Disclaimer: All characters, proper names, and the world belong to J.K. Rowling.
Author's Note: Although this chapter ends the way it does, I'm not fully convinced about it. I'm also unsure if Daphne should meet Fleur at this point. To be honest, I'm uncertain about this chapter as a whole. I hope you like it, though. Perhaps I'll change it someday.
XIII. Chapter: Untraveled Road
Daphne walked behind her father. Her wand, though lowered, occasionally tapped against her hip, always ready for use. The events of the past hours had drained her both physically and mentally, yet she knew full well that whatever her father had planned remained unfinished. Daphne allowed herself no luxury of showing exhaustion—her upright posture and measured steps betrayed no weakness, though her mind swirled with restless thoughts.
Her mind kept returning to the image of Astoria. What she had seen at the stadium had filled her with an unspoken dread—an emotion she carefully suppressed to maintain her aura of composure. Her younger sister, Astoria, was her complete opposite. She was granted far more freedom by their parents, which often irritated Daphne. The anger that built in those moments had to be controlled, channeled into solitary training sessions with the dummies at the Greengrass estate.
Occasionally, her mother, Marry, would join her training. Marry's cold, nearly unshakable demeanor helped Daphne hone her emotional control. But when even that wasn't enough, her father stepped in. Jack Greengrass, though careful never to use spells that might permanently harm his eldest daughter, spared her no mercy. His precise and relentless attacks pushed Daphne to her limits. Their duels often left her with bruises, cuts, and torn leggings, but also a sense of accomplishment. It was these brutal yet calculated sessions that restored her inner peace. Physical exhaustion, pain, and sweat were her tools to calm the storm that sometimes brewed within.
Despite the frustration Astoria could provoke with her carefree ways, Daphne never let those feelings overshadow their bond. Only she had the right to bring her younger sister to order—and she did so, sometimes firmly, though always with a hidden care she refused to show openly. The thought of anything truly threatening Astoria filled Daphne with a sense of helplessness that was as foreign as it was unbearable. She made herself two silent promises: first, she would do everything in her power to find and help Astoria recover; second, she would uncover who was responsible for her sister's condition.
Walking behind her father, Daphne felt the tension in the air, almost tangible, as if the space around them pulsed with unspoken fears and concealed plans. She knew what lay ahead would require absolute focus, cold calculation, and control. Yet she couldn't tear her thoughts away from Astoria. Each step she took echoed in her mind as an unspoken question: Will I be able to protect what matters most before it's too late?
But then, like a shadow, another question crept into her mind—more significant, more unsettling: What is so important that, despite Astoria's dire condition, Father didn't send me back to help Mother care for her? This lack of decision from Jack, though incomprehensible, stirred both anger and admiration in her.
Daphne both admired her father's cold determination—his ability to make decisions that seemed controversial, even ruthless—and at times, tried to hate him for it. Yet her reason always stopped her from dwelling on that hatred for too long. Jack Greengrass, regardless of his methods, always acted with unerring precision. And more often than not, the family benefited in the end, even if the price seemed momentarily too steep.
At the same time, Daphne wondered what lay behind her father's impenetrable mask. Was it merely cold calculation, or was there some subtle care he concealed better than anyone else? This question gnawed at her with each passing moment. What game are you playing now, Father? she thought, her eyes fixed on his upright posture and measured steps.
With each step she took behind him, the pressure grew. She had to trust his judgment, even if it meant placing duty above emotion. Yet she wasn't sure how much longer she could suppress the rising anxiety—both for Astoria and for the purpose of their mission. Her mother's words echoed in her mind: "Trust your father, Daphne. Even when you don't understand his motives." But was that enough?
As if hearing the mental battle raging within her, Jack stopped and placed a firm hand on her shoulder, turning her gently toward him. His piercing gaze immediately caught the subtle changes in her expression—the shadow of emotions and thoughts that had escaped her usual control.
Three years at Hogwarts had transformed her into someone ready to face life's challenges. Jack was certain she could handle any problem, whether through strength, intellect, or the undeniable charm she had inherited. He felt pride, though, as usual, he let none of it show. There was still much for her to learn. Daphne needed to understand that success required not only skill but also the ability to fend off treacherous thoughts.
"Daphne," he began quietly but with a weight that immediately commanded her attention. "I'll answer your questions, at least the ones that deserve answers right now. Too much has happened today for me to draw definitive conclusions. I need to consider the consequences of what has transpired. But I want you to know one thing—your safety, Astoria's, and Marry's are always my priorities."
He paused, and in the silence, his words seemed to resonate even more powerfully. "However, this isn't the time for this conversation." He added, his gaze locking with hers—eyes that mirrored his own. If Daphne wanted to say anything, she didn't show it. Instead, she simply nodded. Her perfectly arranged hair, which moments ago seemed immovable in its flawlessness, now fell across her face, as if weighed down by unspoken words and recent events.
