veela mask. "Lady Malfoy keeps contacts with distant Black family from Bordeaux. Maybe a Beauxbatons student? No, they kiss cheeks in greeting. Probably a business connection, then. Start with a probing question on his work, and if he says consulting or investments, dive into the Malfoy business expansion."
Finishing the last of her wine, Astoria made to stand. "You're rather good at that. Many of my friends would pay a pretty penny. Have you considered a business of sorts?"
"Of sorts," Daphne muttered into her own glass. She waved an elegant hand to her sister, watching as she gracefully treaded across the room. Just as she taught her. A hand to the chest, a half-bow. A not too flirtatious, but earnest introduction.
The French man seemed annoyed at first, feet pointed away and eyes wandering. After a minute, however, he straightened. Astoria must have said something interesting on the increasing price of sourcing gillyweed or the like because he was nodding along.
Now, Daphne urged. The Frenchman shook his head. Astoria laughed.
Still, no offer for a dance.
Sigh. The quality of available men was dwindling. As was Astoria's health. She would need to incorporate a remark on women quickly being married off, so parents would finally thrust their remaining sons into these gatherings.
A newcomer slid into Astoria's recently-departed seat.
Daphne blinked at the intrusion and made mental note that while manners could be taught, some simply didn't wish to be, and resumed watching Astoria. Astoria was speaking rapid-fire.
"Hello," said the newcomer.
"Good evening," Daphne replied absently. The Frenchman shook his head again, then nodded. A smile blossomed on his face.
"Would you like to dance?"
"No, thank you."
Astoria laughed, and the Frenchman extended a hand. Good grief, finally. Daphne lightened her relentless observation to allow for a polite once-over of the newcomer.
At first glance, a brunette. Large hands. Average height, unless he was slouching, which she suspected he was.
Very, very green eyes.
Not Theodore Nott. He would not ask her to dance because he valued his genitals. Also, his eyes were a mossy type of green, and this man had the sort of eyes an adventurous woman might find lovely to wander in, like a maze.
Making Astoria the most eligible bachelorette of the season had meant restraining herself in every way, as she had done so since third year. To minimize, shrink, and deflect, so Astoria could thrive.
It made Daphne difficult to be around. She hadn't minded her reputation as a curmudgeon, as Pansy so kindly named it, because the worse she seemed, the better Astoria looked. As long as there she attained a minimum level of propriety and perfection, she could be the herder that swept the best, most eligible men her sister's way.
That meant plainer robes. No longing glances or honeyed words.
And certainly no dancing. No matter how imploring the eyes.
You were sitting alone and I thought I would join you, or a, I would be honored to dance with you tonight, or, I finally gathered myself to talk to the most beautiful girl in the room, she expected. She had responses prepared for all of these, and in the slight chance he tried to reach for her waist, a hiss.
She waited to see what he would opt for. His mask was silver and black, a type of dog—or wolf?—and his robes bought off the rack. His shoulders were too broad for what she recognized as Twilfit and Tattings day robes.
Truly a newcomer.
He tapped his fingers on the table. "I can't dance well, so thanks for that."
Despite herself, Daphne almost snorted into her cup. She set it down carefully and raised an eyebrow. He wouldn't be able to see it through her panther mask, but letting her expression contort freely made her comfortable.
"I'm afraid good dancing is the only way you will find a wife, here." Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Astoria and the Frenchman sway to the song in near perfect synchrony.
"Good thing I'm not here to find a wife, then."
Daphne felt her eye twitch. "Monsieur," she started drolly. "You seem new here. Propositioning a witch with so little decency—"
He grimaced. "No. Also not my thing."
She pursed her lips together.
"So you came to not-dance."
He considered, eventually nodding once. "Watching is a much better use of time."
She agreed. She didn't like that someone else was in on the game, too.
A waiter placed a wine glass in the man's hand and meandered off to find other men imposing themselves on very busy women.
"For some reason, I was expecting house elves," he said after a moment, and it was the sort of comment one said to himself. She estimated that he'd had one cup already, or was the rare fellow who had no filter.
"Narcissa Malfoy knows better than that."
The mention of the hostess' name made the man look out to the crowd. Daphne looked out too, first noting with pride that Astoria and the Frenchman were entering a second dance before finding Narcissa and Draco chatting quietly at a table near the fountain.
To her surprise, the man was able to find the Malfoy duo with ease too, despite their masked faces and hair charmed to a darker blonde than their characteristic pale fare.
"Yeah, I guess she does."
Daphne frowned. "How do you know her?"
"I've spoken to her once."
Alright. If he wished to play the game of short answers and mystery, she could pursue it and then write about it. He wasn't entirely a bore, yet. "Once is enough to be on her invite list?"
