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This story is a collaboration work between Avoranger and Cal the Wandcrafter!

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"Mornin', Mum, Dad, Astoria," Daphne chimed cheerfully, taking her customary seat at the breakfast table. Her younger sister greeted her with a beaming smile, the sunlight filtering through the kitchen window casting a warm glow on their faces. The past few days, since her unexpected time-travelling escapade had turned into the most peculiar chapter of her life. All manner of unexpected events had unfolded within her brain, as if the old memories were being brought to the surface and were battling with the new present. It had been extremely confusing for her at first before whatever shock to her memories had died down. She was sure her occasionally spaced out gaze had not helped her case, creating an air of tension and vigilance within her family after her apparently sick spell. It seemed her parents had assumed the roles of protective hawks, watching her every move with unwavering intensity. Even her little sister clung to her like a stubborn leech, refusing to let her out of her sight for even a moment, much to Daphne's growing annoyance.

"Dad, Mum mentioned you had a Wizengamot trial yesterday. Who was on trial? What kind of criminal were they?" Daphne fired off a series of questions, her voice brimming with genuine curiosity and a touch of impatience. She skillfully piled her plate high with steaming scrambled eggs, succulent sausages, and freshly toasted bread, generously spreading a thick layer of butter on top.

Cyrus, her father, looked up from his newspaper, his eyes sparkling with pride and affection as he gazed at his eldest daughter. "Good morning, my dear."

"Morning, Dad. So..." Daphne's impatience was palpable, her appetite for knowledge eager to be sated - she had a vague memory of this trial being important of her future, now past, she supposed with regret, fiancee, and was curious as to its details. Cyrus had always appreciated her insatiable curiosity, her mind hungry for information. He had always nurtured the hope that she would follow in his footsteps, pursuing a career in economics and business. Daphne possessed a razor-sharp intellect, coupled with a cool-headedness that allowed her to make sound judgments and quick decisions. He and his wife, Isabella, had originally planned to commence her studies this summer, guiding her towards a path of economic success. However, the current climate of fear and uncertainty surrounding Voldemort's ominous return had cast a shadow of doubt in his mind. Still, Cyrus resolved to broach the subject with Daphne, seeking her thoughts and, if she agreed, they would embark on her lessons in the coming week.

He folded up his paper, a warm chuckle escaping his lips as he witnessed his daughter's impatience. Daphne's eagerness for answers never failed to amuse him. "Believe it or not, it was Harry Potter," he began, his voice laced with intrigue. "The trial was a sight to behold, I must say. I've seen nothing quite like it in all my years. He effortlessly refuted every single charge against him, much to Fudge's bitter dismay. The man was positively seething. First time I've ever been glad to have been called into the Wizengamont!" His laughter filled the room, the memory of the trial still fresh in his mind.

Daphne's attention was immediately captivated, her curiosity piqued by the unexpected answer. Harry Potter—the name itself held a weighty significance in their world. She leaned in, hanging on her father's every word as he continued, painting a vivid picture of the trial's unfolding drama.

"Fudge decided to turn the hearing into a grand spectacle, a full-blown trial before the Wizengamot," Cyrus divulged, shaking his head at the former Minister's misguided actions. The gravity of the situation dawned on Daphne, recognizing the trial her father was referring to. It seemed different from the accounts Harry had shared with her, stirring a whirlwind of questions in her mind. But for now, she focused on her father's narrative, eagerly absorbing the details he divulged.

"Can you imagine? He was charged with using underage magic, casting a Patronus to fight off dementors!" Cyrus continued, his voice tinged with admiration. "And get this! He clearly knows his way around the law, because he quoted some law about misusing government assets! It was quite elegant, the way he outsmarted Fudge. I'm fairly sure Amelia is going to try everything she can to get him in as a public defendant when he passes his NEWTs, with the way he was speaking just like a seasoned lawyer." A nod of agreement emphasised his appreciation for the young wizard's wit and resilience. Eager to satisfy Daphne's thirst for knowledge, Cyrus handed her a section of the newspaper, a gateway to the trial's intricacies. "Here, you can read some of the trial details in the newspaper. And if you want the full story, I can show you my memories later," he offered, a mischievous wink accompanying his words.

But duty called, tugging at Cyrus's time. He planted a tender kiss on Daphne's cheek and then turned to Astoria, showering her with affection before rushing out the door. The remnants of his laughter trailed behind him, leaving Daphne to delve into the newspaper's pages and unravel the captivating tale of Harry Potter's trial. She wolfed down her breakfast and rushed to her room, newspaper in hand, ignoring her sister's calls.

