The Dark Apprentice Chapter 78

Chapter 78

The whispers that circulated through the house, carrying the anxieties from Harry’s speech the night before, fell upon deaf ears the next day with the muffled insignificance of other conversations around the Great Hall. His mind was elsewhere, far too consumed by the weight of the revelation Daphne had shared with him the previous night.

The sheer magnitude of her choice had kept him awake, turning the impossible calculus of her decision over and over in his head. There had been so much inherent uncertainty woven into the very fabric of the initial dilemma.  Who would she ultimately sacrifice to secure her sister’s life and freedom from the blood curse?  How would they get away with it if Astoria witnesses it?  A memory charm was always an option, but Harry had the feeling Daphne would not want her sister to forget the lengths she had gone to protect her. The fact that she had chosen her own father, remained a staggering fact that Harry struggled to fully assimilate.

A small, pragmatic, and deeply skeptical part of his mind, the part honed by years of mistrust and betrayal, had harboured a genuine fear. It had anticipated the possibility, however remote, that in the final, terrifying moment of decision, Daphne’s resolve would waver, and she would turn on him instead. He had feared she might see his death as the more palatable, if equally horrific, price to pay for Astoria.

Yet, as Harry reflected on their days passed together, it became increasingly, undeniably clear that her loyalty was hard-won and it was his. It was a loyalty forged not just in affection, but in a shared cause and recognition of his role in her sister's salvation. The magnitude of that commitment—her willingness to sacrifice a parent for a sibling, and to stand with an outsider to see it done—sent a profound chill of respect and dread through Harry’s soul.

As her head rested comfortably on his shoulder, and her hand gripped his own tightly beneath the Slytherin table, a profound and unsettling wave of doubt washed over Harry. He found himself paralyzed by a chilling question that echoed the darkest corners of his conscience: was he, in his relentless pursuit of power and ambition, inadvertently guiding his girlfriend down the very same catastrophic path he had forced Tracey to walk?

The memory of Tracey, sweet, unassuming Tracey, was a wound that never truly healed. She had possessed a loyalty that was not only absolute but tragically blind, a devotion so complete that it ultimately became her undoing. Her life had been cruelly forfeit, extinguished in a flash when she had instinctively thrown herself between Harry and the vicious, unpredictable wrath of Barty Crouch Jr. It was a price Harry knew he had, in his manipulation and need, been complicit in demanding. Tracey's death was a constant, searing reminder of the collateral damage his decisions could inflict.

Now, he looked at Daphne. She was different from Tracey—sharper, more cynical, born of a different, harder world—yet her burgeoning loyalty to him seemed to possess a familiar, dangerous intensity. He saw the same willingness to trust, the same spark of adoration that could so easily be forged into unquestioning fealty. Harry felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. The seductive pull of having someone so fiercely on his side, so willing to follow his lead into the dark, warred with a crushing sense of moral responsibility.

Did he truly have the right to lead another down a road paved with such peril? Could he bear the guilt of watching history repeat itself, of seeing another innocent—or at least, another who had chosen to align with his dangerous destiny—pay the ultimate price for his choices, his battles, and his secrets? The warmth of Daphne’s head against his neck felt less like comfort and more like a heavy, damning weight, a silent testament to the terrible, life-altering power he wielded over the hearts of those who loved him. He had sought to be powerful, but he was rapidly discovering that with that power came a capacity for destruction he hadn't fully anticipated, a capacity that threatened to consume everyone in his vicinity.

Before the thought could evolve further, before the cold dread could fully settle in Harry’s stomach, a harsh, rattling coughing fit drew his immediate attention from nearby. Astoria was suddenly hunched over, each cough erupting from her chest. She was desperately trying to cover her mouth with her sleeve, her slender arm trembling with the effort, but a horrifyingly bright sliver of blood could already be seen pouring from beneath her fingers, staining the pristine white fabric of the linen tablecloth where she’d accidentally leaned forward.

The polite murmur of conversation that had lingered around the Slytherin table instantly died, replaced by a thick, oppressive silence. A few of the other students present shifted uncomfortably, their eyes wide with concern, or perhaps something darker and more judgmental. The air, usually warm with the scent of spices and morning pumpkin juice, suddenly felt icy and thin.

