Disclaimer: All characters, proper names, and the world belong to J.K. Rowling.
XIV. Chapter: Dark On Me
The events followed one after another like an avalanche, offering no respite. After exchanging pleasantries with Fleur and her cousin Isabelle, aurors from the British Ministry of Magic, along with their French counterparts, arrived. At the head of the delegation stood none other than Barty Crouch Senior, with his ever-cold demeanor and stern gaze that seemed to pierce through everything. However, Daphne didn't even spare him a passing glance. His presence meant nothing to her.
The voices around her – shouts, questions, commands – slowly faded into the background, becoming a distant hum, almost like an echo coming from thick walls. Her mind gradually filled with silence, as if it had retreated inward, cutting her off from the chaos around her. She wasn't sure if it was a defense mechanism for her body or simply exhaustion, but she would have lied if she said she didn't find relief in it. For that brief moment of emptiness, she could allow herself not to think, not to analyze, not to respond to baseless accusations or senseless questions.
Her gaze drifted down to her own hands and legs. She looked at them with almost cold indifference, as if they belonged to someone else. She grimaced, noticing how disheveled she had become. Her black dress, once perfectly fitted and elegant, was now wrinkled, dirty, and had lost its former charm. The black pantyhose, which were supposed to add class, were torn, and the pale skin beneath peeked through the holes. With a grimace, she thought to herself that a bath was urgently needed – a long bath, preferably with fragrant oils and hot water, that would wash away not only the dirt but also the weight of the past hours.
She didn't even want to touch her hair, not wanting to discover just how bad it looked. She knew it was worse than she could imagine. At that moment, the only thing she wanted was solitude. Away from the shouting, the stares, and the constant feeling that she had something to prove. Only silence, water, and time to regain even a bit of control over herself.
The French dancers were quickly handed over to the care of the French auror delegation, causing a brief commotion and drawing the crowd's attention to this group. Daphne felt the intense gaze of Fleur and her cousin Isabelle on her. It was like a soft tingling on her skin, almost a physical sensation that was hard to ignore. Isabelle, the brunette, leaned toward Fleur and said something to her, and Fleur's face broke into an ironic, barely noticeable smile. Daphne, though she couldn't hear the words, was sure that the Greengrass name was mentioned in their conversation.
Fortunately, most of the questions directed at the Greengrass family were taken over by her father. Jack, as always, responded with impeccable calm, carefully choosing his words, which were ambiguous but laden with subtle hints. There was a note of irony in his voice that clearly irritated the aurors questioning him, though they didn't show it. His composure was like a shield for Daphne, behind which she could hide, though she knew she would have to drop it soon.
The thoughts that had seemed quiet just moments ago began to flood back, this time with double the force. They were like a raging waterfall, chaotic and hard to organize, offering no respite. However, she managed to break free from the torrent at the sound of new voices.
To her surprise, Mr. Weasley, along with Potter, his red-haired daughter, and Granger, joined the group. Daphne immediately felt her internal irritation begin to rise. "Of course… wherever there's trouble, there's Potter," she thought, suppressing a slight grimace. It was an almost instinctive reaction, too deeply ingrained in her mind for her to ignore.
Upon seeing them, Daphne immediately straightened, and her posture took on the perfect form – immaculate, filled with cool dignity and subtle superiority. Her face became a mask, concealing any emotions that might betray her irritation. The indifference she exuded, however, was little more than a thin veil – inside, she was calculating how best to handle this sudden confrontation. Her sharp, assessing gaze could freeze the blood in the veins of even the bravest Gryffindor.
Daphne quickly noticed that Ginny Weasley, as was her habit, was already opening her mouth to say something. It was almost certain she would throw some sarcastic remark, most likely about Daphne's current appearance. "Let her try," thought Daphne, casting a condescending glance at the girl. Despite her somewhat disheveled outfit, she still believed she looked better than that red-haired girl. However, before Ginny could say a word, Jack Greengrass stepped into action.