After throwing a few protective charms around her room and locking the door to prevent Astoria from barging in, Daphne frantically flipped through the pages of the newspaper until she found what she was looking for. The trial results were laid out before her, clearly different from what she had remembered from Harry's trial and what he had told her. Her father had been spot on in his deductions, and whoever had documented the results of yesterday's trial had done an excellent job. As she leaned back against her bed, a smirk crept onto her face. This meant that her Harry was back as well, and her mind raced with plans for how they would get through the upcoming year.


Harry savoured every mouthful of his breakfast, the rich flavours of eggs and toast dancing on his palate. The dining room echoed with the animated banter of Sirius and Remus, their voices swirling like a familiar melody. Tales of their youthful escapades spilled forth, weaving a tapestry of mischief and mayhem that tugged at Harry's lips, coaxing forth laughter.

The mischievous duo had ignited a spark within the Weasley twins, Fred and George, whose eyes glimmered with a potent brew of anticipation and glee. Harry couldn't help but empathise with their kindred spirits, knowing all too well the repercussions that awaited those unlucky enough to fall victim to their audacious pranks. A wry shake of his head was all he could muster in an attempt to contain his mirth, a feeble dam against the torrent of amusement threatening to burst forth. Harry observed their interaction, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips. In the aftermath of Fred's passing, George had become more withdrawn, his vibrant spirit dimmed. But Ron, ever loyal and supportive, had stepped up to help him in the shop, doing his utmost to fill the void left by his brother.

It was heartwarming to see Ron's unwavering commitment to his family, his dedication shining through as he tried to bring a sense of normalcy back to George's life. Yet, Harry couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness for his friend. The loss they all experienced was profound, and it had left a lasting impact on George, casting a shadow over his once effervescent personality.

Yet, in the midst of their jovial chatter, a flock of owls descended upon the room, a flurry of feathers and purpose. Each avian messenger clutched a copy of the day's newspaper, bearing tidings and tales from beyond the confines of their enchanted castle. With nimble reflexes, Harry snatched one of the papers from the air, his eyes swiftly tracing the bold headline that adorned the front page. And there, to his astonishment, he beheld a photograph of himself, a visage etched with triumph, nestled beneath a caption that ignited a knowing grin upon his lips.

The journalists had woven an accurate tapestry of the trial's events, their words etching reality onto the printed page. Harry, immersed in the ink-stained revelations, felt a flicker of satisfaction, a fleeting sense that justice had, indeed, been served. No sugar-coating, no deceitful twists—just the unvarnished truth, stark and unyielding.

But as the euphoria swelled within him, Hermione materialised like a spectre, her penetrating gaze fixated upon him. The weight of her interrogation settled upon his shoulders, and Harry struggled to maintain composure, a bead of unease trickling down his spine.

"How...how did you manage that?" Hermione's voice quivered with disbelief, her eyes widening like saucers. "I gave you the material on law just two days ago. How is it possible that you've absorbed and applied them so effortlessly? I know you are smart, Harry, but this is just unbelievable!"

Harry let out a tired sigh, clearly showing his weariness as he spoke to Hermione. "You know, Hermione, I've actually been studying law for a while," he lied, his voice carrying a touch of exhaustion. "When Sirius busted out back in third year, I didn't even know he was my godfather, and nobody knew he was innocent. While you and Ron were busy fighting your own battles that year, I started digging into the law. I wanted to know how trials work, you know? Maybe find some info on Auror work or if I could be a witness when they caught him. And during the tournament, I was knee-deep in ministry artefacts and contracts, trying to find a way out of that deathtrap." Harry leaned back, retracing the wild twists and turns of the past in his mind. "Didn't get immediate results, but today, when things got super intense, all that knowledge actually came in handy." A glimmer of pride coloured his words, a flicker of hope that Hermione would get where he was coming from. But then Sirius started indignantly going on about how innocent he was.

"Technically, you're a fugitive, Sirius. Plus, how was I supposed to know that you were my godfather without anyone telling me?" Harry pointed out. "If I hadn't eavesdropped on McGonagall at the Three Broomsticks when I sneaked into Hogsmeade, I might never have known."

Hermione nodded slowly, clearly impressed by Harry's resourcefulness. "I forgot about that," she said, her eyes twinkling. "You are very resourceful, Harry. I'm glad you used your knowledge for good. Maybe this year you will even study more on your own?" She teased with mirth in her smile.