Without a second of hesitation, Daphne was on her feet. The older Greengrass sister moved with a startling, decisive grace, crossing the distance to the other side of the heavy oak table in two swift strides. She reached Astoria, placing a supportive hand gently but firmly on her back, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades as the younger girl continued to hack, her face a shocking, sickly pale beneath the dark sheen of sweat.

“It’s alright, Tori,” Daphne murmured, her voice a low, steady balm that somehow cut through the panic. “We’re just going to take a walk. Come on.”

With practiced, gentle strength, Daphne helped her sister up from the bench, pulling her close and guiding her swiftly towards the arched exit of the dining hall. Astoria leaned heavily on her, a fragile, trembling weight, her continuous, shallow coughing echoing unnervingly off the stone walls.

Just as the duo were reaching the towering doorway, disappearing from the light into the shadowed corridor beyond, Daphne turned her head. Her gaze, cold, clear, and sharp as ice, found Harry across the room. It was a look of pure, resolute determination—a fierce, almost desperate conviction that brooked no argument and offered no comfort.

Harry understood the silent message all too well. The fear, the encroaching sickness, the public display that couldn't be hidden away any longer—it was all culminating. Time was running out. That single, intense look was a sharp, wordless reminder, a command burned into the back of his mind: Their plan. It had to work.

Harry offered no verbal sign that he fully grasped the delicate situation involving Daphne and her sister, but instead, he expertly deployed a conversational smokescreen. He began chatting, perhaps a little too brightly, about the approaching holiday festivities with his housemates. Around him, most of his closest friends immediately caught on to his unspoken cue. They understood this was an attempt to divert the collective gaze and quiet the awkward murmurs away from the Greengrass sisters. Several of them shot him quick glances of solidarity. They, too, plunged into the conversation, some offering suggestions for holiday activities or trading funny antecedents about Christmas disasters on the horizon.

Harry had to fight a strong urge to roll his eyes at the overly zealous distraction efforts, but he maintained a smooth, interested expression. His focus remained singular, shielding Daphne and Astoria from any further uncomfortable scrutiny. He threw out timely questions and well-placed comments, subtly guiding the flow and ensuring the topic remained safely distant from the source of the recent tension.

Unfortunately this didn’t last, because an interruption from behind pulled him abruptly out of the conversation he was attempting to start with Blaise and Theo. As his eyes reluctantly glanced over his shoulder, Harry found that the Headmaster and his Head of House were looking down at him.

Dumbledore's normally twinkling blue eyes looked severe, his expression betraying a rare impatience. The half-moon spectacles seemed to magnify the disapproval radiating from his face. Professor Slughorn, on the other hand, seemed merely exasperated, tugging at the lapels of his velvet waistcoat. The Potions Master cleared his throat, his voice slightly higher-pitched than usual as he spoke, “Harry, my boy, can you join us in the Entrance Hall for just a moment? We need some clarification regarding your holiday plans. There seems to have been a slight—misunderstanding—on the paperwork.”

The use of the familiar address, "my boy," seemed particularly grating to Harry, given the Headmaster's stern demeanor. Yet, Harry merely allowed a mask of polite compliance to settle over his features, his easy smile unfaltering as he stood up, smoothing the front of his robes.

“Of course, Professor,” Harry replied, his voice showing no sign of irritation. He offered a small nod toward Blaise and Theo before focusing completely on the two older wizards. Harry gave his friends a quick, encouraging glance, silently urging them to continue their attempts to distract the others, though he knew the upcoming whispers would soon be about his departure with the Headmaster and their Head of House, and whispers about the Greengrass sisters would be long forgotten.

Professor Slughorn casually greeted students from the house as they made their way out of the hall, but his false bravado wasn’t fooling many at the Slytherin table.  It didn’t take a keen observer to see that there was tension in the departing trio.  Harry for his part could only imagine what Dumbledore could want with both him, and his head of house, but instead of asking questions, he just fell in line with an air of indifference.

When the trio finally arrived in the chilly, echoing expanse of the entrance hall, a tense silence seemed to settle around them, only to be abruptly shattered by Horace Slughorn’s booming, overly-genial voice.