Jack, with a subtle gesture, reached out to tuck the strands behind her ear before walking ahead. His steps were calm, almost lazy, but every second of the moment felt stretched into eternity.
Daphne hadn't expected any of this—least of all such emotional closeness. This wasn't her father's style. Jack Greengrass's gestures were usually confined to cold politeness, perfectly measured. She couldn't recall a time he had allowed himself anything like this, especially in public, where his authority and impeccable reputation were almost sacred. Yet this brief, almost intimate moment—a hand on her shoulder, a gaze deep and filled with something she couldn't name—had unsettled her.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered: Did I say something out loud? The thought was so absurd she dismissed it almost immediately. But another suspicion quickly replaced it—Could he have bypassed my mental defenses with Legilimency? Daphne knew of his near-legendary skill in the art. She had always believed Jack respected her privacy, at least as far as it suited him. But now? Perhaps what she felt was both her thought and his discovery—a moment where the line between them blurred.
Uncertainty began to burrow into her mind. Was that concern I saw in his eyes? Or just an illusion crafted to make me feel secure? Daphne hated this moment of doubt within herself. She was a Greengrass—raised in a world where emotions were masks to be discarded when no longer useful. But now, standing under her father's gaze, she felt as if all her protective layers had become somehow transparent. As though Jack could see something more—something she barely understood herself.
Although it lasted only a few seconds, each one seemed to stretch into eternity. Daphne fought against herself not to lower her gaze—she knew it would be a sign of weakness, and Jack never tolerated weakness, not even in her. Finally, she allowed herself a single, slight nod. If he knows my thoughts, then he also knows my determination, she thought with cold composure, though something continued to smolder in her heart that she could not extinguish.
When Jack removed his hand from her shoulder and moved forward, his steps were firm, almost rhythmic. Daphne could still feel his touch as if more than just the memory of the gesture lingered on her skin. She watched him, wondering whether this moment was a genuine expression of paternal care or another calculated move in the game Jack Greengrass played with impenetrable precision. Daphne followed him, knowing that now was not the time to ponder such questions—when the time came, she would find her answers.
Daphne and her father descended to the bottom of the stadium, where the grassy field began to give way to soft, rain-soaked mud. The air carried the heavy scent of wet earth and grass, mingled faintly with Daphne's perfume, which now seemed almost out of place in the hostile setting. They headed toward the tents, following the trail of Aurors and dancers who had left the stage earlier. Jack Greengrass, as always, moved with impeccable confidence, his strides steady, as if the mud and dampness were beneath his notice. With every step, Daphne felt the increasing discomfort of every detail of her outfit.
The heels she wore, though perfectly matched to her attire and essential to her image as a cool, elegant aristocrat, had now become a curse. The pointed tips sank into the soggy ground, mud clinging to the delicate leather and ruining its pristine surface. Each step felt precarious, and she found herself constantly balancing, carefully controlling her every movement. Wet grass and shallow puddles hidden in the shadows of the stadium added to the challenge, and her frustration grew with each sinking step.
Jack, without slowing his pace, cast her a brief, icy glance over his shoulder. Daphne could almost hear the unspoken criticism in his silence—in his eyes, any sign of weakness was unacceptable. She clenched her teeth, trying to suppress her rising irritation. She was a Greengrass, and Greengrasses never falter. But even her pride had its limits, and her ruined, mud-caked shoes had long since crossed them.
She stopped, ignoring the sharp glare from her father that might have frozen someone less resilient. Without a word, she bent down and removed her heels, feeling the cold dampness of the wet grass and mud seeping through her thin black stockings. The sensation was almost unbearable, as though nature maliciously reminded her of its dominance over elegance. But she knew there was no time to dwell on the damage—the stockings were destined for the trash, and the shoes would require thorough cleaning, if they could be saved at all.
Drawing her wand, she pointed it at the heels and muttered a quiet transfiguration spell. In an instant, the sleek black high heels began to shift and reshape, their elegant lines warping into the form of practical, comfortable sneakers. Daphne examined the result for a moment, ensuring the fit was adequate, before slipping them on.
The dampness and mud remained an issue, but at least she could now move faster without worrying about losing her balance. She glanced at her father, who cast her a fleeting look—a glimmer of what might have been approval, though it could just as easily have been irritation. Jack, as was his custom, did not pause for a moment, as if her change of footwear was as natural as the rain.
As they continued, Daphne felt the chill and moisture on her legs, a constant reminder of her ruined stockings, which, though perfectly chosen for her outfit, were now in a deplorable state. She knew they would have to be discarded, but it was nothing new to her—whenever faced with adverse conditions, the result was always the same. No matter, she thought with cold pragmatism, focusing on reaching the tents. Each step was a small victory over the mud, the dampness, and her father's expectations.