Before Hermione could get a word in, Harry pressed on, his words spilling out eagerly. "You were quite busy at the time, Hermione, what with that mysterious and extravagant broomstick gifted to me by an unknown benefactor." Harry cast a sly glance at Sirius, who beamed with pride, relishing in his mischievousness. But his joy was short-lived as Remus playfully cuffed him on the back of the head. "And," he continued, "We didn't speak for a while, and while you all were all partying in Hogsmeade, I was left to my own devices trapped in the castle," Harry grumbled, his tone laced with a hint of sarcasm. He took a sip of pumpkin juice, trying to hide his eye roll.

"Oh, sure, Mr. Invisibility-Cloak-And-Map-Of-Secret-Passages, do carry on about-" Hermione interjected, her voice dripping with sarcasm. But before she could continue, a flock of owls swooped in, dropping their Hogwarts letters. One of the letters landed before Harry, and Hermione shot him a curious look before finally giving in to the temptation and opening her own letter. With a forced grin, Harry began to open his letter, even though he knew what it would say.

As the parchment unfolded in his hands, Harry's eyes roamed the room, absorbing every detail. His gaze settled on Kreacher, the grumpy house-elf, diligently scrubbing the glass cabinets while muttering insults to himself. A conversation with the cantankerous creature would be necessary, Harry decided, but his train of thought was abruptly derailed by Hermione's sudden exclamation.

Turning towards her, a proud smile gracing his lips, Harry beheld Hermione holding up a badge proudly displaying the letter 'P' in bold. The admiration in Sirius' voice filled the air as he clapped his hands together, a wide grin stretching across his face. The praise showered upon Hermione made her cheeks flush with a delicate shade of pink, but it couldn't dampen the satisfaction bubbling within her.

"Congratulations, Hermione!" she heard herself exclaim, her smile radiating brighter than the luminescence of a Lumos Maxima spell. Her gaze fixated on the prefect pin, eyes widening with a mix of awe and admiration. Yet her mind swiftly shifted gears, contemplating her fellow prefects. Who were they, she wondered. What were they like? And most importantly, who would be sharing the Gryffindor position with her?

Hermione's curiosity ignited like a spark in her mind when she realised the absence of a badge on Harry's letter. Surely he would have been chosen as the male prefect, she thought to herself. How could he conceal such a momentous secret from everyone, particularly with Sirius present in the room? Yet, there he stood, unfazed and unaffected by the revelation.

In the wake of Harry's recent illness, Hermione had observed a metamorphosis in her friend. He exuded a newfound composure, a self-assurance that had eluded him before. Wit and sarcasm danced effortlessly from his lips, leaving Hermione both intrigued and perplexed. She battled against the niggling doubts that crept into her thoughts, reminding herself that she had been absent from Harry's side for nearly a month. Perhaps he was simply maturing, blossoming into a version of himself that had been dormant all along.

The mischievous banter of the Weasley twins captured her attention, drawing her gaze towards her other steadfast companion, Ron. There, in his hands, he held his own prefect badge, his face a mixture of astonishment and disbelief. Harry's broad grin and heartfelt congratulations to Ron flooded Hermione's heart with an overwhelming surge of pride for her dear friends.

"Blimey! Do you see that, Gred?" one of the mischievous twins exclaimed, his finger pointing at Ron, who stood there, his grip tight around the prefect badge, his face a mixture of shock and embarrassment. The heat of crimson flushed Ron's cheeks, fueled by the merciless teasing.

"Indeed, Forge, our dear Ronniekins has ascended to the celestial realm of authority, just like Percy. Shall we prepare for the arrival of the next Bighead Boy?" the other twin chimed in, their voices laden with exaggerated theatrics.

Mrs. Weasley, her motherly instincts honed to perfection, swiftly intervened, her voice carrying the weight of stern reprimand. "Enough of your nonsense, both of you!" she scolded, hastening to Ron's side and enveloping him in a tight, proud embrace. "Oh, my dear son! I am bursting with pride for you!" she exclaimed, her lips planting a kiss brimming with affection on his flushed cheek. Ron's face blazed with a hue deeper than a ripe tomato, buoyed by his mother's unabashed adoration.

Hermione, observing the scene unfolding before her, couldn't help but deduce the magnitude of Ron's appointment as a prefect. With a quick glance in Harry's direction, who seemed content with the news, she shook her head, dismissing any lingering doubts. Determined, she made her way over to Ron, her steps resolute, ready to extend her heartfelt congratulations to her friend.