“Harry, my dear boy,” Slughorn began, his walrus-like figure turning to face the young wizard with an air of theatrical concern, “I know, I know I already approved your holiday departure plans. Everything was signed, sealed, and delivered after I received the most perfectly proper owl from Cyrus Greengrass, detailing your arrangements.”

He paused, a flicker of genuine anxiety crossing his usually jovial face as he fiddled nervously with the gold buttons on his velvet waistcoat. "However," he continued, leaning in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a low, slightly wheezing murmur, "it seems our Headmaster has developed... further concerns. Given the… well, the truly unique circumstances surrounding your circumstances and, naturally, the delicate nature of the situation at large, he's requested a brief, private word. Nothing to worry about, of course! Just a quick chat to ensure all the T's are crossed and the I's are dotted."

Harry folded his arms across his chest, the motion deliberate and conveying a sense of unwavering resolve, before he turned his attention to Dumbledore. “What kind of questions could I possibly answer, Headmaster?” Harry's voice was level, firm, and entirely devoid of the deference Dumbledore was accustomed to receiving. He met the Headmaster's gaze without flinching, unwilling to be drawn into one of the older man’s psychological maneuvering games. “If you took the time to read Lord Greengrass’s letter it explained his intentions clearly and comprehensively.”

Dumbledore reached into his robes and immediately pulled out the aforementioned letter before saying, “That it may, but I think leaving Hogwarts at the current time is a reckless decision given all that you know now.”

Slughorn's brows furrowed at these words, and his questioning gaze landed on Harry, but the teen didn’t flinch.  Going to the Greengrasses for the holidays was essential.  He would need to be on hand for Daphne’s ritual to ensure there were no complications, and he had every intention of visiting Tom over the holidays.

Instead of addressing the exasperated look on his Head of House's face, Harry let out a long, weary sigh. "I understand the gravity of the situation, Headmaster," he began, his voice firm despite his internal fatigue. "I fully comprehend the necessity of caution and the strategic implications of our current situation. However, I will not put my life on hold, nor will I cease pursuing my goals, simply because we are waiting to decide our next move.”

He paused, meeting Dumbledore's gaze with an unwavering intensity that belied his youth. "As it stands, I have barely exchanged five words with the Lord and Lady Greengrass.  It is a long-standing tradition that I get to know the Lord of their family if I am to continue courting his daughter.”

“This is exactly what I told you as well, Albus!” Slughorn exclaimed, his voice booming slightly as he gestured emphatically, the tremor in his hand betraying his agitation. He then softened his tone, leaning in to place a reassuring, yet firm, hand on Dumbledore’s elbow. “I know you haven’t seen the two interact—the whole relationship has been kept admirably discreet—but they have every bit of chemistry that Lily and James held.” Slughorn paused, allowing his words to sink in, his eyes earnest behind his spectacles.

“We would be severely damaging the lad's chances at making a good impression with a Lord of our country if we kept him at Hogwarts over the holidays. Think of the political ramifications, Albus! This isn't just a schoolboy tryst; this is a burgeoning political alliance. The Greengrass family is old and powerful. I know Cyrus; I taught him, remember? And the Greengrass family’s protections are formidable! I have seen them myself. He will be perfectly safe, safer, perhaps, than he would be even within these walls, given the… events of the last few years.”

Slughorn's plea hung heavy in the air, but the headmaster's expression remained one of deep, troubled contemplation, his pale blue eyes fixed on Harry. Seeing that Dumbledore was completely unconvinced, and clearly on the verge of issuing a refusal, Harry decided to take matters into his own hands and put the matter to rest decisively.

“I had Daphne write to her father, Headmaster,” Harry stated, his voice calm and utterly devoid of negotiation, “and request the letter as a gesture of good will—a formality, really. I don’t need your permission to depart the school. I am a Tri-Wizard champion, something that elevated my status last year to an adult in our society, recognized by the Ministry and the international Wizarding community.”

He met Dumbledore’s gaze, not with defiance, but with a weary finality. “I didn’t want to play this card, as I am trying to respect your authority, but you don’t really have any option other than forbidding my return to school in January. That is the only power you retain in this situation: a temporary exclusion. You cannot legally prevent me from leaving for the Christmas holidays, Headmaster.”