Quickly, she pushed the thought aside. She knew the most important thing now was to keep up with Jack. Everything else—the discomfort, the ruined outfit, even her hidden dissatisfaction—could wait. Her strides, steadier now thanks to the new shoes, once again fell into the measured, composed rhythm of her father's pace. Daphne took a deep breath, restoring the mask of cold indifference to her face. Even the mud could not unbalance her.
She heard Jack mutter a low curse under his breath, his tone laced with frustration and determination. He quickened his pace, his movements sharper and more precise, as though counting every second separating them from their goal. Daphne, accustomed to her father's composure, felt a flicker of surprise at seeing such visible pressure in him. The group they were following was now within reach.
Suddenly, without the slightest warning, Jack raised his wand, its dark wood gleaming faintly in the dim light. Daphne barely had time to blink as he aimed it at the back of one of the Aurors and unleashed a series of spells. The shock took her breath away—this was not the calculated style of action she associated with her father.
A soft crack! of the spell echoed through the air, and the unsuspecting man collapsed face-first into the mud. Daphne watched as his body twitched briefly before falling completely still. The silence that followed felt almost tangible. Jack did not hesitate for even a moment; his face was a mask of calm, as though he had done something as routine as fetching the morning paper. Daphne felt a chill seep into her core—not from the brutality of the act but from its simplicity. In that moment, she was reminded why so many feared her father—he was not a man who stopped when something stood in his way.
For a brief, almost unreal moment, time seemed to freeze. The world, stunned by the brutality of the event, held its breath, as if trying to comprehend and digest the violence that had just unfolded before its eyes. The silence that fell was like a taut string—uncomfortably tense, heralding an imminent snap. Yet, this moment of suspension was fleeting, like the flash of lightning before the storm.
Suddenly, chaos erupted in full force. The rest of the group reacted immediately, as if snapped out of a trance. The comrades of the fallen Auror turned abruptly, their faces a mixture of surprise, fear, and determination. Some began scanning their surroundings frantically, their wands trembling slightly in their hands. Others barked orders, their voices cutting through the tense silence. The dancers were instructed to retreat to the rear—to pull back from the commotion, away from the inevitable confrontation that was now hurtling toward them. Those at the forefront wasted no time. With wands poised for attack, they charged toward the source of the spells—straight at Daphne and Jack.
Every step they took seemed to echo like a harbinger of inevitable conflict, like the tolling of a bell signaling judgment. Daphne felt tension radiating through her body, reaching a crescendo. Her hand instinctively tightened around her wand, though her breaths came shallow, and her heart pounded in her chest like a caged animal desperately searching for an escape.
Through the crowd of men, Daphne spotted two figures that stood out among the rest. One of them—the beautiful blonde dancer she recognized from the performance—turned her head, glancing at her companion. The other, a brunette with a striking resemblance to the first, clung tightly to her arm. The blonde leaned in and said something quickly, too quietly for Daphne to hear. She was convinced that this girl—with her stunning beauty and practiced tricks—had nothing more to offer. Daphne assessed her coldly, almost dismissively, like another ornament in a world she deemed vain and superficial. However, she was unprepared for what happened next.
Instead of fleeing or hiding in the shadows, the blonde and brunette hurled themselves straight into the fray. Daphne's astonishment was almost tangible as she watched them disarm another man with precision and grace. Their movements were fluid, almost like a dance, but now, instead of mesmerizing, they inspired fear. The rest of the dancers reacted differently—some joined their companions, swept up in the chaos, while others fled in panic, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the danger.
Daphne couldn't tear her eyes away from the scene. The chaos that moments ago seemed like mere disorganized turmoil now took on the shape of something far more sinister and unsettling. These girls—now Daphne could see they weren't much older than she was—had initially seemed like nothing more than beautiful decorations, accessories to a spectacle full of glamour and illusion. But in an instant, they had shed that mask, revealing their true selves—faces filled with determination, courage, and a cold readiness to act that shattered every stereotypical notion Daphne might have held about them.
The fight was in full swing. Daphne and Jack hurled spells at every opponent, while the dancers on the opposing side joined the battle, plunging the scene into even greater chaos. The group of men clearly hadn't expected the women to put up such effective resistance. Their reactions betrayed surprise and mounting frustration as successive spells forced them to retreat or defend themselves desperately.
Daphne was wholly focused on the fight until a sudden, searing pain in her right shoulder yanked her back to reality. A spell had struck her arm, tearing through the elegant sleeve of her gown, leaving a dark red streak of blood on her alabaster skin. She hissed softly, gritting her teeth in fury. Without hesitation, she raised her wand and retaliated with Glacius. Though the spell was cast correctly, it didn't hit her intended target—instead of striking the man's chest, it froze his legs, effectively anchoring him to the ground.