The next day, Cyrus Greengrass knocked on the door of his old boss's office. "Amelia! Did you summon me?" he said with a mischievous grin, his head poking through the slightly ajar office door. She tore her gaze away from the mountainous stack of Ministry paperwork, removing her monocle and massaging her temple, beckoning him to enter.

"As punctual as ever, I see. Please, take a seat," she beckoned, her voice tinged with a hint of weariness.

"I've always believed that punctuality forges one's character, and time, my dear, is synonymous with money," he remarked casually, settling himself in the chair before her desk.

Amelia, her patience waning, scolded him, "Cyrus, show a little more seriousness, if you please."

"But I am serious!" he protested, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "So, this summons... I presume it's not in my capacity as a member of the Wizengamot?" he queried, his tone laced with curiosity.

"You're right, not this time," Amelia affirmed, her voice firm. "As the head of the Internal Affairs department, I have an assignment that I believe will pique your interest."

Cyrus, ever the nonchalant soul, rose from his seat and strolled over to the counter, effortlessly brewing a pot of tea without awaiting permission. "Sugar?" he inquired, his movements as graceful as a seasoned dancer.

"One cube," Amelia replied, her fatigue momentarily alleviated. Cyrus deftly added the requested cube of sugar, stirring the tea with a few well-practised motions before serving it to Amelia, a gesture of care amidst their impending investigation.

"Thanks," she murmured, savouring the taste of the tea as it danced upon her palate. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes, allowing the warm liquid to provide a fleeting respite from her weariness. "I could use something stronger than this, but I suppose it will have to do," she sighed, her voice tinged with a hint of longing.

"You must be exhausted," he observed, his gaze briefly drifting towards the towering stacks of paperwork. Adding a dash of milk to his tea, he stirred it with a contemplative air.

"Fudge is an absolute joke," she lamented, her frustration palpable. "He actually had the audacity to threaten me for dropping the charges against Harry Potter! And that repugnant pet toad of his... I find myself tempted to feed her to the Dementors or perhaps toss her into the veil in the Department of Mysteries," she mused, her words causing him to wince. Were he in Amelia's shoes, he would likely have a similar reaction. "Can you dig into his finances once again?" she inquired, her tone beseeching.

He took a slow sip of his tea, his gaze drifting into the realm of deep thought. "I'm afraid that we both know what that would entail, and Lucius is far too slippery to be caught in the financial net," he stated, his voice laced with resignation. "However, you need not worry. I'll continue my discreet investigations behind the scenes as always," he assured her, a mischievous wink accompanying his words. "I'm sure that's not the sole reason you summoned me," he added, a playful glimmer in his eyes. "If there are any intriguing cases that have captured your attention, I don't mind delving into them before we resort to a full-blown raid. It feels like ages since we last conducted one, ever since Fudge assumed the position of Minister and his Undersecretary joined the picture," he rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I'm bored to death," he confessed, a tinge of longing evident in his voice.

Amelia nodded solemnly, fully in agreement with Cyrus. Fudge had indeed transformed the Ministry into his personal playground, but not in any positive sense. It was all about appearances, a façade of power and control. Since Fudge had taken office, everything seemed to stagnate, if not worsen. The decline was evident, and it had detrimental consequences for all involved.

The glaring incompetence in problem-solving was another irksome aspect that Fudge seemed unwilling to address. Take, for instance, his handling of the Barty Crouch Jr. case. Instead of conducting a thorough interrogation to extract valuable information about the previous war, Fudge stubbornly ordered an immediate Kiss. It was a foolish move, disregarding the potential asset that the Auror Department could have gained.

Moreover, the Auror Department had been dealt a heavy blow when Fudge decided to slash the budget significantly. In his misguided belief that Aurors didn't truly require such resources, he left them vulnerable and ill-equipped. Amelia couldn't help but scoff internally. Did Fudge think that Dragon-skin armour grew on trees to protect his Auror guards?

Adding to her mounting frustrations, Amelia couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that there was a traitor lurking within the ranks of the Internal Affairs department. It was a gut feeling, backed by the constant thwarting of their raid plans whenever Fudge managed to get wind of them. They had to tread with utmost caution, especially if they were to have any chance of removing Fudge from power. However, the return of Voldemort posed a dilemma, a quandary that weighed heavily on her mind.