His voice, deep and controlled, cut through the atmosphere like a blade, effectively silencing not only Ginny but the entire trio of Gryffindors. Daphne felt almost triumphant relief. Jack had that unquestionable authority that made no one dare argue with him, and she always admired his ability to control any situation.
For the next few minutes, the trio of young Gryffindors would occasionally throw Daphne fleeting glances, which they immediately turned away from whenever they met her icy, scrutinizing stare. Daphne took this as a kind of victory. Their uncertainty and lack of courage to confront her were almost a compliment.
Finally, the interrogation came to an end. Jack, as always radiating calm and composure, turned toward his daughter and extended his hand to her. Daphne didn't need words to know what to do – with a steady motion, she reached for his hand. In an instant, the world around her spun, and the all-encompassing chaos and unpleasant atmosphere of the Ministry of Magic dissolved, replaced by the familiar twilight and silence of the Greengrass estate.
But this time, the silence felt different. It wasn't the soothing, safe silence she was used to, but a tense, almost ominous void. Daphne immediately forgot about her fatigue. One burning question appeared in her mind: What about Astoria? The tension in her body rose sharply, and adrenaline instantly put her on her feet.
"Faux!" she called in a sharp tone that brooked no opposition.
Immediately, with a soft pop, the house-elf appeared in the drawing room. Small, thin, with large, bulging eyes, Faux quickly bent into a deep bow, touching his nose to the stone floor.
"Miss Daphne! Mister Jack!" he greeted them in a squeaky voice, not lifting his gaze. But before Daphne could ask her question, Faux, as if reading her thoughts, quickly spoke:
"Young Miss Astoria is in the first room behind the grand drawing room. Lady Marry is sitting in the grand drawing room, reading, and Mister Severus Snape hasn't finished examining young Miss Astoria yet!"
The elf's report was quick and precise, but the tone of his voice betrayed unease. Daphne narrowed her eyes, trying to read more from his posture than what his words conveyed. Faux, sensing her gaze, bowed even lower, his tiny hands trembling slightly as they touched the floor.
A cold shiver ran down Daphne's spine. If Severus Snape was still examining Astoria, it meant the situation was serious. However, she had no intention of showing any emotions in front of the staff – she was a Greengrass, and that demanded composure in every situation.
"Thank you, Faux. You may go," she said coldly, and the elf immediately vanished, leaving her alone with her father. Daphne glanced at Jack, who had remained silent. His face, as always, was unreadable, but a subtle movement of his brow suggested that he was waiting for her decision.
"Astoria first," Daphne said quietly but firmly. "Astoria first..." she repeated even more quietly, almost to herself.
Jack merely nodded, remaining silent as usual, though the faintest shadow of tension appeared in his eyes. Daphne headed toward the indicated room, trying to prepare for whatever she might find there.
As usual, Faux's report was exceptionally accurate. As she passed through the grand drawing room, Daphne noticed her mother, Marry, sitting in an armchair by a lit lamp. She looked almost perfect – her clothes were immaculate, and her hair perfectly styled, as if no tragedy could ever disrupt her flawless image.
Marry tore her gaze away from the book she was holding and looked at her husband and daughter. A faint smile appeared on her face, but Daphne immediately noticed that it didn't reach her eyes – those remained cold and full of concealed worry.
"We managed to stop the bleeding for now," Marry began, as though answering the question Daphne had been about to ask. "Though I'm not sure how effective it is or how long it will last. She lost so much blood..." Marry's voice trembled for a moment, which was almost unheard of for her, before it became steady and calm again. "This is not a simple poisoning or curse. It's something much more complicated."
Her words echoed in the stillness of the drawing room, making Daphne feel the tension tightening around her throat. Standing in the lamp's light, Marry seemed almost statue-like, yet her posture hid an invisible crack – a subtle sign that even she, with all her composure, could see the depth of the danger.