"Being of status and power is."
Daphne felt a rush of defensiveness. "You call her ingratiating." It was true, sure, but one never said this out loud. And wasn't everyone ingratiating? Making due with what they had?
They met each other's eyes. Icy blue on garden green. The man shook his head. "Of course not. She's saved lives."
Narcissa Malfoy did many things to many people. Daphne tightened her grip, flickering her eyes over this man, and found absolutely…nothing.
An Englishman. A brunette. Green-eyed. But connection? Unclear. Hogwarts House? Could be anything.
His mouth turned downwards. His lips were on the thinner side, but delicate. Like they could be made of petals.
Unclear. Unclear. Daphne set her drink down, for good. Astoria was done and from her small smile, it was wildly successful.
"Good evening." The man bid her farewell and left. He disappeared immediately into a throng of people near Zabini.
"Who was that?" Astoria asked absently, her cheeks flushed. She shot glances at the Frenchman. The Frenchman had joined Draco and Narcissa, and Daphne saw Draco look to their table.
"I—I don't know."
The Frenchman did not call on Astoria the next afternoon. Astoria and Daphne waited for two hours, ignored Ereta's periodic scoffing and the occasional confident nameless man that bumbled in, but at the end, Daphne held her sister's hands, touching her forehead to hers.
"We'll find someone. Don't worry."
Astoria hid her disappointment behind a half-hearted smirk. "I'll just have to dance more." As she was taller than Daphne by two centimeters, she had no problem swinging her arms over each shoulder and forcing her to sway with her. Daphne rolled her eyes, humoring her for a few minutes before excusing to observe the damage her column had done.
For that morning's Lady Bluebird column was scathing indeed.
LADY BLUEBIRD'S COLUMN
It has long been held that that romance and debauchery are two sides of the same galleon. In that vein, Narcissa Malfoy's masked gala was a success, barring a fresh one-legged Hogwarts graduate who slinked off with a Ministry official during dinner, who may have taken the adage close to heart.
The food and ambiance left nothing to be criticized. A great improvement from last year's season for colorblindness awareness. The masks add a magical touch. To meet as equals, perhaps? Who can resist looking into a pair of strange bright eyes, to judge for the now instead of the past, and find love without baggages? But for the ladies looking for stability, might the masks not lead one astray? We may see what route this season takes.
We turn to the activities. The Poker room was a delight, though this author notes it may have been premature for Goyle Senior to spend his entire night in there, an affront to the magical creatures Narcissa was trying to rally support for. MacNair's widow would agree, as she is on the market for a respectable second-marriage, and enjoys weekends in Belgium with half-trolls.
It was buried in the Daily Prophet 's entertainment pages, after the news on Dark Wizard hunts (those had been continuous for the last six years, really) and Quidditch, cordoned on the front of the very back page. Few dug for it. But for those who did, mattered.
Soon, Narcissa let loose to the Parkinsons and Abbotts that Ministry employees in attendance would absolutely be vetted. Rumors exploded over which Ministry official was not only cheating on his wife due to a fondness for limbless young women. Whatever strides the Goyles managed to make socially since the previous year vanished in the face of more gambling controversy. And all of the women, at the next day's tea in the Bulstrode home that Daphne secured an invite to after bribing Millicent with new Quidditch gear, agreed unanimously they never liked Laila MacNair anyway. Nor her girls with the too-oily hair. Thus, the host of the Brocklehurst luncheon the following weekend struck them all from the invite list.
"Merlin, Lady Bluebird's ruthless. How do you suppose she knows all this?" Tracey asked on Thursday, sipping evenly on her iced tea. An American blasphemy, but one of Daphne's favorites.
The Portkey to Wales cost fifty galleons. Tracey, gone conveniently for the first of many social gatherings this season because of her pursuit of higher education, was adamant that Daphne would find better prospects here for Astoria. Pansy caught wind of the invite and would never dismiss an opportunity to piss off her marriage-minded mother.
Was it worth the fifty galleons? Daphne wasn't sure, witnessing a gaggle of three wizards settle in the same café, laughing raucously about bums at nine in the morning.
"Follows them around like ghouls, maybe." Pansy stabbed her mashed potatoes with a fork. "The MacNair family was overdue for a scandal. How long can their son squat in the woods before the Aurors find them?"
Tracey chuckled. "He's managed for six years."
"They caught Yaxley four months ago," Daphne pointed out.
Thankfully, none of them, nor their peers, faced a stint in Azkaban. Even Draco managed to escape the trials with a parole. Narcissa's restless activism had a hand in that.
"Thank Merlin for that. But unfortunately for Daphne here, that leaves no one good enough for dear Astoria." Tracey lifted an accusing fork at her.