Jack, observing the situation with cold precision, seized the opportunity. He aimed his wand and fired two spells at another opponent, who was sent crashing into the immobilized man. The result was immediate—two masked men, pretending to be Aurors, tumbled to the ground with a thud. Their clumsy attempts to rise were futile, as the first man's legs were still frozen, and the second, trapped in his arms, only added to the chaos. To the misfortune of the man Daphne had frozen, he hadn't yet realized that his legs had been severed and remained standing a few meters away.
Daphne regarded them with a cold expression, though the pain in her shoulder pulsed relentlessly, a constant reminder of how quickly the situation could spiral out of control. Focus, she scolded herself inwardly, raising her wand, ready for her next move. Jack shot her a brief, questioning glance, but there was no time to talk. More spells sliced through the air, and the battle raged on, like a wild, untamed storm.
Amidst all the commotion—the stench of sweat, blood, and damp earth—Daphne began to notice something else. A sweet scent, unnaturally intense, almost overpowering her senses, filled the air. The aroma was so overwhelming that it made her head spin. Her legs began to buckle, her body swaying back and forth. For a moment, she was convinced she'd been hit by some spell, but she quickly realized it was something else. She looked around—others were acting strangely too. Some of the opponents lay limp on the ground, while others still standing swayed as if drunk. The sensation of disorientation was pervasive, almost tangible. Daphne fought to steady her dizziness, turning her gaze toward her father.
Jack Greengrass, though clearly affected by the mysterious phenomenon, still stood upright, though not as rigidly as usual. His shoulders had dropped slightly, and his movements were slower, as if battling an invisible weight. Unlike the other men, who lay face-first in the mud, Jack still emanated remnants of his unyielding will. His gaze, though dimmed, still shone with cold determination.
Daphne forced herself to take a deep breath, trying to ignore the cloying scent that invaded her nostrils like poison. She knew she had to stay conscious—something, or someone, was behind this phenomenon. Whatever it was, it struck her senses with almost physical force, breaking her will and scattering her thoughts. Following her father's line of sight, everything became clear. It was the blonde beauty and her dark-haired companion who were the source of this aura. They had used their Veela power to end the fight before it could truly begin.
Daphne, struggling to keep from collapsing like the rest, braced her hands on her legs, fighting for balance. Darkness began to cloud her vision, and the sweet, suffocating scent stole her breath. She felt her body becoming limp, her arms unable to hold her weight. Falling seemed inevitable. Just as she was about to lose contact with reality, she felt a firm, steady grip on her waist. Someone caught her at the last moment, preventing her from hitting the ground. She didn't even need to open her eyes to know who it was.
– Fleur, Isabelle, I believe that's enough – said Jack in a calm yet firm tone, supporting his eldest daughter. – It would be best if those gentlemen don't have jelly for brains when it comes time for questioning.
At these words, the two girls looked at him for a moment. Despite her weakness, Daphne couldn't help but think that even her father wasn't entirely immune to the power of a Veela. Otherwise, why would he attempt to address them in English, knowing full well they likely didn't understand him?
To her surprise, both girls nodded. The brunette smiled softly, while the blonde fixed her icy blue eyes directly on Daphne. Yet there was no warmth in that gaze. It was the look of a predator contemplating whether to toy with its prey a bit longer before delivering the final blow.
– Monsieur Greengrass, as handsome as ever – the brunette spoke, her French accent evident though her English was fluent. Daphne noticed that the brunette clung once more to the blonde's arm, as if to emphasize their closeness.
– And who is this? I thought you didn't keep other girls on the side – she continued with a teasing smile, winking at Jack. Daphne felt the urge to roll her eyes, or worse, vomit. She despised such behavior in other girls. Jack, however, appeared unfazed. Instead of reacting to her provocation, he casually brushed his hair aside and replied in an even tone:
– Allow me to introduce my eldest daughter, the heiress of the Greengrass family, Daphne. Daphne, these are Fleur Delacour and Isabelle Delacour – both future heiresses of their house, the House of Delacour.
Daphne narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out why her father was so insistent that she attend this meeting. Is that why he brought me here? To meet them? But why? she wondered, working to conceal her growing irritation.
In response to the introduction, she nodded toward the two Delacour girls and, maintaining formality, extended her hand first to the dark-haired Isabelle. The latter returned the gesture with a polite handshake. Daphne then turned to the blonde, offering the same gesture. However, Fleur simply nodded, ignoring the outstretched hand, and spoke in a distinct French accent:
– I am Fleur, and this is my cousin Isabelle. She then turned her attention back to her cousin.
That same unsettling feeling returned – as though Jack was meticulously positioning his chess pieces. Every move seemed carefully calculated, each person placed exactly where they needed to be. Daphne had no doubt her father was the only one who knew the purpose of this game and the moves necessary to achieve it.