Daphne glanced at Jack, whose face remained unreadable, as always. However, his hands, clasped behind his back, were slightly tense.
"How long has Snape been examining her?" Daphne asked, her voice carrying notes of concern, though she tried to mask them.
"Not even half an hour," Marry replied in a measured tone, but there was an undercurrent of worry. "He's trying to control the fever and reduce the swelling."
Daphne nodded briefly, too absorbed in her own thoughts to say anything else. She sat silently on the enormous sofa, its size enough to give anyone a headache. She crossed her legs, trying to settle into a comfortable yet authoritative position – one that would reflect her apparent calm. Her eyes, focused and alert, were fixed on the door leading to Astoria's room.
Seconds stretched into eternity. Daphne could feel the tension slowly wrapping around her body, like a cold serpent tightening around her neck. The silence in the drawing room, only interrupted by the faint ticking of the clock, was almost unbearable. Every mechanical movement of the clock seemed to remind her of the relentless passage of time, yet for her, each moment seemed to stretch on forever.
Jack, who had been standing beside her, moved. His presence always carried an air of control, but even he couldn't hide the shadow of unease that flickered across his face for a moment. "I'm going to change and look for information," he said in a firm, almost stern voice. He glanced at Daphne with a brief, unreadable expression in his eyes, then turned to the elf. "Kira, inform me immediately when Snape is finished."
The house-elf bowed so low that she nearly touched her forehead to the floor and disappeared with a soft pop. Jack turned sharply and left the drawing room.
Daphne, though still in the same position, felt the weight of solitude. Marry remained in her armchair, not taking her eyes off the book, but Daphne could see that her mother hadn't read a single word for quite some time.
Every minute seemed to stretch into eternity. Daphne felt the tension gradually turning into irritation—not only with the situation but also with her own helplessness. She wanted to act, but instead, she could only sit and wait. Astoria... she thought, gripping the armrests of the sofa. She wasn't going to let anything harm her, even if it meant facing something she didn't yet understand.
After what felt like an eternity, the door to the room finally opened with a slight creak. Snape stepped out, closing it behind him with his usual precision. He entered the sitting room where Marry and Daphne were waiting. Marry immediately lifted her head, closing the book, and moved closer to the Potions Master, while Daphne, still seated, fixed her attentive gaze on her housemaster. Questions that had not yet been asked were reflected in her eyes.
A moment later, Jack appeared in the sitting room, already dressed in an elegant, impeccably tailored suit. His calm, composed aura contrasted with the tension that filled the room. Marry and Jack exchanged a knowing look before they both led Snape to one of the guest rooms to discuss Astoria's condition in greater privacy.
But Daphne wasn't going to wait. She didn't ask for permission nor wait for approval. She rose from the sofa with an almost imperceptible motion, then walked toward the room where her younger sister was. Her steps were sure, though her heart beat faster with each one.
She opened the door and immediately felt the cold that seemed to pierce her body to the bone. The air in the room was cold and heavy, as if it was soaked with the suffering that plagued Astoria. Daphne, however, paid no attention to it. Her gaze immediately found the pale figure lying on the bed.
Astoria lay motionless, her small frame almost disappearing among the bedding. Daphne approached closer, each step sounding louder in the unsettling silence. When she sat at the edge of the bed, she felt the cold seep through the mattress, but it didn't matter now. She focused on her sister's face, trying to catch even the slightest sign of improvement, a tiny indication that Astoria was still fighting.
She reached out, gently brushing a few strands of hair from Astoria's forehead. Her fingers, usually cold, now felt almost scalding against her sister's icy skin. You have to hold on, Astoria, Daphne thought, though the words caught in her throat, unable to break through the dense silence that seemed to scream in her ears.
The only evidence that Astoria was still alive were the barely noticeable movements of her chest, rising with almost invisible effort, and the occasional, barely perceptible flutter of her eyelids, as if she were fighting some nightmare within. Apart from that, there was no indication that her condition would miraculously improve in the coming days. On the contrary—her limp body seemed to cry out for help in a way that was almost desperate, though quiet and helpless.