"Astoria wouldn't go within a kilometer of any of those cretin."
"You mean, you wouldn't let her."
Daphne glared. Tracey delicately finished her food while returning the glare as Pansy gave up on martyring her soggy potatoes.
"Tracey's got a point." Pansy grinned. "Astoria is smart, pretty, and a whole lot easier to talk to. Are you sure you're not standing in her way?"
What a ridiculous notion. Were it up to the average lady, any random man with a vault in Gringotts would do. How could she leave her sister to such a fate?
"Shut up, Pansy."
"Ooh. Hoarding them for yourself. Wouldn't think you had it in you."
The smile dropped from Tracey's face. Daphne, seated directly across from Pansy, was too far to kick or slap her.
Not that she would, with all the others watching. She was Daphne Greengrass. She needed to be perfect, so Astoria could be perfect. So Astoria would be taken care of.
And this was Pansy. When Pansy was annoyed, Pansy lashed where it hurt most.
So Daphne bit the inside of her cheek, gathered her things, and left.
"What's got her knickers in a twist?" she heard Pansy ask.
"You don't know everything, Pans. How many times do we have to tell you..."
Daphne threw down a galleon and exited, refusing to hear anymore of Tracey's hushed admonishments. Tracey was the only one who knew about Astoria's condition. That, too, by accident. Daphne would never be so impulsive to reveal purposefully that weakness.
She bit her lip and thought of the Frenchman. Before him, last season, there was Julian Flint and Ahmed Rafiq. Both good contenders until the end when Julian admitted he had fallen in love with his maid, and Ahmed decided he needed more time before settling down. Years, he'd said.
This year, the lot was the same, with the addition of some rather interesting additions from outside typical society. No doubt an extension of Narcissa's charitable efforts, or the dwindling population post-war, or a combination of both, but it seemed everyone was looking to marry this year. Narcissa's reputation as hostess preceded her, so hordes of her friends' cousins, cousins of cousins, and even title-less strangers arrived mid-March, ready to ride the wave of the social season.
And because of the flood of men, women who typically stayed far away from the upper-class pureblood mating ritual masquerading as elite snobbery had joined. There was chatter than Ginny Weasley, recently split from her beau, was spotted shopping for a mask.
The main competion, however, was in the form of Beauxbatons graduates with silky blonde tresses, the Patils and their twenty-four Indian cousins, Mandy Brocklehurst and initially, Hannah Abbott. Hannah explicitly said she was looking for love, not money, and thought herself compatible only with other Hufflepuffs (or the foreign equivalent), so Daphne quickly demoted her from competition to a possible ally for information.
Yes, she affirmed. If it would've been difficult for Astoria to weather the prior seasons, it would be downright impossible now.
Daphne ignored Pansy's sneering face and continued onwards.
The Brocklehurst Luncheon was a casual event held in their gardens, to celebrate the opening of their greenhouse. Mandy Brocklehurst was adamant it be anything but causal, pointing out the feast of culinary delights, ncluding delicacies like phoenix-feather soufflés and dragonfruit tartlets, bespoke flowers that changed hue with the guests' mood and trees that whispered ancient secrets, and lights that turned into life-sized hippogriff that performed aerial acrobatics over the garden. Further in the woods stood the newly erected Brocklehurst greenhouse, courtesy of their potions' expansion venture and interest in sustainable horticulture.
Pursuant to Narcissa's orders, everyone was to be masked. No one complained; last year's Lady of the Season, Carys Meliflua only allowed the colors puce, bile green, or sallow yellow due to old superstitious beliefs about naked virgin ghosts roaming the premises at the sight of color outside the range of sickly human fluids. How Daphne managed to dress Astoria would be a tale for history books.
"The Frenchman is not here," said Astoria. Daphne had noted this earlier and had hoped her sister would let go of any lingering hope. Men, good for nothing but their titles and coffers.
"Not to worry. That Abbott second cousin is here, the one next to him is rumored to be McGonagall's nephew, and the one crouching near the buffet table is seventeenth in line to the Danish throne. If you prefer to try someone closer to thirty, seeing as they may be more serious about the endeavor, the Head of Magical Games at the Ministry recently acquired a chateaux in Bavaria."
"And the blonde?"
Daphne looked to where Astoria pointed. It was Draco, hair deceptively brunette, but the height, gait, and general Malfoy-ness couldn't be mistaken.
"No."
"But—"
Daphne carried no direct animosity towards him. She just knew Narcissa well enough and knew and witnessed enough of Draco to find him…a tad cowardly. Susceptible to temper and whim and the pressure of his parents. Even with a rehabilitating reputation. Astoria couldn't be in a family with in-laws who held that much sway over their son.
"He's known to be a cad, Astoria," she said finally.
