Title: Shackles of Devotion
The Great Hall buzzed with the usual lively energy of Hogwarts' student body as breakfast was served. The long tables were laden with steaming plates of eggs, sausages, and toast, the scent wafting through the air. House banners hung proudly, and the enchanted ceiling above reflected a cloudy morning, mirroring the uneasy tension in the atmosphere—at least for one particular student.
Harry Potter sat stiffly at the Gryffindor table, shoveling food into his mouth with robotic precision. Across from him, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger exchanged wary glances, their conversation faltering every time their eyes darted to the girl sitting possessively close to Harry. Daphne Greengrass, the Ice Queen of Slytherin, sat with a casual but unmistakable air of authority, her delicate fingers occasionally brushing against Harry's hand or wrist, as if reaffirming a silent claim.
Hermione had long since abandoned the attempt to question what exactly was going on, but Ron, despite his usual thickheadedness, had enough sense to know something was seriously wrong.
The hush fell over their section of the table as Draco Malfoy, flanked by his usual lackeys, Crabbe and Goyle, sauntered up, a smirk twisting his pale features. He took his sweet time before speaking, delighting in the tension radiating off Harry.
"Well, well, well," Draco drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. "Look at the great Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, now the Boy Who Kneels. Quite the fall from grace, isn't it?"
Harry stiffened but said nothing. He had long learned that nothing good ever came from engaging with Malfoy. But Daphne, always one to handle her belongings with care, gently placed a hand on his shoulder before rising to her feet.
"You've always been a disappointment, Malfoy," Daphne said coolly, looking down her nose at him. "Your bark is louder than your bite. Unlike you, I know how to properly command loyalty."
Draco's smirk faltered for a second before returning with a sharper edge. "Loyalty? That's what we're calling it? I heard some interesting whispers that our dear Harry is now little more than your pet."
Harry's hands clenched into fists, but before he could retort, Daphne's grip tightened on his shoulder in warning. Her nails lightly pressed into his skin through his robes, a silent reprimand.
"You may run your mouth, Malfoy, but remember that only one of us actually holds the leash," Daphne said with a slow, deliberate smirk.
Draco's eyes flickered to Harry, who refused to meet his gaze, his jaw set. Satisfied, Daphne tugged on Harry's tie slightly before sitting down, dismissing Malfoy with an air of utter disinterest. Draco scowled but walked away, muttering under his breath.
The rest of breakfast continued in tense silence, only interrupted when a sudden swirl of deep blue robes approached. The murmurs of students filled the hall as Albus Dumbledore, with twinkling eyes that were anything but warm, stopped beside the Gryffindor table.
"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said, his voice gentle yet firm. "Might I have a word with you in my office after breakfast?"
Harry swallowed thickly. He knew this was coming.
Before he could respond, Daphne interjected smoothly. "Harry has a busy schedule today, Headmaster."
Dumbledore's gaze flickered toward Daphne, and for the briefest moment, something inscrutable crossed his expression before his usual grandfatherly facade returned. "Even so, Miss Greengrass, I believe this matter is of great importance."
Harry saw the storm brewing in Daphne's eyes and, feeling rebellious, spoke up before she could cut him off again. "Fine. I'll go. But you're not invited, Daphne."
The Great Hall fell silent at his words. It was a rare moment where Harry openly defied her. He regretted it instantly.
The sound of the slap echoed louder than it should have, reverberating off the stone walls. A collective gasp rippled through the students. Harry's head snapped to the side, his cheek burning as he stared at the table in shock.
"Excuse me?" Daphne's voice was cold, but there was something darker lurking beneath—possessiveness, fury, obsession.
Harry clenched his fists. "I said you're not invited. This is between me and Dumbledore."
Another slap, harder this time. His glasses nearly slid off his face.
The students around them stared in stunned silence. No one moved, no one spoke. Even Dumbledore remained still, his twinkle entirely gone.
Daphne leaned in close, her voice dangerously low. "You don't decide things, Harry. I do. And I am going to this meeting. I am your legal guardian, after all."
Harry's stomach dropped. When had she managed to pull that off?
He opened his mouth to protest, but one look at her deadly serious expression shut him up. He swallowed down his pride and nodded mutely. Daphne let a slow, pleased smile spread across her face before lightly running a hand through his hair, a possessive gesture that made his skin crawl.
"Good boy," she murmured before turning her gaze to Dumbledore. "Shall we, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore's expression was unreadable as he studied the two of them. With a slow nod, he turned, leading the way out of the Great Hall. Daphne took Harry's hand, intertwining their fingers in an unmistakable display of ownership as they followed.
The murmurs erupted as soon as they left, but Harry barely noticed. His mind was too busy reeling. The chains around him were tightening, and no one—not his friends, not Dumbledore, not even himself—could seem to break them.
And the worst part?
Somewhere, deep down, he wasn't sure he wanted them to.
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 2: A Firm Hand
The silence in Dumbledore's office was suffocating. The usual warmth, the myriad of odd, whirring trinkets, and the ever-burning fire in the hearth did little to ease the tension crackling between the three occupants.
Harry sat rigidly in his chair, his fingers clutching the armrests so tightly his knuckles turned white. Across from him, Daphne Greengrass reclined in her chair, poised, composed, utterly in control. She exuded authority with every breath, every slow blink of her calculating eyes. Her delicate fingers drummed lightly against the armrest as she studied Dumbledore, as if deciding how best to shape the conversation in her favor.
Dumbledore, for his part, leaned back in his chair, his aged face bearing an expression of resignation rather than resistance. His long fingers intertwined atop his desk as he regarded Daphne with something between reluctant respect and mild exasperation.
"Well, Miss Greengrass," he sighed, his tone uncharacteristically drained of its usual cheer, "I must commend you. You certainly don't waste time."
Daphne smirked. "Time is valuable, Headmaster. And I don't intend to waste it playing games."
Harry turned to her, his throat dry. "Daphne, please—"
Her hand shot out and grasped his wrist. It wasn't painful, but the strength in her grip made it clear she wasn't asking for his input. She turned to him with a patient, almost amused expression, as if indulging a wayward child.
"Hush, Harry." Her voice was smooth, but beneath the silk was steel. "Let the adults talk."
Harry swallowed his words and looked away, his face burning. His free hand clenched into a fist in his lap.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Now, Miss Greengrass, I assume you have further requests?"
Daphne tilted her head slightly. "Requests? No, Headmaster. I have demands."
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Dumbledore's lips, but it lacked any true mirth. "I expected as much."
She released Harry's wrist, satisfied that he would remain still, and leaned forward, her piercing blue eyes locking onto Dumbledore's. "First, Harry's movements are to be strictly monitored. No more private conversations with his so-called 'friends' unless I permit them."