Suddenly, a word caught Amelia's attention, jolting her from her reverie. She swiftly turned her head towards Cyrus, who maintained his characteristic sour expression.

"What did you just say?" she prompted, her interest instantly piqued by his words.

He frowned, noticing her momentary lapse in attention. "You weren't paying attention!" he exclaimed, a tinge of teasing evident in his voice.

"Yes I was, just repeat what you just said," she requested, determined not to miss any crucial details.

With a sigh, he obliged. "You need to get some sleep, Amelia. All these late hours must be getting to you. I was suggesting that we look into the suspicious individuals who have been spotted lurking around the Department of Mysteries, particularly at night. You know Johnson in the Sanitation Department? He's an old friend of mine from the baccarat club I used to be a part of. He's told me there have been people spotted patrolling the halls down there. It's as if the Unspeakables have been clandestinely hiring people without proper authorization. There's been an influx of extra individuals in the department, and it raises questions about their origins and their source of funding. It's quite concerning, and I believe it's high time we conduct a raid to uncover the truth," he declared, a glint of concern and unwavering determination shining in his eyes.

Amelia couldn't help but chuckle softly, finding his proposition both intriguing and worrisome. "I shall certainly investigate this matter further. It's a valid point you raise, and we must get to the bottom of it. It seems there might be more going on within the Department of Mysteries than meets the eye," she mused, taking another sip from her now-cold tea.

He shrugged, his curiosity evident in his expression. "So, what is it that you actually wanted to discuss with me, if it's not related to these matters?"

Meeting his gaze directly, she spoke with unwavering composure. "I recently invited Harry Potter to my office a few days ago," she revealed, observing his attentive posture as he carefully nursed his cup.

"Ah, yes. I heard about that. You invited him quite openly. Tell me, what are your impressions of him? Do you think he's anything like the fool Fudge has portrayed him to be in the papers all summer?" he inquired nonchalantly, eliciting a scoff from Amelia in response.

"He was as brilliant as he was during the trial. It's clear that he has dedicated himself to studying the law, even before it officially began, which is more than can be said for most wizards," Cyrus smirked, noticing the admiration shining in Amelia's eyes at the mention of the boy-who-lived. "I must admit, I initially thought he was taking the path of self-destruction when he declared himself his own lawyer. I never imagined it would be a success. It just goes to show how foolish it was to underestimate him, even if he is just a fifth year."

Amelia chuckled, thoroughly amused by Cyrus's swift change in expression. "Indeed, I was thoroughly impressed. It has been a long time since I witnessed such an exhilarating trial," he commented, rolling her eyes playfully at his reaction. "You should have seen the look on my daughter's face when she watched the trial in the pensieve. She was absolutely captivated. Sometimes I get the feeling that she might have a little crush on him," he added with a hint of concern in his voice.

"Well, if you don't want him to be your son-in-law, then I might just have to encourage Susan to make a move before other girls swoop in," Amelia said playfully, a mischievous glint in her eyes, eliciting a hearty laugh from Cyrus.

"We shall see," Cyrus replied with a smirk, his mind briefly pondering the possibilities.

"Ah, but on a more serious note, he brought something of great importance to my attention. I'm curious to know your opinion on the claims he has made regarding Voldemort's return," Amelia inquired, her expression growing serious as she leaned forward, awaiting Cyrus's response.

Cyrus leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful as he considered Amelia's question. After a brief moment of contemplation, he spoke, his voice laced with a hint of scepticism.

"Well, Amelia, I must confess that I have my doubts about the validity of Harry's claims. The return of Voldemort... it seems almost too unbelievable, doesn't it? But on the other hand...," he paused, his gaze drifting momentarily to a nearby bookshelf, before returning to meet Amelia's eyes, "there is a nagging thought in the back of my mind."

Amelia raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "And what might that thought be?"

Cyrus leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly. "Ever since the revelation that Barty Crouch Jr. was still alive, posing as Moody and wreaking havoc within Hogwarts, it became clear that something had gone amiss. It hinted at a deeper infiltration, a network of supporters and followers. It's difficult to believe that such an elaborate scheme could have been carried out by a single individual alone."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "So, While I may be sceptical, I am also open to the possibility that there are forces at work beyond our comprehension. It's hard to ignore the underlying truth that something significant must have taken place."

Amelia nodded, her expression serious. "I agree, Cyrus. We cannot afford to be complacent. We need to gather more information, follow any leads, and assess the situation with caution. Harry may have sparked our curiosity, but it is up to us to uncover the truth."