Astoria frowned but dropped the matter. They each sipped at their lemonade, quietly observing.
Most guests were heading towards the famed greenhouse. Daphne spotted the aforementioned Head of Magical Games, Dorian Thornbrooke, recognizable by his blindingly white teeth and preference for bowties, among the crowd.
"Let's go," said Daphne.
Astoria made a delicate show of bending over to rub her ankle. "I think I'll stay here for time being. My feet haven't been right since the Davis ball last year."
Daphne wasn't entirely convinced, but her target for the day was quickly going to disappear. Being a Ministry man meant few publicly accessible records, at least through legal means, and Daphne preferred to have less attention on her methods than conclusions. Hence, the tried and true methods of eavesdropping and stalking.
"Alright," she conceded. "Don't eat too many of the seared brussels, they'll make you gassy while you dance."
She tottered into the greenhouse, lagging at the back of the group. Lady Brocklehurst spoke about the various plants, each coincidentally extremely rare and outrageously expensive. New money families tended to possess a frightening ability to boast whilst being utterly ignorant of the unsavory taste it left in others.
She slid into a small gap between Mimbulus Mimbletonia and Fanged Geranium, positioned an optimal meter away from where Thornbrooke oohed and aahed at the Hanging Bloodroot. While his friends looked away, Thornbrooke quickly stuck his finger into his nose.
And twisted. He dug out a large reddish-yellow booger.
Daphne grimaced, looking ahead to the thicket to rid herself of the image. Maybe Thornbrooke could be salvageable. A nose-picking habit wasn't out of wedlock children, at any rate, and fixable.
Hopefully.
A familiar voice petered through the greenery.
"Find anyone yet, Abbott? You haven't got much time before the trust will end."
Daphne crouched to dodge the Gernanium's teeth, simultaneously recognizing Theo's characteristic withering tone.
"I know. I think I was talking to one of the twins earlier, she seemed nice." This was an Abbott, either Hannah's older brother or the cousin.
A third voice, coarser. "The Greengrasses?"
Daphne froze mid-crouch.
"The Patils. The Greengrasses aren't twins. They're the pair sitting near the entrance earlier."
"Could've fooled me," groused the third voice. It wasn't one she recognized exactly. "Whose the blonde? Kept glaring at me every time I tried to talk to the sweet brunette."
The accent narrowed the third voice to either the mid-thirties fellow in the plaid jacket or the Chilean ambassador.
"Daphne? I went to school with her. She's…protective," said Theo.
"Rafiq said last year he got close to Astoria but was put off by the family. The mom never comes to these events," said the Abbott male. "And the father was a Death Eater."
A scoff from the third. "Tough luck. You think the sister would supervise our wedding night?"
The chorus of laughter faded as the men bimbled deeper inside. The smell of cologne and cigar wafted behind them.
Daphne waited until the air smelled solely of moist, resinous bark. Her foot was beginning to tap and her muscles were tense.
Well. Men sunk in her esteem every year. This was no new development. Wonderful, actually. Theo? A mental red X through his name. See if she tried sending Padma Patil or Cho Chang or any woman with half a brain his way. So, too, with Hannah's relatives, and any man in plaid or diplomacy for a career.
Great ambassadors for their species, really. She knew this; she wasn't hurt, or sorry for what she was doing…
She swallowed.
Her right ankle twisted and suddenly she was stepping backwards into a void, her legs catching in a thick tangle of bark and weeds.
Her back never hit the ground. These weeds were sentient, apparently. Thick rope-like vines swarmed her lower body.
They squeezed.
Daphne screamed. And sunk further.
The vine around her ankle tightened.
"Help!"
She was a fair hand at magic. Especially good at beauty charms, history of magic too, but herbology, unfortunately, was not a strong suit. She was lucid enough to recognize that this was a Devil's Snare, but nothing about how to get out of it.
She continued to sink. Her arms, outstretched above her, hardly reached the top. She was going to sink to her death and no one would even know.
Rapid footsteps echoed.
They came from…below?
"Hold on!" One voice shouted. "Merlin, we can't leave her there."
"You go. I'll handle this."
"But…"
"Go, we don't have time."
The twisting bark around her brightened with the reflection of a magical flare of light. She almost heard a mewling noise as they retracted, the hold on her body loosening as she continued to descend, at first slowly and then in complete free fall.
The cavern shone so bright her pupils threaten to disappear.
She plunged into the light.
Instead of hitting solid ground, she smacked into a tangle of hair and limbs. The man under her made an eumph and wheezes. Her own legs felt numb, even as she tried to heave up and over, pure adrenaline squeezing her heart.
"Wait—wait—" the man panted. He pointed his wand at her.