Harry's heart pounded. "You can't—"
Daphne's eyes flicked to him, and his words died in his throat.
Dumbledore hummed in thought. "Very well."
Harry's stomach dropped. "W-what?"
Daphne barely concealed her victorious smirk. "Second, any disciplinary matters concerning Harry are to be handled by me, not McGonagall, not Snape, not even you, Headmaster."
Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully before nodding. "Agreed."
Harry felt like the world was tilting on its axis. "Dumbledore, you can't be serious—"
Daphne's palm met his cheek before he could finish his sentence. The sharp slap echoed in the room, and Harry recoiled, tears springing to his eyes from the sheer sting of it. He choked back a sob, gripping the armrest like a lifeline.
Daphne tsked softly, as if disappointed. "Harry, sweetheart, don't interrupt when your betters are speaking."
Dumbledore sighed, watching the interaction with something akin to weary amusement. "You certainly have a firm hand, Miss Greengrass. Something I tried to instill in young Harry myself. Alas, even sending him to the Dursleys to 'toughen him up' didn't seem to do much good. He still needs guidance."
Harry felt as though the floor had been yanked out from under him. "Y-you sent me there on purpose?"
Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "I had hoped it would build character. Sadly, he remains rather… difficult at times." His eyes twinkled, but his words stung deeper than any slap. "Good luck, Daphne. He can be quite the little shit when he wants to be."
Daphne chuckled, and Harry shuddered at the sound. It wasn't cruel, but it was possessive, victorious. She reached out and cupped Harry's cheek, her thumb brushing away an escaping tear.
"Oh, I don't mind, Headmaster," she purred. "I enjoy a challenge."
Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Then I shall leave him in your capable hands."
Harry shook his head frantically. "No—Dumbledore, you can't—"
Daphne turned to him, a glint of amusement in her eyes as she took in his despair. "Oh, but he has, Harry."
Harry's lips trembled. He felt the walls closing in, the chains tightening around him. And when Daphne gently pulled him from his chair, guiding him toward the door, he found himself unable to resist.
"Come, darling," she whispered, pressing a possessive kiss to his temple. "We have so much to discuss."
Harry whimpered.
Dumbledore merely chuckled as the door closed behind them, leaving behind only the lingering scent of lavender and the sound of fate sealing itself shut.
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 3: No Escape
Harry's breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. His head pounded with the weight of his own desperation, his hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides. The room—the gilded cage Daphne had so meticulously woven around him—felt suffocating, closing in with every passing second.
He had to get out.
"Daphne, you can't do this!" His voice cracked, raw with frustration. "I need some space. I need to breathe! I need some privacy, dammit! You're suffocating me!"
Daphne, seated gracefully in her chair, merely observed him with an unsettling calm. A faint, knowing smile curled on her lips, her sapphire eyes gleaming with amusement—no, ownership.
Harry's fists tightened further. "Please… just give me some relief. I need some fresh air." He took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, to keep the panic from overtaking him. "I'm going outside, Daphne. You can't take that away from me."
He turned on his heel and strode towards the door, his heart hammering in his chest. One step, then another. His fingers stretched out, reaching for the handle—
A sharp, resounding crack filled the air.
The sting came before the realization. His face snapped to the side as the sharp slap echoed throughout the room. He staggered slightly, his vision swimming for a brief moment before the pain registered fully. His cheek burned, the telltale heat of her mark settling into his skin.
Silence fell between them.
Daphne rose gracefully from her chair, her movement slow and deliberate. "You're being unreasonable, Harry." Her voice was calm, eerily so, as if speaking to a disobedient child rather than the boy who had just tried to reclaim a sliver of his freedom. "I let you have so much. I allow you to sit beside me. I allow you to be with me. And yet, you want more?"
Harry's breath hitched, his hand coming up to cradle his stinging cheek. "I just want to go outside—"
"You just want to leave me." Her voice dropped, an unsettling edge creeping into her words. "You want to distance yourself from me, from my care, from my love." Her eyes darkened, a storm of emotions flickering beneath the surface. "I won't allow it."
She stepped forward, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. One hand cupped his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. The tenderness in her touch did nothing to ease the terror twisting in his gut.
"You don't need fresh air, Harry." Her voice softened, deceptively gentle. "You need me." She ran her thumb over his cheek where she had struck him, as if soothing the very pain she inflicted. "You don't understand what's best for you, but I do."
He shuddered beneath her touch, his body betraying his defiance.
"You will never walk away from me, Harry. Do you understand?" Her fingers curled under his chin, applying the faintest pressure. "Say it. Say you understand."
Harry swallowed hard. He wanted to scream, to push her away, to fight. But he knew—oh, he knew—that resistance only ever ended in more pain, more control, more chains tightening around him until he could barely think beyond Daphne, Daphne, Daphne.
His lips trembled. "I… I understand."
She smiled, pleased. "Good boy."
His stomach churned.
Daphne turned her gaze toward the door, her smirk growing. "Since you seem so fixated on going outside, perhaps I should make some… adjustments."
Harry stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"Well," she purred, her tone laced with amusement, "if you insist on seeking an escape, then I should ensure there's nowhere for you to run, shouldn't I?" She tapped a finger to her chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps a few new wards on the entrances. Maybe a special enchantment that alerts me the moment you so much as step a toe beyond these walls."
His breath caught. "Daphne, please—"
She pressed a finger against his lips, silencing him instantly. "Shhh, darling. It's for your own good. You'll see that in time."
Harry's eyes burned, the crushing weight of her possessiveness stealing every ounce of his resolve. He felt trapped, caged, utterly powerless beneath her unwavering control.
And worst of all?
Daphne knew it.
She thrived on it.
As she leaned in, her lips brushing against his forehead in a possessive kiss, a single tear slipped down his cheek.
There was no escape.
There never had been.
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 4: The Question of Fate
The wind was cool against Harry's face as he stood outside, the crisp evening air wrapping around him like a fleeting embrace. The vast openness of the Hogwarts grounds stretched before him, but he found no comfort in it. Even with the sky overhead and the world at his feet, he could still feel her presence, invisible yet suffocating, wrapping around him like unseen chains.
He exhaled shakily, his hands balled into fists. His heart pounded, but not from fear—no, this was something else. A need, a yearning, a desperation to understand. He could feel her watching him, even if he couldn't see her yet.
He took a deep breath and turned, facing the direction he knew she would come from. His voice wavered but held firm. "I have to know. Why?"
Silence. Then, soft footsteps, slow and deliberate.
Daphne emerged from the shadows, her expression unreadable, her eyes locked onto his as if he were the only thing in the world that mattered. And to her, he was.