He grinned at his old friend and leaned forward in his chair. "Fortunately, uncovering the truth is what this branch of the DMLE does the best."


Daphne's lithe frame was drenched in a sheen of perspiration, a testament to the relentless battle she had waged with her father. The echoes of their clash still reverberated through her joints, causing them to ache with a piercing intensity. In her youthful enthusiasm, she had grossly miscalculated the toll it would exact on her fifteen-year-old physique, which now seemed alarmingly sluggish and unconditioned compared to her honed and battle-hardened self at twenty-eight. Her attempts to follow her usual warm up from the future had backfired miserably on her unprepared body, and a profound exhaustion clung to her like an unwelcome spectre.

Summoning her remaining strength, Daphne pushed herself off the ground, determined to rise once more. But before she could regain her footing, her father's eyes gleamed with mischief, and a mischievous flick of his wand sent an invisible force barreling towards her legs. The jinx struck her like a battering ram, knocking her off balance, and she crashed back onto the unforgiving mat.

A triumphant grin stretched across her father's face as he towered above her, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Tell me, Daphne, where has your arrogance from the beginning of the match disappeared to?" he taunted, revelling in her temporary defeat.

Gasping for precious breath, her voice strained yet defiant, Daphne retorted, "I haven't given up, father! I just need a moment to catch my breath." Her eyes closed, seeking solace in the darkness, as she desperately tried to regain composure and recover from the onslaught of physical and mental exhaustion.

Moments later, her eyelids fluttered open, and she caught a glimpse of her father, briefly off-guard, as he stood near the training dummy. The moment seized her like lightning, and a spark of determination ignited within her core. Sensing an opportunity, she steadied herself and silently counted to three, channelling her energy into a stinging hex aimed at the dummy. The spell whizzed through the air, striking its target with a satisfying impact, and her father's eyes darted to it as she had hoped.

Capitalising on her father's momentary distraction, Daphne unleashed a swift knockback jinx, her wand slicing through the air with precision. However, her triumph was short-lived. With preternatural reflexes, her father deflected the jinx effortlessly, his movements a blur of practised skill. And just as quickly as she had risen, Daphne found herself once again flat on her back, ensnared within the unyielding grip of a full-body bind curse.

Frustration mingled with self-recrimination as she lay helplessly, cursing her own underestimation of her father's prowess and bemoaning the limitations of her young, developing body. In the depths of her disappointment, an unwavering resolve emerged, fueled by a burning desire for improvement. The realisation settled deep within her being—more practice was an undeniable necessity if she were to match the calibre of her father.

A head shake mingled with amusement and a hint of disappointment escaped Cyrus Greengrass as he regarded his daughter, his eyes reflecting both paternal pride and a teacher's critique. "Daphne, my beautiful daughter," he began, his voice carrying a touch of regret. "You still have much to learn. Your movements lack the swiftness and agility required to prevail. However, I must admit, your diversionary tactics with the dummy were impressive. You've got a sharp mind, just as I expected from you. But it takes more than a sharp mind to win a fight." Cyrus let out a sigh, his voice firm yet tinged with a touch of concern. "Starting tomorrow, we're going to focus on improving your physical endurance. I want you to run around the manor as many times as you can for three sets of ten minutes each. In-between, do three sets of fifty push-ups and sit-ups, giving yourself a five minute break for each set. We won't resume duelling until you've shown significant progress. Are you with me on this?" His words held a sense of challenge, leaving room for Daphne to prove herself.

Frustration etched across her face, Daphne struggled to her feet, running a hand through her dishevelled hair. Looking directly at her father, she spoke with a mix of determination and a touch of defiance. "I won't let you down, father," she affirmed, her voice brimming with confidence. She was ready to face the challenge head-on, eager to prove her worth and earn her father's approval.

Cyrus Greengrass loomed over his daughter, his tall figure exuding a commanding aura. His voice carried a sense of authority as he nodded in approval. "Good," he confirmed, a hint of satisfaction underlying his words. "Take a moment to collect yourself. I've heard that your friend will be..." His sentence trailed off as the doorway filled with the radiant presence of his wife. A warm smile graced her lips, casting a gentle glow upon the room. Daphne's heart swelled with affection for her mother, and a reciprocal smile blossomed on her face, illuminating her determination and unwavering spirit.

"Mother," she said, greeting her warmly.