She began to float, like the giant balloon she felt her stomach was for the last minute and a half.
"Did you—did you cast a wordless wingardium on me?" she shouted.
"You were heavier than I expected—"
She snarled. "I didn't ask you to catch me."
"And you would've been fine dealing with a Devil's Snare?"
"Eventually," she conceded. She sniffed. Her cheeks were crusted with tears she would die denying.
He lowered her to the ground carefully. They seemed to be in a tunnel, the ceiling covered with the retreating Snare and other dubious plants. Gods, she hated Herbology.
Keeping herself upright by leaning against the wall, suppressing a shudder at the grime, she checked the state of her ankle. It was too dark to see.
"Here," said the man. This time, the light was muted, just enough to cast them in a warm, faint lumos.
It was he-of-the-green-eyes.
He was looking at her ankles, but not to leer. It was strange to be analyzed for damage and not marital prospects..
He crouched for a better inspection.
"It's inflamed."
"It'll be fine," she said. "The Devil's Snare isn't poisonous unless it draws blood."
Still crouched, he looked up at her. It was the same mask as before, covering all of his forehead, but modified today to cover most of his cheeks in what was an impression of extended claws.
"You would've been fine." He sounded amused.
"Yes." She winced at the inflammation as she pushed herself off the wall but cast a quick numbing charm. Mandy would have a Calming Potion. "My thoughts were…preoccupied."
Green Eyes took her arm. There was no time to gawk or swat him away, because the moment he pulled her weight towards him and off her swollen foot, she felt better.
He cast a look behind them, with an air that he was just generally observing, before escorting her ahead. But the look had been too intentional. Too focused. Where was that companion of his?
Better yet, where were they and why was he here?
Daphne shook her head. Not her concern unless this man was a prospect, and he was obviously ill-suited. Unable to dance, unclear assets and status (though herbologist or groundskeeper were strong contenders), and foot-in-mouth syndrome.
The ground inclined and softened enough that her heels began sinking, leaving holes in her wake.
"What is this place?"
"A tunnel."
"Quite," she remarked drolly. Maybe purebloods had taken to other ways of amusing themselves by getting lost. Mazes were only so fun, and after the failure of a Triwizard Tournament, had gone out of fashion. Sneaking through grimy tunnels could be just avante-garde enough to constitute amusement.
Then a theory began to formulate, unbidden.
The Brocklehursts were a half-blood family that joined the ranks of socialites a few years ago. Neutral during the war, now in the medical potions industry. Mandy Brocklehurst was a desirable candidate, likely to marry well and grow her estate. She also had some uncles and aunts with respectable estates. Ergo, Daphne had looked into their financial records to check, and indeed they had the money Mandy boasted they did.
But not from profits. The business itself wasn't lucrative. There were singularly large sums of money deposited every month, ones that Daphne didn't need to pursue further beyond confirming they were legal and unlikely to garner government attention (which meant at the time, to Daphne, that Mandy was an attractive bachelorette).
Now, however, she wondered: if the money wasn't from supplying potions ingredients, then from whatever these tunnels were for? It was a possibility.
"It's a front?" she mused out loud.
They came to a stop. Ahead, the tunnel became a set of stairs, and beyond that would be the festivities.
Green Eyes turned his lit wand to her.
"Don't shine that in my face—"
"I couldn't see where your eyes were," he deadpanned.
"I won't have eyes if I go blind!"
A long pause.
Green Eyes scoffed and let her go. She did not miss the warmth.
"What's a front? You said something's front."
"Why were you here? Doesn't seem like the place to not-dance," she challenged.
Recognition filtered through his eyes. Oh. He hadn't a faintest clue who she was. It was thrilling, to get a one-up on this man.
"I was wandering."
"Lie."
"Really, we got lost."
"No."
"Fine," he conceded, running a hand through his hair. It became disheveled instantly, like it was its default state and just waiting for someone to run their fingers through. "An…underground rendezvous."
She stared. Made a few sweeping assessments and decided she was being had. She was rarely wrong.
"With that male companion? You do seem like the type to enjoy being under someone."
He coughed. A red flush grew up his neck and flooded his cheeks.
"Brocklehurst has cousins in Greece." She sniffed. "One of them is looking for a masculine rendezvous, if you can overlook their atrocious business trajectory."
She hobbled forward, decided her heels were the problem, and snatched them off. Green Eyes' stare erected the hairs on the back of her neck, following her until she was at a circular door made purely of dust and decaying wood. A maggot crawled out of a hinge.
"Fucking Brocklehurst," she muttered. When was the last time she crawled out of a hole? The Battle at Hogwarts, probably. An hour after McGonagall sent them to the dungeons, two explosions had sent everyone careening into the halls. Daphne had to crawl out from under a split portrait of Gorby the Grim to get to Astoria. Astoria had fallen unconscious, viscous blood spilling across tiles…
She shook her head.