Harry's fingers twitched at his sides. "Why me? Why not some other boy? Is it because I'm a Gryffindor?" He shook his head, frustration edging into his voice. "Or is it because I was one of the few boys who tried to avoid you? Is it because you hated me loving freedom?"
His breath hitched, but he forced himself to look her in the eyes. "I would like to know, Daphne. Please."
For a long moment, she simply stared at him. Studying him, analyzing him, drinking in his every movement, his every word. Then, with slow precision, she tilted her head, a smile—small, enigmatic, dangerous—gracing her lips.
"Why you?" she echoed, stepping closer, her voice velvety soft. "Oh, Harry. Silly, sweet Harry." She reached out, fingers ghosting over his cheek, sending a shiver down his spine. "You still don't understand, do you?"
Harry held his ground, though every fiber of his being screamed at him to move. To run.
Daphne's smile widened, a hint of something dark flickering in her gaze. "It was never about your House. It was never about your avoidance, your defiance." Her fingers trailed down his jaw, tilting his chin up just enough so he had no choice but to meet her eyes. "It was always about you."
He swallowed, throat dry. "But why?"
She sighed, a sound that was both amused and exasperated. "Because, my dear, foolish Harry, you belong to me."
His stomach dropped.
Daphne leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. "From the moment I saw you, I knew. You were mine. Not just to watch, not just to admire. Mine. And that's something I will never let go of."
Harry clenched his fists. "That's not love, Daphne. That's control."
She chuckled, a soft and knowing sound. "Love is control, Harry. What do you think love is? A delicate, fragile thing? No. Love is unyielding. Love is obsession. Love is power. And you…" She trailed a finger over his collarbone, her eyes gleaming with unwavering possession. "You are the greatest power I have ever claimed."
His breath came out shaky, his thoughts spiraling. He wanted to refute her, to scream, to deny the iron grip she had over him. But he knew Daphne. Knew her persistence, her relentlessness. Knew that nothing he said would change the way she saw him.
Daphne sighed, her fingers finally retreating, though the ghost of their touch lingered on his skin. "You'll understand one day, Harry." She turned slightly, casting a glance toward the castle. "But for now, we should go inside. You don't need the fresh air."
Harry took a step back, defiance flickering in his eyes. "I'm staying."
She merely smiled, her confidence unshaken. "You think you are."
And then she moved—fast. Before he could react, her hand was at the back of his neck, her grip firm, her lips mere inches from his ear.
"You don't walk away from me," she whispered, her tone soft but laced with steel. "Not now. Not ever."
Harry tensed, his breath hitching as she pressed a kiss to his temple—a gesture meant not for comfort, but as a reminder. A claim.
Then, releasing him, she stepped back, her smirk lingering. "Now, come along, darling."
His feet felt rooted to the ground, but his body betrayed him. Slowly, hesitantly, he followed.
The castle doors closed behind them, and the wind outside howled in protest, but it didn't matter.
Freedom was an illusion.
And Daphne would never let him go.
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 5: The Puzzle of You
The dim glow of candlelight flickered across the stone walls, casting restless shadows as Harry sat at the edge of Daphne's private chambers. The air between them was thick, charged with something neither of them dared to name. He could feel her gaze on him, a slow and measured intensity that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
He exhaled shakily, his voice barely above a whisper. "How long?"
Daphne tilted her head, lounging in her chair as though she had all the time in the world. "How long what, darling?"
He looked up, eyes searching hers, desperate for something—an answer, an understanding, a moment of truth. "How long have you wanted to do this? To have me?" His fingers curled in his lap. "Was it that day you found me in the girls' bathroom… with the eyeliner and the scars?"
Something in her gaze flickered.
"Or was it first year?" he continued, his voice growing steadier, pushing forward despite the chill running down his spine. "Maybe after my suicide attempt?"
Silence.
Then, a slow inhale from Daphne as she leaned forward, resting her chin delicately against her palm.
"Oh, Harry," she murmured, her tone soft, almost affectionate. "You ask such dangerous questions."
He swallowed. "I want the truth."
She exhaled through her nose, regarding him as if he were an intricate puzzle, one she had long since mastered but still found herself captivated by.
"The moment I saw you, I knew," she said simply. "Not in the way most would think. It wasn't love, it wasn't lust. It was… understanding. Recognition." She tapped a manicured nail against the arm of her chair, her expression turning thoughtful. "But the day I knew you were mine? That day in the girls' bathroom."
Harry felt his chest tighten.
"You looked so lost," she continued, her voice almost reverent. "Smudged eyeliner, fresh cuts, that beautiful, broken defiance in your eyes." She reached out, fingers brushing against his wrist. "I had never seen anyone so utterly themselves even when drowning."
Harry flinched slightly, but he didn't pull away. He wasn't sure if he could.
Her voice dropped lower, more intimate. "And you intrigued me, Harry. You weren't like the others. You weren't simple. You weren't predictable. Every part of you, every contradiction, every secret, every wound—was something I wanted to own."
He sucked in a breath. "And me being transgender? Was that part of it? Was I just some puzzle to solve?"
Daphne's eyes darkened, a slow smirk curling her lips. "Oh, no, my love. You were never a puzzle." She leaned closer, her breath warm against his cheek. "You were art."
Harry shuddered.
"I didn't care what the world labeled you," she whispered. "Boy, girl—it didn't matter. What mattered was that you were mine."
His chest tightened painfully. "That's not love, Daphne. That's obsession."
She chuckled, brushing his hair back with a gentleness that belied the steel in her touch. "Oh, darling. Love and obsession aren't so different."
His lips trembled. "You'll never let me go, will you?"
She smiled. "Never."
And in that moment, Harry knew there was no escape. Not from her. Not from this.
Not ever.
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 6: The Intrigue of You
The air between them was thick with unspoken words. Harry sat rigidly in his chair, his hands clenched in his lap, his breath uneven. He had asked the question before he could stop himself, and now, as Daphne sat across from him, watching him with those piercing blue eyes, he wished—just for a moment—that he could take it back.
But it was too late.
Daphne tilted her head, her expression unreadable. The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows across her face, accentuating the sharp intelligence that resided in her gaze. She studied him, eyes roving over every part of him, lingering on the set of his jaw, the uncertainty in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched as he fought the urge to fidget.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke.
"Oh, Harry," she murmured, and something in her tone sent a shiver down his spine. "You still don't understand, do you?"
He swallowed. "Understand what?"
She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her fingers lacing together in a delicate, deliberate motion. "You think I see you as a puzzle. That I'm here, hovering over you, because you intrigue me in some trivial way." Her smirk softened into something more intimate. "That's not what this is."