"Are you two done? Tracey is here, Daphne dear," her mother chimed in, her smile widening. The mention of Tracey's name caught Daphne off guard, momentarily forgetting that her friend would be staying at their house until a few days before they left for Hogwarts. She bit her lip in frustration, quickly refocusing her attention on her father's words.

"Before you go, there's one more thing," he continued, his tone firm yet not unkind. "Your knowledge of spells and curses is commendable, but I want you to delve deeper. Learn spell chains, broaden your repertoire. Can you do that?"

Daphne nodded, a tinge of disappointment lingering within her as she reflected on her performance during their training session. It infuriated her, the loss of ability while keeping her knowledge. Exhaustion from the duelling practice weighed heavily on her, making it difficult to rise from the mat. Her father, sensing her fatigue, offered a gentle squeeze to her shoulder.

"That's why it's called training," he reassured her, his voice filled with understanding. "Feeling weak is part of the process. With time and discipline, you will grow stronger. Apply yourself diligently and practise with determination. You're excelling in your other lessons, and I have no doubt you'll find your strength in this as well."

"Thanks, Dad," Daphne replied gratefully, watching as he left the room, leaving her in the company of her mother.

"I'll send Tracey to your room—" her mother began, but Tracey interrupted confidently.

"You don't need to do that, Mrs. Greengrass, I'm here," Tracey said, grinning.

Daphne smiled, feeling grateful to have such a supportive friend. "Let's go to my room then," she said, and they left together to catch up on their summer adventures before dinner.


"So, let me get this straight," Tracey began, her voice filled with disbelief. "Your dad offers you the chance to study economics and business, and what do you do? You go ahead and ask for duelling lessons too?"

Daphne just shrugged, feeling a bit unsure of how to defend herself, but she wasn't about to let it slide. "I mean, I guess it could be useful," she reasoned, trying to appeal to Tracey's practical side. "Especially considering how awful our Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers have been lately. Lupin was the only one worth a damn, don't you think?"

Tracey pondered that for a moment, then reluctantly nodded in agreement. Daphne had a valid point there.

Seizing on a moment of weakness, Daphne perked up, her voice laced with a teasing tone. "You know, maybe you should join me for some practice," she suggested.

Tracey's face scrunched up at the idea, and she protested with a dramatic flourish. "Oh, come on, Daphne! I'm here on vacation," she exclaimed, flinging her arms out for emphasis. "I plan on flying my heart out!"

Daphne winced at the mention of flying, well aware of Tracey's superior skills on a broomstick. But she wasn't about to let that discourage her.

"Well, if that's how you feel," she said, her voice tinged with a touch of regret, as she tried to keep her tone light. "But hey, at least come running with me every morning. It gets so lonely out there without a companion."

"Why don't you bring your sister along?" Tracey suggested, her eyes rolling skyward as if the thought of Daphne's younger sibling joining their running routine was ludicrous.

Daphne let out a disdainful snort, fully aware that her sister had no interest in any form of physical exertion. Resigned to the reality of solitary runs, she let out a soft sigh.

"Tory is way too young to keep up with us, so no, she's out. But you're my best friend," Daphne emphasised, her voice tinged with a hint of wistfulness.

Tracey scoffed, her tone laced with sarcasm. "Well, you always shoot me down whenever I invite you to join me on a broomstick," she retorted, flinging Daphne's previous rejections back at her. Daphne winced, the weight of her unfulfilled promises settling heavily upon her, as she thought about the future she knew was coming. A future where she would long for the freedom of flying on a broomstick.

Determined to make amends, Daphne cleared her throat, her tone becoming earnest. "I can make it up to you, Trace. I'm sorry for turning you down so many times. I promise, from now on, I won't reject you every time you ask me to fly." She gazed at Tracey with pleading eyes, feeling a sense of urgency to cherish every moment of freedom before the sands of time slipped away.

Tracey narrowed her eyes, scrutinising Daphne intently. After a moment of silent contemplation, her face broke into a mischievous grin. "Then let's fly right now! I've been itching to test out my new broomstick that I splurged on yesterday. Saved up my hard-earned money from two summers of part-time jobs. Finally got my hands on a shiny Nimbus 2000!" Her hazel eyes sparkled with uncontainable joy as she slung her broom bag over her shoulder.

Daphne couldn't help but chuckle at her friend's boundless enthusiasm, her laughter carrying a touch of melancholy that only she could understand. "But I'm still all sweaty from our duelling practice. How about I take a quick shower first, okay?" she suggested, heading towards the bathroom to freshen up before their upcoming flight. However, Tracey quickly blocked her path, determination shining in her eyes.