Using the very tip of her pinky nail, she nudged the door open. It hit the shins of another man, the one from earlier, she assumed.
"Your boyfriend's inside," she barked. The man retreated, quizzical and confused. She gave him no heed as ire drove her inelegantly stumbling into a cluster of pinewood and oakwood trees.
What the hell, Brocklehurst.
The dirt gave way under her sharp heels. She snapped each stiletto off, tried—and failed—to transfigure them into a wedge, and ultimately abandoned the shoes altogether near the porthole.
She blinked twice to adjust her eyes to the natural light filtering through the canopies formed by interlocking branches. Better than Green Eyes swinging around his wand like a debonair knight, but it begged the question: where and how and why was there a tunnel running under the Brocklehurst woods?
The wooden grate swung open again. Green Eyes poked his head outside.
"Miss—" he started. His hand was on his thigh.
Daphne's eyes widened. He wouldn't…maim her, would he? Not when he could have left her writhing in the Snare?
He looked genuinely apologetic. A click, and his wand was unsheathed.
"Sorry about this, but duty—"
Synchronous giggles, both male and female, trickled through the trees. A bumbling pair made their appearance thereafter, but before Daphne could get a good look, she was being swung towards the porthole, its edges catching onto her upper thigh.
Green Eyes' stare was pleading.
She peered over his shoulder. She recognized Zacharias Smith's oily hair and a strawberry-blonde haired woman whose identity she immediately whittled down to three Ravenclaws in the year above hers. Calculations borne of years of observation.
Green Eyes was still, only, Green Eyes, and he was peering at her with the utmost warning.
"Fuck," he cursed under his breath.
"I'm sorry, what—"
He placed both hands on her hips and leaned forward, until her shoulder felt the weight of his breath.
"Oh," Smith chuckled. "Seems like we weren't the only ones with naughty ideas for today."
The woman with him locked eyes with Daphne. Daphne felt her cheeks burn, looking away, but that meant looking at Green Eyes' forehead.
Green Eyes breathed in even measures. There was chocolate and lemonade on his breath, broomstick polish and firewood in his scent, and shoulders made of stone.
His gaze was locked on the bottom of her jaw. He was trying, very hard to his credit, not to look at her bosom, and his thumbs were rubbing circles on her hips in motions too practiced to be anything but reflex.
At some point the idiot couple had bimbled off.
They, however, had yet to part.
And, she was barefoot, there was a twig digging into her already swollen foot, and she wondered if she had not gone and died in the Snare to be sent into this hallucinatory afterlife. It seemed criminal, in hindsight, to have avoided death consistently during Seventh Year when some of her classmates died at the wand of the first Death Eater they spotted.
"Are you done?"
Green Eyes stopped his visual molestation of her mouth and jaw. "Sorry?"
Daphne tried her best to stare down at him despite the height difference. "Groping me."
He startled and leapt back a pace. "Sorry—er—I couldn't think of what else to do - "
It's not as though she was complaining, really, and at some put her hands, too, had found themselves on his back. Which unfortunately confirmed he was made more of stone than flesh, and any longer in his presence risked losing the rest of her with, however few they may have been after both an emotional and physical whirlwind of an hour in the greenhouse.
"Wait—"
"Goodbye, sir."
A creaking noise. "We need to go." Green Eyes' friend peered ominously from behind the creaking porthole door.
Green Eyes at Daphne, his friend, and back at Daphne. He departed with no further explanation.
She turned around, ripped off her mask and left in a huff. She couldn't care to see what the duo were up to, if indeed it was a game of slap and tickle in the dirt, and the sight of Zacharias Smith writhing against Marietta Edgecombe against a tree further solidified her vendetta to leave the luncheon, immediately.
After a bout of changing directions and tripping over tree roots, Daphne found herself back at the greenhouse. She'd called Knobby, their house-elf, to fetch her some new shoes and tried to salvage her clothes with as many smoothing charms as she could.
More importantly, Astoria had been left unaccompanied for an hour. Who knows what unsavory idiot was at her side, though Astoria had enough skill in discouraging slimy suitors on her own.
It wasn't that Daphne didn't trust her. No, Pansy and that rowdy bunch were wrong. Erecta refused to help, preferring to remain utterly useless in her empty home. And Thomas Greengrass failed them, preferring to be a coward living out in various decrepit homes among pissing hobos in Wales, than being a man. At least Lucius Malfoy was in Azkaban, repenting, where his family could visit him.
Daphne halted the angsty line of thought when Knobby returned with a pair of lovely green kitten heels that she could manage with a swollen foot. With luck, no one would notice. Daphne cast a final smoothing charm and fixed her hair in the reflection before re-emerging onto the premises.