Harry exhaled shakily. "Then what is it?"
Daphne's gaze bore into him, unwavering, unapologetic. "You are not just intriguing, Harry. You are everything."
His heart slammed against his ribs. He had expected some cryptic response, some smugly self-satisfied quip about control. But this… this was something else entirely.
"I would have wanted you no matter what," she continued, her voice smooth, unwavering. "Boy, girl… it never mattered. It was never about that." She reached out then, taking his chin between her fingers, forcing him to look at her. "What matters is you. The fire in you, the defiance, the way you fight against everything, even when you know you'll lose. That's what drew me in. That's why you belong to me."
Harry's lips parted, but no words came out. The weight of her words pressed down on him, heavy and inescapable.
She brushed her thumb over his lower lip, her touch achingly soft. "You want to know if being transgender made you more interesting to me?" Her smirk returned, but this time, it held something almost reverent. "No, my love. It made you stronger. It made you irrevocably, unshakably mine."
His breath hitched, his pulse pounding in his ears. "You don't own me, Daphne."
Her smirk widened, but her voice remained quiet, almost affectionate. "Oh, Harry. That's where you're wrong."
He wanted to fight. He wanted to argue, to scream, to run—but he couldn't. Because deep down, he knew that she wasn't just saying it.
She believed it.
And that terrified him more than anything.
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 7: Catherine's Rebirth
The air in the dimly lit chamber crackled with raw magic. Harry—no, Catherine—stood in the center, gripping the Elder Wand with both hands, their knuckles white from the force of their hold. The Deathly Hallows hummed in resonance, responding to their will, to their purpose, to their truth.
Daphne stood just a few feet away, her usually unshakable composure faltering for the first time in what felt like forever. Her sapphire-blue eyes locked onto Catherine, confusion flashing through them before something darker settled in—something possessive, something desperate.
Catherine raised her chin, her emerald eyes gleaming with determination, her heart pounding but steady. "Don't call me 'dear.'" Their voice was firm, unwavering. "For I am not Harry. I am Catherine."
Daphne's lips parted, her breath hitching, but Catherine did not let her speak. Magic swirled around them, the power of the Deathly Hallows twisting through the air, bending reality itself. The Elder Wand thrummed against Catherine's grip, its power raw and limitless, responding to their intent with an intensity that sent shivers down their spine.
"I am not the Boy Who Lived," Catherine declared, her voice echoing in the chamber, reverberating off the stone walls like a divine proclamation. "I am not your possession. I am not bound by the expectations of others. And I refuse to live a lie any longer."
Daphne took a step forward, her hands twitching at her sides. Her expression was unreadable, her mind racing to process what was happening, to regain control. "Harry…"
"No." The word cut through the air like a blade, sharp and final. "Not Harry. Not anymore."
And then, Catherine let go.
The power surged through them, a blinding force of transformation, of reclamation. The Elder Wand pulsed, its ancient magic bending to their command, and the Deathly Hallows fused their energy together, binding their will to their flesh, to their very essence.
A radiant light erupted around them, engulfing them in a storm of gold and silver fire. The magic burned away the old, reshaping the body, aligning it with the soul that had long yearned to be set free. Skin shimmered, shifting, refining—features softening, sharpening in perfect harmony with who they truly were. Their frame realigned, their very essence resonating with the change as if the universe itself was correcting a cosmic mistake.
Catherine opened her eyes.
It was done.
Their reflection in the chamber's polished floor revealed her. Hair cascading in dark waves around her shoulders, her body—her true body—finally, irrevocably, hers.
She turned to Daphne.
Daphne was silent, her chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes… her eyes burned with something unreadable, something unhinged.
Then, slowly, she stepped forward, reaching out a hand.
Catherine recoiled. "No."
Daphne froze, her fingers inches from Catherine's skin.
The silence stretched between them like a taut rope, one wrong move away from snapping.
Finally, Daphne exhaled, and a slow, chilling smile curled on her lips. "You think this changes anything?"
Catherine's breath hitched, her grip tightening around the Elder Wand. "It changes everything."
Daphne let out a soft, delighted chuckle, shaking her head as if amused by a foolish child. "Oh, Catherine, my love. You think I loved you because of your name? Your body? Your past?" She stepped closer again, her gaze hungry, unrelenting. "No, darling. I love you. And nothing—nothing—will ever change that."
Catherine took a step back. "You don't own me."
Daphne's smile widened, dark and knowing. "Oh, but I do."
Before Catherine could react, Daphne's fingers brushed against her cheek, tracing the curve of her new form with the same possessive reverence as before. "You've only made yourself more perfect for me."
A shiver ran down Catherine's spine. The realization settled in like a stone sinking to the depths of an endless ocean.
She had changed everything.
And yet, Daphne's obsession had only deepened.
Catherine had freed herself from one cage, only to find herself bound in another—one far more inescapable.
Daphne would never let her go.
She never had a chance.
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 8: The Chains Remain
The transformation had been breathtaking. Power surged through the air, settling into Catherine's new form with undeniable finality. The magic had rewritten reality, aligning her body to the soul that had yearned for recognition, for truth.
But even in this moment of ultimate liberation, Catherine felt the weight of her gaze.
Daphne stood before her, unmoving, silent, a storm brewing beneath the sapphire depths of her eyes. A predator observing its prize. Her prize.
Catherine swallowed. Her breath came uneven, her body still adjusting, still reeling from the overwhelming force of the Elder Wand's magic. But it wasn't just the magic that left her shaken.
It was Daphne.
Then, Daphne moved.
A slow, calculated step forward. Another. And another.
Catherine didn't move. Couldn't move.
Then, in a blur, Daphne's fingers gripped her chin, tilting her face up, her hold both firm and claiming. Catherine gasped at the sudden contact, her new form somehow more sensitive to the possessive press of Daphne's fingers.
Daphne's smirk was slow, indulgent. "What a fascinating little thing you are," she murmured. "Even now, when you've changed everything, you still belong to me."
Catherine's lips parted, but no words came out. Her mind was still spinning, her body still adjusting, but Daphne's grip was the only anchor in this chaotic moment.
Daphne's fingers traced over Catherine's jaw, the pad of her thumb ghosting over her lower lip. Testing. Exploring. Reasserting.
Catherine trembled.
A chuckle. Soft, amused, knowing.
Daphne's grip tightened ever so slightly. "You wanted to change, my love?" she whispered, her voice dripping with something dangerously sweet. "That's fine. I'll love you no matter what form you take. But—" Her other hand slid around Catherine's waist, pulling her flush against her body. "—never mistake your transformation for freedom."
Catherine inhaled sharply, her fingers clutching at Daphne's sleeves, a reflexive response to the overwhelming presence of her captor, her keeper, her owner.