Daphne felt her heart pounding faster as she lifted her trembling hand to move the thin sheet covering her sister's body. Slowly, with reverence, as if each movement required superhuman strength, she uncovered Astoria. The girl was wearing a one-piece swimsuit—the same one that had always clung to her small frame like a second skin, perfectly fitting every inch of her body. Now, however, it seemed at least two sizes too large, as if her body had almost collapsed, losing volume in the battle raging inside her.
Astoria's limbs were terrifyingly thin, almost emaciated. Her ribs clearly showed beneath her pale skin, which had lost its former glow, now resembling a chalky surface. Daphne noticed small bruises on her sister's arms and thighs, looking like needle marks or signs that Astoria's body had rebelled, leaving visible marks of this invisible battle.
This is no longer my Astoria, Daphne thought with the painful awareness that her younger sister, once full of life, energy, and constant jokes, was now a shadow of herself. She hesitated for a moment, struggling to breathe in the heavy, icy silence, before reaching out and gently touching her sister's slender forearm. Her skin was freezing, almost as if the blood had ceased to flow beneath the surface.
Daphne felt a surge of anger and helplessness rise in her heart. Something is destroying her, she thought, not yet knowing whether it was poison, a curse, or something even more vile. In that moment, she swore to herself that she would find a way to help her—no matter the cost.
Daphne stayed by Astoria's bed for a while longer, as if trying to stop time, which seemed to be relentlessly slipping away. At one point, unable to hold back the impulse, she gently took her sister's hand. It was small and cold, almost porcelain-like, and Daphne squeezed it lightly, as if afraid that this delicate touch might cause her to disappear. Her fingers softly moved across her sister's skin, feeling every inch, as if she wanted to remember this moment forever.
The fatigue that had been building throughout the evening slowly began to take over. Daphne struggled to resist the urge to rest her head on the edge of the bed and fall asleep there, beside Astoria. Finally, carefully, almost ceremonially, she tucked her sister's hand under the sheet, adjusting it so that it covered her up to the shoulders. Her movements were precise, almost full of reverence, as if this small act could somehow protect Astoria from further suffering.
Reluctantly, she rose from the bed and left the room, glancing once more at her sister's still figure. In the corridor, a heavy silence awaited her. She slowly made her way up the stairs to her room. Each step seemed to weigh more than the last, as if she were only now feeling the full burden of the evening.
She entered her room, which—to her relief—looked exactly as she had left it a few hours earlier. It was tidy, almost sterile, with a subtle floral scent hanging in the air. The windows were partially covered, and the pale moonlight tried timidly to seep through the heavy curtains. On the wide, elegant bed, clean clothes and a towel awaited her, neatly arranged by the house-elves.
She picked up the clothes and headed to the bathroom, longing for a warm bath that would wash away not only the dirt of the day but also the weight of the accumulated emotions. She closed the door behind her and lit a few magical candles that cast a gentle, soothing light inside. The water in the tub began to fill by itself, perfectly warm, with a delicate lavender scent.
Daphne began to undress, slowly and methodically, as if every movement required focus. First, she slid off the black, form-fitting dress, which fell to the floor, leaving her in thin, torn black pantyhose. Then she reached down to her waist to pull them off, feeling the cool floor beneath her feet. The last gesture, as if freeing herself from the remnants of the day, was to reach behind her back to unclip the delicate black lace bra. She felt a sense of relief as it fell to the floor, followed shortly by her panties, which joined the pile of clothes.
She stood for a moment, naked, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes seemed more tired, her skin a little paler than usual, and her hair tousled after the whole evening. Finally, she stepped into the tub, and the warm water enveloped her like a comforting cocoon, allowing her to breathe for a moment and collect her thoughts, though the thin layer of worry about Astoria still smoldered in her mind.