"Daphne," greeted Theo, who saw her first.
Daphne glared, fixing her mask in place. "Aren't you supposed to be with your new friends."
"What?"
She looked pointedly at the raggedy crew meandering near the greenhouse's entrance. Her guess was half right; the unknown one who thought her an insipid peeping Tom was an Argentenian quidditch player.
"Good day. I would prefer not to meddle further."
Understanding dawned on him. "Daphne—"
Daphne moved forward with purpose, as always and undeterred. Just be good enough for her sister. Everyone and everything else fell to the wayside. It really didn't matter if Theo, or Pansy, or anyone she knew long enough and thought to be a friend, didn't think of her highly enough to defend her. She wasn't on the marriage market. So what if they failed in defending her honor? She had Astoria, and that was enough.
She found Astoria dancing with Draco.
There were seven couples on the conjured floor. The buffet tables had been moved to the outskirts to allow space for romancing men and swooning women to spin around a tall pinewood in a semi-erotic pagan ritual-like formation.
Draco held Astoria close. Too close to be proper. But Astoria didn't push him away. She spun around, her frock lifting to reveal a tantalizing stretch of leg, beckoning him closer. He set her forehead on hers. She spoke in low tones.
Daphne moved to intervene but Mandy Brocklehurst intercepted her first, recognizable from the coral-colored dress with real reefs sewn into the hem (it was all Mandy could speak about in the days leading up to the season), holding a plate of canapés that she absolutely must try, and Astoria continued to spin further and further away until the tree hid her from sight. A horde of gentlemen followed closely behind Mandy, each trying to catch her attention.
Mandy, however, felt it necessary to bother Daphne instead of attending to her own suitors. An ill-advised strategy of playing hard to get, maybe.
"Please," Mandy insisted, handing her a canapé. "If this is your first time at our estate, you must absolutely try the fresh catch from our lake."
Daphne inhaled sharply and bit into the cream-smeared cracker topped with smoked salmon. It was good, but Astoria and Draco were twirling behind the towering tree where she couldn't see them.
"The man with the green eyes, over there," Mandy lifted her chin, a movement sure to be conspicuous. The men behind her hissed. "Do you know him? He's watching. Do you think he could introduce us?"
Daphne's gaze flickered over to where Mandy had gestured just quick enough to avoid locking eyes with Green Eyes. "No."
Astoria and Draco emerged on the other side, but had stopped. A couple bumped behind them but they acted as if they had no care.
"Oh." Mandy rubbed her forehead.
"I do hope you find someone," she looked pointedly at the twittering men behind her, pretending to sweep dust off their suits, "But I am rather busy at the moment."
Draco lifted his hand to Astoria's slick straight tresses.
"Oh! The one next to the chocolate sparkler is also looking this way. Do you know who he is?" continued Mandy.
Daphne kept herself from emitting a strangled noise.
Draco's hand refused to leave Astoria's head.
Would it be rude to sweep one of the men onto the dance floor and accidentally bump into them?
Mandy nudged her again. Daphne swore and followed her line of sight, instantly recognizing Terence Higgs from his top hat. Only one man ever adored top hats as he did.
Higgs was adequate. Except he sweated too much, suffered from halitosis, and had an ongoing relationship with a Turkish half-blood princess that his mother disapproved of. But if it distracted Mandy and released the other suitors starving for her attention…
"I believe that's Terrence Higgs. Former seeker of the Slytherin quidditch team, rich."
Mandy put the empty plate in her hands and abandoned her immediately. The minute-long exchange had afforded Draco more opportunity to fondle Astoria's head.
Daphne was midway through developing a plan to approach Thornewood, and encourage him to invite Astoria to snack on the surprisingly good canapes on a bench near the greenhouse, but Astoria laughed.
Laughed. Not giggled daintily, but a laugh that came from below the nasal and could not be stopped.
Daphne closed her eyes, sighed, and spent her afternoon perched on said bench.
LADY BLUEBIRD'S COLUMN
It seems the Brocklehurst family has proven themselves well. New as they may be, their daughter has caught the attention of Terrence Higgs. The sun may sweat him out, but in the evenings he is known to be an attentive man, coffers filled to the brim. The timing is serendipitous, given the Brocklehurst's apparent love for traps and ensnarement on their property; one too many eager couples, consisting of wordsmiths and honeycombs, descending upon trees and tunnels to revisit primal tendencies. A return to nature indeed.
Next, concerning the overuse of plaid...
There was one toothbrush.
At times, there were four, sometimes three, and usually two. Never one.
One was the prescient number these days. Rarely two, if Hermione was feeling somber herself and decided to stay the night to keep him company.