Daphne tilted her head, studying her reaction, pleased by the silent submission. "See? This is where you belong." She traced slow circles against Catherine's hip, a dark promise in her touch. "You can change your name, your body, your very essence—and yet, here you are. Still mine."
Catherine's body betrayed her, her knees weakening, her breath hitching. She wanted to fight back, to deny it, to reject the chains Daphne kept tightening around her. But she couldn't. The truth settled deep in her bones.
Daphne was inevitable.
Daphne pressed her lips to Catherine's forehead—a mark, a brand, a silent vow of ownership. "Now," she murmured, pulling back just enough to look into Catherine's dazed eyes, "let's make some decisions, shall we?"
Catherine stiffened, her fingers curling into Daphne's sleeves. "D-decisions?"
Daphne's smirk widened. "Of course, darling. My decisions. Since you clearly still need guidance." She leaned in, her breath fanning against Catherine's ear. "And you do need guidance, don't you?"
Catherine shuddered, her silence damning.
Daphne exhaled in satisfaction. "From now on, there will be no more running. No more delusions of escape. You've embraced this change, and I will ensure you remain exactly where you belong."
Catherine's heart pounded. "Daphne—"
A finger against her lips silenced her. "Shhh," Daphne cooed. "No protests. Just acceptance."
Her hand trailed down Catherine's side, settling at her waist once more, owning her with every touch. "From this day forward, you will answer to me. No foolish rebellions, no more of that ridiculous Gryffindor stubbornness." Her fingers dug in, just enough to make Catherine gasp. "You belong to me. Say it."
Catherine trembled. "I… I…"
Daphne arched a brow, waiting.
Silence stretched between them. Then, finally, with a defeated exhale, Catherine whispered, "I belong to you."
Daphne's smirk was triumphant, her grip tightening possessively. "Good girl."
Catherine's eyes fluttered shut as Daphne pulled her closer, arms caging her in, sealing her fate with a whisper against her skin.
"There's no escaping me, love. You never stood a chance."
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 9: The Public Proclamation
The Great Hall was alive with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of silverware against plates. It was just another ordinary morning for most of the students of Hogwarts—until the doors swung open, and silence descended like a storm rolling over the horizon.
Catherine stepped forward, her breath steady but her fingers ice-cold. The long flowing robes she wore accentuated the elegance of her new form, the cascading waves of dark hair framing her delicate but firm expression. Whispers erupted among the students like wildfire, shock and curiosity rippling through the four house tables.
At her side, Daphne Greengrass walked with effortless grace, her hand gripping Catherine's arm in a silent but unmistakable claim. The Slytherin Ice Queen was always composed, but today, there was something sharper in her gaze—something victorious.
Catherine stopped at the center of the Hall, just before the staff table where Dumbledore and the professors sat in quiet observation. Her heart pounded, but she lifted her chin, summoning the courage to do what had to be done.
She exhaled slowly. Then, with a voice that carried through the hall, she spoke.
"My name is Catherine."
A hush fell, every eye locked onto her.
"I am not Harry Potter. I am not the Boy Who Lived." Her emerald gaze swept across the sea of students, many of whom looked utterly bewildered. "I have reclaimed my true self. And from this day forward, I expect to be addressed as Catherine."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Some students exchanged stunned glances, others gawked outright. Ron's mouth had dropped open, and Hermione's eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and something unreadable—concern, maybe? Disbelief?
Draco Malfoy scoffed from the Slytherin table, a sneer curling on his lips. "Well, well. The 'Boy Who Lived' thinks they can just—"
Before he could finish, Daphne's grip on Catherine's arm tightened, her nails pressing just slightly into Catherine's skin, a silent warning.
Catherine's lips parted, her body reacting before her mind could process it. "And I am honored to stand beside Daphne Greengrass." She turned her head slightly toward Daphne, whose smirk deepened ever so slightly. "She is my guide, my protector… my superior."
Gasps erupted from the Gryffindor table. The reaction was instantaneous—horrified stares, gaping mouths. Hermione stiffened, her hand clenching the edge of the table. Ron looked like someone had slapped him.
Daphne hummed in approval. "Go on, darling."
Catherine's hands trembled at her sides, but she didn't hesitate. "She is my Mistress."
If the whispers before had been loud, now they were deafening. A collective shockwave surged through the Great Hall. Even the professors exchanged glances, McGonagall's brows knitting together in clear concern while Snape's expression remained unreadable.
"Mistress?" Seamus Finnigan blurted out, eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. "You're taking orders from Greengrass?"
Daphne's grip never wavered, and Catherine simply nodded. "Yes."
Ron shot up from his seat. "Harry—"
"Catherine." The correction was immediate, firm.
Ron shook his head, color rising in his face. "Catherine—what the bloody hell is going on? Since when do you bow down to her?"
Daphne turned to Catherine, her voice laced with sweet amusement. "Shall I answer, or will you, love?"
Catherine closed her eyes for half a second before exhaling. "I… have chosen this."
Daphne smirked. "And I intend to make sure she never forgets it." She turned her head slightly, locking eyes with the still-stunned audience. "As her Mistress, I will guide her, shape her, and ensure she fulfills her potential."
More gasps, more outrage.
Catherine swallowed hard as Daphne leaned down, her lips brushing against her ear as she whispered, "It's time for your first public order, love."
Catherine turned her gaze upward, eyes meeting Daphne's. "W-what?"
Daphne chuckled. "Kneel."
The air froze.
Catherine's breath hitched. She could hear her heartbeat roaring in her ears. The entire school was watching. Every Gryffindor, every Slytherin, every professor. The entire world.
"Now," Daphne murmured.
The hesitation was brief. The weight of Daphne's hand on her arm, the subtle promise of punishment if she disobeyed—it was enough.
Catherine sank to her knees.
Silence reigned.
Then the eruption came.
Hermione's chair scraped against the stone floor as she bolted upright. "This is wrong," she snapped, eyes blazing. "Professor Dumbledore, you cannot allow this."
McGonagall's mouth was set into a grim line, but Dumbledore merely observed, his hands steepled before him, unreadable as ever.
Ron looked on in horror. "Mate—"
Catherine squeezed her eyes shut. "I am not your 'mate,' Ron. I made my choice."
Daphne purred, running a hand through Catherine's hair, the touch both possessive and indulgent. "Good girl."
A single tear escaped down Catherine's cheek. Whether it was from humiliation, submission, or something even she couldn't define—she didn't know.
But she knew one thing.
Daphne would never let her go.
And there was no turning back now.