“Preventing the boy's return would be a great travesty!” Slughorn instantly thundered, jumping back into the fray, his face turning a mottled red as he stubbornly stared down his old friend. “You would be alienating a champion of our school, Albus! And insulting one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families who has offered the lad their hospitality and protection!”

There was not a twinkle in the old man’s eyes, nor a shred of amusement in his expression. Dumbledore, usually so jovial and full of boisterous cheer at Hogwarts, looked instead like he had swallowed a moldy lemon drop as he sighed, his expansive chest deflating slightly. “I implore you to rethink this, Harry,” Dumbledore began, his voice taking on a heavy, serious tone that Harry rarely heard from him. “With everything that has happened—the attack at Gringotts, the uncertainty surrounding your position, the very real threats that still loom—it would be best if you remained here under my own protection. Hogwarts is the safest place for you right now, and certainly the most monitored.”

Harry, however, was not going to give the man an inch. Deciding to play the teenager in love card, perhaps the only persona that might mildly placate his Headmaster, Harry shook his head firmly.

“And what about her protection, sir?” Harry challenged, his eyes holding Dumbledore’s gaze without wavering. “You’re talking about my safety here at the castle, but who protects Daphne if I am not at her side? Who stands between her and those who might target her simply because of her association with me? That is not something I am willing to pass to someone else, not even to her own family. I trust myself to keep her safe above all others.”

His words seemed to cut through any remaining doubts of Slughorn, introducing an angle the Potions Master hadn't fully considered. Dumbledore’s features even softened slightly, the moldy lemon drop expression easing into one of troubled contemplation. The man seemed genuinely surprised by Harry’s decisive words and the fierce conviction behind them. He paused for a long, weighty moment, his vibrant blue eyes scrutinizing Harry with an intense, penetrating gaze.

“It seems your ability to form connections—deep, loyal, and protective connections—does give you a considerable separation from some of my misgivings over the situation, Harry,” Dumbledore mused, his voice a quiet, measured rumble that commanded attention. “It is a quality that Lord Voldemort has never possessed, and in that, you find a strength he cannot comprehend. You are a brilliant boy, Harry, a phenomenal student, and already a formidable young man. But you must never forget what I told you about your enemy. You are no match for him yet, not in raw power, nor in experience. Your commitment to Miss Greengrass is admirable, but you must not let it blind you to the scale of the danger. You must promise me you will exercise the utmost caution.”

Harry fought a powerful, internal battle to suppress the urge to roll his eyes, a gesture of exasperation that would certainly betray the carefully constructed facade he wore. These calculated lies, the deception required for his current mission, were beginning to feel less like a burden and more like a second skin. A deep, unsettling part of him, the part that Tom had been so meticulously cultivating, actively longed to complete the morbid task set before him. The thought of striking down Albus Dumbledore, the wizard who stood as the final bastion against Tom's dominion, right here and now, was a potent temptation. Adding Horace Slughorn to the tally would be a trivial, almost inconsequential, detail. With the Headmaster permanently removed, Harry knew with chilling certainty that none could effectively stand in Tom’s way; the path to absolute power would be cleared.

Yet, even as the murderous impulse surged, a cooler, more rational voice, the last vestige of the boy who once was, reminded him that this was not the moment. The timing was all wrong. The location was far from secure, and the execution of such a monumental act required precision, not impulsive violence.

Ironically, the greatest remaining threat to Tom’s ultimate plan, the single mind capable of outmaneuvering and defeating the Dark Lord, stood mere feet away, utterly unaware of the abyss staring back at him through Harry’s green eyes. Dumbledore was the final, critical obstacle. Harry was privy to information few others possessed. He knew that with the magical Gringotts irreparably damaged and Azkaban having completely fallen out of Ministry control, the list of vital targets for Tom’s strategic strikes had dramatically shrunk. The Ministry of Magic itself was, without a doubt, next on the agenda. But before that grand finale, Tom would have a singular, non-negotiable expectation: Harry must fulfill his last and most crucial assignment—to remove the Headmaster from the picture, permanently, and clear the field for the Dark Lord's inevitable triumph.

“I will, sir.” Harry said through gritted teeth, doing his best to keep up the act.