Harry wasn't Hermione. He managed just fine, alone, if he kept himself busy. To her credit, she was further along in readjusting her life without dating a Weasley than he was, and he suspected it would be at least a few more months before he could join her at the weekly Sunday family brunch at the Burrow.
Ron had tentatively asked him to join him and Dean in a scrappy quidditch match that night at Eldergrove Park.
He wasn't sure yet. He wasn't sure of most things these days, the only certainty when his wand was pointed at someone. Between a life before Ginny and after Ginny, somethings, at least, carried over.
"Harry? Are you alright in there? It's been twenty minutes."
Harry spat into the sink and vanished the remains. "Coming."
Hermione greeted him at the dining table with two paper bags of baghrir from a local muggle Moroccan cafe.
"I thought you were brooding again."
"I don't brood, Hermione." Harry pulled out old plates. Ginny hated them, but they had belonged to Sirius. "Shouldn't you be at the Burrow?" Ten am, Sunday, eating among at least a dozen redheads. A routine he'd followed himself for six years.
Hermione slid the spongy semolina pancakes onto the old porcelain and summoned two cups for water.
"I missed you."
"You saw me two days ago in a meeting with Kingsley."
She pinked. "That wasn't catching up, that was yelling at him for dallying on the house-elf legislation."
Harry shook his head and bit into the breakfast. At least Hermione seemed…to be back in usual spirits. He hoped he would be there too, in a month or so. Maybe six.
They ate in companionable silence. Hermione's company was usually comfortable, and uncomplicated. Both orphaned children, only children, having been raised by muggles. The thought of her parents, still obliviated and living in Australia, made him think of all she'd sacrificed for him, for them, so he thanked her for breakfast with more sincerity and vigor than necessary.
He'd been a terrible friend for the last few months. He knew that. He simply…didn't know how to move forward.
Find the stone.
Find the Chamber.
Find Sirius Black, find the cup, find the sword, find the half-blood Prince, destroy the cup! Kill the snake! Kill the Dark Lord!
Then what?
He was promised normalcy.
Get the job. Move up in ranks. Propose! Marry! Have kids!
Somewhere between the job and proposing, him and Ginny decided there was nowhere to go.
"You're brooding again," accused Hermione. "Did something happen yesterday?"
Frosty blue eyes and soft bare feet.
He blinked, rousing from his discomfort. "Babysitting a dozen purebloods isn't nearly as fun as Robards made it out to be."
"Oh, but I've been reading the columns. It certainly is…interesting, these courting rituals." Hermione scratched her chin. A wicked gleam appeared in her eye. "I heard even Hannah Abbott's participating. I can introduce you?"
He rolled his eyes. "I already know Hannah, and no thanks. Work is busy."
"Babysitting, you mean."
His floo sprung to life, which was never a good sign on a Sunday morning. "Tell those house-elves I said hi."
"You think you're funny," she sniffed, pulling open the Sunday Prophet.
"But I am." Harry ducked into the parlor and crouched. Yellow flames twisted high as they made out Robards' grim face.
"Harry, sorry to call on a day off."
"Anything for the job," he quipped.
Robards ignored his bite. "Go to the Brocklehurst estate immediately with Gelbert. I've secured a search warrant."
"What? We didn't find anything yesterday."
"Well, it's in the papers. They'll remove everything if we don't get there in time. Page eight. See you in fifteen."
Robards disappeared.
"Page eight is the entertainment columns," called out Hermione, the nosey eavesdropper.
He read over her shoulder. A bunch of trite about the recent Soul Sisters band scandal, and an up and coming opera on Saigon Street, and then a column by one Lady Bluebird.
"Oh, that's funny." Hermione pointed to the line about wordsmiths and honeycombs.
Harry was more interested in the last line. Trees and tunnels.
Fuck.
He'd made a mistake. When Gilbert told him to go back to obliviate the mercurial woman, he'd somehow ended up sniffing her shoulder to avoid Smith and Edgecombe, he guessed, from seeing the entrance.
And forgot to obliviate her.
How did an Auror just forget how reconnaissance missions worked?
What if that woman was Lady Bluebird? No one else was there, or even knew, of the tunnels existence, as far as Harry and his colleagues knew.
What if it was a ploy by the Brocklehursts, having sniffed out a possible infiltration and sent someone to sabatoge him? But no one would willingly jump into a Devil's Snare. No one sane, and the woman seemed perfectly sane, if a little irritable.
Speaking of which, he'd never spotted the Snare until she'd ceremoniously fallen on him. Which made him wonder why that was there in the first place, as a form of tortured access to the greenhouse.
Either way, he needed to find Lady Bluebird, before she did him—or his job—any further damage.