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 10: Marked in Green and Silver
The dim glow of the enchanted lanterns bathed the Slytherin common room in an eerie light. The emerald tapestries and dark stone walls bore witness to an unspoken truth—a truth that had slowly and inevitably taken hold of Catherine's existence.
She sat on a plush chair near the fire, feeling the weight of Daphne's gaze on her, a presence more tangible than the crackling flames. Catherine had asked the question before she could stop herself, her voice uncertain yet demanding.
"Daphne… what did you mean when you said I would be wearing Slytherin colors?"
Daphne's lips curled into that slow, knowing smirk that sent shivers down Catherine's spine. She moved with the grace of a predator, stepping toward Catherine with an almost lazy confidence, her silk-green robes swaying around her.
"Oh, my sweet Catherine," Daphne murmured, placing a hand on the armrest of Catherine's chair, effectively caging her in. "Must I spell it out for you?"
Catherine swallowed, her heartbeat uneven. "I… I just don't understand what you're implying."
Daphne chuckled, reaching out to twirl a lock of Catherine's dark hair between her fingers. "It's quite simple, really. You are mine." She let the words settle, watching Catherine's reaction with satisfaction before continuing. "And I don't intend to let the world forget it."
Catherine stiffened as Daphne pulled out a neatly folded set of robes from the nearby table, the fabric gleaming in the low light. Green and silver. The colors of Slytherin. The colors of her Mistress.
"I—" Catherine hesitated, her fingers twitching. "You… you want me to wear this?"
Daphne's expression softened, though the possessiveness in her gaze remained unwavering. "Want?" she echoed. "No, darling. I expect it."
Catherine's breath caught in her throat as Daphne leaned down, her lips barely inches away from her ear. "Everywhere you go, people will see you and know exactly who you belong to. They will see the green and silver and understand that you are under my protection, my claim."
A shiver ran down Catherine's spine. "But I'm not a Slytherin…"
Daphne pulled back slightly, just enough to look Catherine in the eyes. "You don't have to be." She traced a finger along the edge of the fabric. "This is not about where the Sorting Hat placed you years ago. This is about where you belong now."
Catherine felt her breath hitch. There was something terrifying in the finality of Daphne's words. It wasn't a request, wasn't a suggestion. It was a decision that had already been made for her.
Daphne lifted the robes and draped them gently over Catherine's shoulders, her fingers smoothing the fabric over her skin. "You look perfect," she whispered.
Catherine swallowed hard. The weight of the robes was nothing compared to the weight of what they represented. Submission. Ownership. A declaration to the world that she was Daphne's.
Daphne, satisfied with Catherine's silence, let her fingers slide down her arm, squeezing gently. "You'll wear them for me, won't you, darling?"
Catherine exhaled shakily, her resolve crumbling. The firelight flickered across Daphne's expectant gaze, her touch warm, firm, undeniable.
"…Yes, Mistress."
Daphne's smirk deepened, her grip on Catherine tightening possessively. "Good girl."
Catherine's stomach twisted, uncertainty and inevitability tangling into something she could no longer fight.
She would wear Slytherin colors.
Because she no longer belonged to Gryffindor.
She belonged to Daphne.
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 11: A Uniform of Submission
Catherine shifted nervously, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The familiar weight of the Slytherin-colored robes draped over her shoulders served as a constant reminder of Daphne's unyielding control, but today, something else gnawed at her—something she had to ask.
She inhaled deeply, steadying herself as she turned to face Daphne, who lounged in her chair near the fireplace, exuding effortless authority. The flickering light cast shadows along the sharp angles of her face, her lips curled into that ever-knowing smirk that sent shivers down Catherine's spine.
Taking a step forward, Catherine swallowed hard before speaking. "Mistress… may I ask something?"
Daphne arched a delicate brow, tilting her head in amused interest. "You may ask, my love. Whether or not I grant it is another matter entirely."
Catherine exhaled slowly. "Since I've… since I've changed," she started, her voice uncertain yet determined. "And since I now wear your house colors, would it be possible for me to—" She hesitated, then forced the words out. "—wear the girls' uniform instead of the boys'?"
Silence stretched between them. The fire crackled softly, but it did nothing to quell the tension that suddenly thickened in the air.
Then, Daphne stood.
The movement was slow, deliberate. Predatory.
Catherine instinctively took a step back, but Daphne was quicker. In an instant, she was in front of her, lifting Catherine's chin with a single finger, forcing their eyes to meet.
"You wish to abandon the remnants of who you were?" Daphne mused, voice barely above a whisper. "You want to fully embrace this?"
Catherine's breath hitched. She could feel the weight of Daphne's gaze pressing down on her, assessing, calculating.
"Yes," she admitted softly. "I don't want to wear the boys' uniform anymore. I'm not—" She hesitated, then corrected herself. "I was never him."
Daphne's lips curled into something unreadable. "Good," she murmured, her thumb brushing lightly against Catherine's lower lip. "I had already made arrangements for this, of course."
Catherine blinked. "You… you did?"
Daphne chuckled, stepping back slightly, though the smirk on her lips never faded. "Did you think I wouldn't anticipate this? My dear, dear Catherine," she purred, turning away and retrieving a neatly folded set of garments from a nearby table. She held it up, revealing the unmistakable design of the Hogwarts girls' uniform—the fitted blouse, the skirt, the sleek, sophisticated tailoring meant to highlight elegance and femininity. "This has been waiting for you."
Catherine's breath caught in her throat.
Daphne ran her fingers over the fabric before fixing her gaze on Catherine once more. "But," she continued, "this is not merely a request you're making, darling." Her expression darkened, a flicker of something dangerous dancing in her eyes. "This is a privilege I am allowing."
Catherine swallowed. "I—I understand."
Daphne's smirk widened. "Do you?"
She stepped forward again, holding the uniform in one hand while reaching out with the other, fingers slipping beneath the Slytherin robes Catherine wore. She tugged slightly, a silent reminder of her ownership.
"If you wear this," Daphne murmured, her voice like silk and steel intertwined, "then you will wear it for me. Every morning when you dress, every time you catch your reflection in the mirror, you will remember that this—" she lifted the uniform slightly, "—is another mark of my claim on you."
Catherine shivered.
"You will wear it exactly as I expect you to," Daphne continued, now circling her, voice unwavering. "Your blouse neatly tucked, your skirt perfectly aligned, your tie knotted just the way I like it." She stopped behind Catherine, leaning in so close that her breath tickled the back of her neck. "And when I inspect you each morning… I expect perfection."
Catherine exhaled shakily. She could already feel the heat of Daphne's scrutiny, the absolute control she wielded over every aspect of her existence.
Still, she nodded. "Yes, Mistress."
Daphne hummed approvingly, stepping around to face her once more. "Good girl." She held out the uniform, waiting.