"No need for that! A little sweat never hurts anyone, plus you'll just get sweaty while we race around. You can shower later after we fly," she declared, grabbing Daphne's hand with a firm grip and pulling her out to the backyard, broom in hand.

Daphne hid a small, wistful smile as she watched Tracey's excitement, her heart heavy with both joy and sadness. Tracey's infectious spirit reminded Daphne of the vibrant future she once imagined, where the wind kissed her face as she soared through the sky. But Daphne knew all too well that her own destiny had taken a different turn. A path where her legs wouldn't carry her, where her dreams of flying would be forever grounded.

Tracey, eyes shimmering with anticipation, couldn't possibly grasp the weight of sadness that Daphne carried within her. She was oblivious to the tragic events that awaited them, events that would forever change her. Daphne couldn't help but feel a twinge of sorrow, knowing that Tracey's dreams of becoming a Quidditch athlete, of reaching for the stars on her broomstick, would be cruelly shattered by the hand of fate during the violence of the Second Wizarding War in '98. A curse would strike her down, leaving her paralyzed from the waist down, robbing her of the ability to ever fly again.

Tracey valiantly tried to keep up a facade of strength and positivity, refusing to let the world see the depth of her pain. But Daphne, her closest confidante, saw through the cracks in her armour. In the dead of night, she would wake up to the sound of Tracey's muffled sobs, evidence of the silent battles her friend fought within. Daphne, with unwavering determination, would argue, plead, and console, desperately trying to pull Tracey back from the edge of despair. Yet, Tracey, stubborn as ever, clung fiercely to her facade, unwilling to acknowledge the true weight of her grief.

Their friendship bore the weight of Tracey's traumatic experiences, but Daphne remained steadfast in her commitment to her friend. She knew that Tracey would never be the same after what she had endured, and it pained Daphne deeply. When Daphne found herself unexpectedly thrust back in time to a world untouched by war, she yearned with every fibre of her being to prevent the impending tragedy. Tracey, being a rare Muggle-born in the house of Slytherin, had spent seven years passing as a half-blood, concealing her true identity. However, when the Carrows demanded proof of blood status, the facade crumbled. Those who failed the test faced unimaginable torment and were imprisoned in the dungeons. Daphne still marvelled at how Tracey managed to evade capture, only to be caught in the midst of the ensuing chaos and violence of the battle. The lethal curses that flew that fateful day inflicted severe wounds upon Tracey, and Daphne could only hope that her friend would eventually find solace and healing in the years to come.

As they made their way to the front garden, Tracey unpacked two brooms, her shiny new Nimbus and her old Comet 260, lovingly cared for and in near pristine condition, but Daphne was occupied with her own mind and Tracey took notice with a grin. Caught in her thoughts, Daphne didn't notice Tracey approaching until she stood before her. "What's got you so deep in thought?" Tracey inquired, a mischievous grin playing on her lips.

"I wasn't lost in thought," Daphne replied, attempting to deflect the question. Tracey, sensing a potential juicy revelation, chuckled in response.

"Oh, come on! Spill the beans. Who's the lucky guy?" she teased, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. "Has Warrington penned another love letter, dramatically declaring his undying affection?" Daphne feigned a look of disgust, causing Tracey to burst into laughter.

"Don't even remind me of that! If he dares to try that again, I'll roast him alive," Daphne replied with a playful roll of her eyes, feigning anger. "It's not about a guy," she huffed. "I was just thinking about how much your flying skills have improved."

Tracey's eyes sparkled with excitement, momentarily forgetting their banter. "Really?" she exclaimed, her competitive nature awakening. "I could have taken on Gryffindor's chasers if Malfoy hadn't taken over our house team."

Daphne couldn't resist a mischievous grin, knowing exactly how to fuel Tracey's competitive spirit. "Let's have a race to the end of the yard," she challenged, pointing toward the boundary of the house. "Loser buys ice cream for the winner."

Tracey needed no further encouragement. She swiftly mounted her broom and took off in a flash, leaving Daphne momentarily stunned. However, she quickly regained her composure and chased after her friend with all her might.

As they soared through the air, Daphne's mind couldn't help but drift to the tragic fate that awaited Tracey in the future. Determined to rewrite their story this time around, she vowed to do everything within her power to ensure that her friend would have the opportunity to fulfil her dream of becoming a professional Quidditch player. She was resolved to alter the course of events and save Tracey from the curse that would shatter her aspirations and leave her spirit broken.

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