Catherine hesitated only for a moment before reaching out and taking it. The fabric was soft beneath her fingertips, but it felt heavier than anything she had ever worn.
"You will change now," Daphne instructed. "I want to see how it looks on you."
Catherine's cheeks flushed, but she didn't argue. She knew there was no room for debate. With careful hands, she removed the robe draped over her shoulders, then moved to unbutton her old uniform. The boys' uniform—the last remnant of something she had long abandoned.
Daphne watched her intently, her gaze unwavering.
By the time Catherine had finished changing, the girls' uniform fit her perfectly. The skirt brushed against her thighs, the blouse hugged her form in a way that finally felt right.
Daphne's slow smile was one of satisfaction. She stepped forward, adjusting Catherine's tie with delicate precision. "Beautiful," she murmured, her fingers lingering at the knot.
Catherine's heart pounded.
Daphne pulled back slightly, her expression softening—but only just. "From now on, this is the only uniform you will wear." Her grip tightened briefly on the edge of Catherine's collar, her voice lowering. "And every time you put it on, you will remember who allowed you this."
Catherine nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, Mistress."
Daphne's smirk deepened, her fingers brushing over Catherine's cheek before she stepped back, crossing her arms in satisfaction.
"There's no escaping me, Catherine," she mused. "No matter how you change, no matter what you wear."
Catherine lowered her gaze. She knew this. She had always known.
Daphne would never let her go.
And now, with this new uniform, her ownership was on full display.
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 12: A Dangerous Defiance
The news had spread like Fiendfyre through Wizarding Britain. The Boy Who Lived was no more. In his place stood Catherine Potter, proud, unwavering, and irrevocably changed. The Prophet had splashed the story across its front page, and for weeks, the Ministry had buzzed with frantic speculation.
Cornelius Fudge sat behind his desk, his pudgy fingers drumming against the wood as he stared at the latest report from Hogwarts. "This is… preposterous," he muttered, shaking his head. "The Boy Who Lived simply decides to become a girl? And Dumbledore allowed this?"
Across from him, one of his undersecretaries, Dolores Umbridge, pursed her lips. "It's disturbing, Minister. Very disturbing. What precedent does this set for our world? Potter was supposed to be a symbol, a beacon of wizarding strength and tradition. And now? Now, he—she—is prancing about in a skirt." She shuddered. "This cannot be allowed to go unchecked."
Fudge exhaled heavily. "And yet, we have no legal grounds to interfere. Dumbledore would tear us apart if we tried."
At the mention of the Hogwarts Headmaster, Umbridge's expression darkened. "Then we must find a way to regain control. If we let Potter—Catherine—continue unchecked, who knows what dangerous ideas might spread?"
Hogwarts, The Great Hall
The morning meal was already in full swing when the doors to the Great Hall creaked open, and for the second time that week, an eerie silence fell over the students.
Catherine Potter strode into the hall, her back straight, her chin lifted. The girls' uniform she wore hugged her frame perfectly, the skirt swishing lightly with each step. But it wasn't the uniform itself that had everyone staring—it was the colors.
Scarlet and gold.
Not green and silver.
Catherine had reclaimed her Gryffindor colors.
Ron, who had been mid-chew, choked on his breakfast. Hermione's fork clattered against her plate, her eyes widening in sheer disbelief.
Catherine reached their table and, without hesitation, slid onto the bench beside Ron. "Morning," she said casually, ignoring the continued whispers and stares from the surrounding students.
Ron coughed violently, pounding a fist against his chest. "Blimey, Cath—er, I mean, Catherine! You—you look—"
"Different?" she supplied.
Hermione, still stunned, nodded. "You—you're wearing the girls' uniform. But why—?"
Catherine exhaled. "Because it's who I am."
Ron ran a hand through his hair. "I mean… that's great and all, really, but… are you sure this is safe?" His eyes darted toward the Slytherin table.
Hermione followed his gaze and stiffened. "Oh no."
A slow, measured click of heels against stone made Catherine's stomach tighten.
Daphne was approaching.
The Slytherin Queen was silent as she came to a stop beside the Gryffindor table, the only sound the quiet rustle of her robes as she crossed her arms. Her gaze swept over Catherine, assessing, dissecting.
Then, in a voice as smooth as silk yet as sharp as steel, she spoke. "Catherine."
Catherine forced herself to meet her Mistress's gaze. "Yes, Mistress?"
The hall gasped collectively.
Daphne's eyes darkened, the subtle twitch of her fingers the only indication of her barely restrained emotions. "You're wearing Gryffindor colors."
Catherine inhaled slowly. "Yes."
Daphne's fingers twitched again. "And you're sitting at this table."
Another steady breath. "Yes."
Daphne leaned forward, placing one hand flat against the wooden surface of the table, her nails lightly scraping against it. "And you're speaking to them." Her eyes flicked toward Ron and Hermione, who both remained frozen under her piercing gaze.
"Yes," Catherine said again, though this time, her voice wavered slightly.
Daphne's smirk returned, slow and dangerous. "Oh, my love," she whispered, just loud enough for only Catherine to hear. "You do enjoy testing my patience, don't you?"
Catherine clenched her fists beneath the table. "Mistress, you said I could wear the girls' uniform."
Daphne's smirk never faltered. "I did, didn't I?" She reached forward, her fingers brushing along the collar of Catherine's robes, thumb lingering against the Gryffindor crest embroidered on the fabric.
Then, in one swift motion, she ripped the crest off.
A collective gasp filled the hall.
Catherine's breath caught.
Daphne held up the torn Gryffindor emblem, her smile widening. "You seem to have misunderstood something, my love." She let the fabric drop onto the table, her gaze locking onto Catherine's. "I said you could wear the girls' uniform. I never said anything about defying me with this—" she gestured toward the scarlet and gold. "This is not who you are anymore."
Catherine swallowed hard, but she couldn't argue. Not here. Not now.
Daphne tilted her head. "Stand."
Catherine hesitated.
Daphne's voice dropped, so quiet that it sent a chill down Catherine's spine. "Now."
Slowly, Catherine rose from her seat.
Daphne's smirk was nothing short of victorious. "You will return to my side," she said. "You will remove this uniform, and you will wear what I have given you."
Catherine's lips trembled. "But—"
Daphne reached out, grasping Catherine's chin between her fingers, tilting her face up. "And you will not sit at this table again." Her grip tightened ever so slightly. "Do you understand?"
Catherine's body betrayed her. Her knees weakened, her breath unsteady.
And then, defeated, she whispered, "Yes, Mistress."
Daphne's expression softened in satisfaction. "Good girl." She ran her fingers through Catherine's hair once before stepping back, gesturing for her to follow. "Come."
Catherine's feet moved on their own. She turned, casting one last look at Ron and Hermione. Hermione's eyes were filled with worry, Ron's with barely contained rage. But neither of them spoke.
Because they knew.
Catherine wasn't free.
And Daphne Greengrass would never let her go.
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 13: The Price of Defiance
Catherine followed Daphne through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, her heart hammering against her ribs. The morning meal had ended in silent submission, but the consequences of her actions had only begun.
The walk to the Slytherin dorms was slow, methodical, every step filled with an ominous weight. Daphne's grip on Catherine's wrist was firm—possessive—dragging her deeper into the depths of her domain. The moment the common room door swung shut behind them, the air thickened with a suffocating tension.
Daphne released her, only to turn sharply, eyes burning with something unreadable. Something dangerous.
"On your knees."
Catherine shuddered. The command was quiet but absolute. Her legs trembled, but she obeyed, lowering herself onto the cold stone floor. Her hands curled into fists on her lap, her breath uneven.
Daphne crouched before her, gripping her chin, tilting her face upward. The silence between them was deafening.
"You disobeyed me," Daphne finally said, her voice deceptively calm. "Tell me, Catherine, what made you think that was acceptable?"
Catherine swallowed hard. "I—I just wanted to—"
A sharp tug on her chin silenced her. "You wanted?" Daphne scoffed, tilting her head. "How adorable." Her fingers traced along Catherine's jawline before gripping the back of her neck, pulling her forward just enough that their breaths mingled. "But you don't get to want."
Catherine's chest tightened. She knew that. She had known that, and yet, she had still tested the limits of Daphne's patience.
"I gave you a simple privilege, and you twisted it into rebellion," Daphne murmured, her nails digging slightly into Catherine's skin. "Wearing the girls' uniform was never meant to be an act of defiance, yet you used it to challenge me."
Catherine's lips parted, but she didn't speak. There was nothing to say.
Daphne's smirk widened. "Good girl. At least you know when to hold your tongue." She released her grip, rising to her feet. "Now, remove it."
Catherine blinked. "What?"
Daphne gestured to the Gryffindor-uniform she still wore. "Take. It. Off."
Her stomach dropped. "But—"
Daphne's eyes flashed, the warning clear. "Now."
With trembling fingers, Catherine reached up, unbuttoning the blouse of her uniform, feeling the weight of Daphne's gaze with every movement. The fabric slid from her shoulders, pooling at her knees, leaving her clad in only her undershirt. The skirt followed, the defiant Gryffindor colors discarded into a heap beside her.
Daphne exhaled in satisfaction, stepping closer. She reached out, tracing her fingers over Catherine's exposed collarbone, her touch deceptively gentle. "There," she murmured, her voice laced with something possessive. "Much better."
Catherine's body trembled beneath her touch, her mind racing. She had stripped away the last piece of her resistance, and Daphne knew it.
Daphne stepped back, retrieving something from the nearby table—a fresh uniform. But this one wasn't Gryffindor. It was Slytherin green and silver, tailored perfectly for Catherine.
"You will wear this now," Daphne said, handing it to her. "And from now on, you will no longer hesitate to accept your place."
Catherine's fingers closed around the fabric, the weight of it suffocating. She wanted to resist, to argue, to fight—but she couldn't. She had already lost.
Daphne leaned down, whispering against her ear. "Say it, my love."
Catherine inhaled sharply, tears stinging her eyes. "I… I submit, Mistress."
Daphne's victorious smile was the last thing she saw before she shut her eyes, accepting her fate.
There was no escaping this.
There never had been.
Title: Shackles of Devotion - Chapter 14: The Serpent's Embrace
The next morning, Catherine stepped into the Great Hall, her breath steady despite the unease curling in her stomach. She had completed her punishment. She had yielded. And now, she bore the mark of her submission for all to see.
The emerald-green robes fit her perfectly, tailored with precision—because Daphne had ensured it. The Slytherin crest sat proudly over her heart, the silver serpent twisting around the embroidered shield. Even her tie had been changed, striped in green and silver rather than Gryffindor's red and gold.
A hush fell over the room.
Eyes turned. Stares fixed on her, some filled with shock, others with intrigue, and a few with cold amusement.
Snape, standing near the professor's table, arched a single eyebrow, his sharp gaze scanning her appearance. He set down his teacup carefully before speaking. "Well, well," he murmured, his voice slicing through the silence. "A most unexpected transformation."
His words weren't accusatory, nor were they warm. They were simply observing, calculating, as though she were an experiment that had just yielded fascinating results.
Dumbledore, seated at the center of the staff table, studied her with his ever-present twinkle, though today, there was something deeper behind those aged blue eyes—something unreadable. "Ah, Miss Potter—no, Miss Greengrass, I presume?"
Catherine stiffened slightly but nodded. "Catherine," she corrected gently. "Just Catherine."
Dumbledore inclined his head, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his lips. "Of course."
A loud scoff from the Slytherin table shattered the murmurs. Draco Malfoy leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his smirk cutting through the tension. "So this is what Potter has become?" he drawled, eyes gleaming with something Catherine couldn't quite name. "A pet parading around in our colors?"
Pansy Parkinson let out a sharp laugh, nudging Draco's arm. "She even has the crest," she sneered. "What's next? A leash?"
Catherine's stomach twisted, but she forced herself to stand taller. Before she could respond, another voice cut through the air.
"She belongs where I put her."
Daphne.
The possessiveness in her tone sent a chill through Catherine. Daphne walked up beside her, wrapping a single hand around her wrist—not too tight, not painful, but firm. A claim.
Draco's smirk twitched, but he said nothing. Pansy, however, tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "And she's fine with that?"
Daphne turned to Catherine, her nails grazing against the skin of her wrist. "Aren't you, darling?"
Catherine's breath hitched. She could feel the weight of the room pressing down on her. She had already lost everything. She had already chosen.
"…Yes, Mistress."
A fresh wave of whispers rippled through the Great Hall.
Tracey Davis, seated just a few spots down the Slytherin table, tapped her fingers against her goblet, watching the exchange with something like fascination. "Well, well," she mused. "Didn't see that coming."
The Carrow twins, Flora and Hestia, exchanged glances before Hestia let out a low chuckle. "I suppose we should start getting used to this new world order, then."
Flora nodded, smirking. "Daphne always did get what she wanted."
Catherine felt the heat of a thousand eyes on her, but none burned more fiercely than the hand still gripping her wrist.
Daphne leaned in just enough so only Catherine could hear. "You see?" she whispered, voice dripping with satisfaction. "You fit here."
Catherine swallowed hard, her fingers twitching. She had to.
Because Daphne would never let her be anything else.