Dumbledore offered a slow, deliberate glance at Slughorn, a look that was a complex mixture of disappointment and weary acceptance. The Headmaster then let out a soft, measured sigh, the sound barely audible in the quiet of the office. "Very well," he conceded, the word heavy with finality. "Horace, it seems Mr. Potter will be leaving us after all." He offered a benevolent, albeit strained, smile. "Have a good holiday, both of you. May your Christmas break be restful and, in Mr. Potter's case, uneventful." 

With that the man departed in a swirl of his robes, and Slughorn just shook his head before patting Harry on the shoulder before wishing him a happy holiday and waddling down the corridor back to the dungeons.

.o.

Daphne was on edge the moment they boarded the express. Harry had tried, commendably, to hide the young woman’s palpable tension, launching into a lighthearted conversation with their friends and allies. He spoke of trivial things—a particularly amusing blunder by a Gryffindor on the last day of classes, or some ideas he had of upcoming lessons he would hold in the Common Room—but in reality, he didn’t believe he was really fooling any of them.

The Slytherins closest to him were far too sharp, too well-versed in reading subtle shifts in body language, and had learned to be keenly observant throughout their complex and often perilous lives. Blaise was leaning against the compartment window, his eyes flicking between Harry’s animated face and Daphne's unnaturally still profile. Flora’s brow had subtly furrowed as her eyes flickered back and forth to the Greengrass heiress. Theo, who had come out of his more quiet nature this year, seemed to simply glance occasionally towards Daphne’s hands, noting the white-knuckle grip she had on the worn leather strap of her book bag.

All had noted the profound silence of Daphne, a stark contrast to her usual dry wit and measured contributions. More than that, they felt the low hum of anxiety she seemed to radiate, a tangible cloud of worry that permeated the air of the enclosed compartment, making the celebratory arrival of the holidays feel brittle and false. They knew her well enough to understand that this was not mere homecoming jitters; something significant, and likely troubling, was weighing heavily on the usually composed Ice Queen of Slytherin.

Harry hoped that her silence would be interpreted by the group as nothing more than the worry of a sister deeply concerned for her ailing sibling. It was a perfectly reasonable and easily digestible explanation for her uncharacteristic stillness and quietude. The emotional turmoil of watching a loved one suffer was universal, and in this specific context, the suffering was a well-known affliction.

While not every member of their immediate circle was privy to the exact, horrifying details of the insidious blood curse that afflicted Astoria, a baseline of awareness regarding her precarious health was inescapable. Every student in Slytherin House had to be at least semi-cognizant of the fact that Astoria spent an undue, and frankly alarming, amount of her academic year within the confines of the Hospital Wing. Her presence there was not merely occasional, but a disheartening constant. She was, tragically, the student who frequented the infirmary more than any other, a stark testament to the debilitating, relentless nature of the curse that ailed her, slowly draining the vitality from her body. This general knowledge, Harry reasoned, would serve as a sufficient shield, allowing the true, more complex and self-centered source of her current internal turmoil to remain safely hidden.

Despite his best efforts the train ride felt agonizingly long, and he let out a breath he had hardly realized he was holding when they arrived at Kings Cross.  Harry’s circle of friends all wished each other a happy holiday, and scurried off in the direction of their own families the moment they hit the platform.  It seemed to Harry that the group was anxious to get away from the tension, and on with their holidays, something the teen could hardly blame them for.

Despite the heavy anticipation and perhaps a lingering knot of nervousness in his stomach, Harry kept up a false bravado of cheer, a bright, if slightly strained, smile plastered on his face. He followed Daphne down the crowded platform, their hands clasped tightly.  

To their left Astoria had arrived at their side, looking slightly pale, but much better than she did at breakfast that morning.  The girl had a large smile on her face, and seemed to genuinely enjoy the thought of returning home.  A tug of anxiety hit Harry as he thought about how the girl might react when Daphne’s plan came to fruition, but he quickly buried the feeling before it rose any further.

Instead he allowed his emerald eyes to sweep across the bustling scene. The entire length of Nine and Three-Quarters was a flurry of joyous reunions. Young witches and wizards, freshly returned from Hogwarts, were being enveloped in the loving embraces of their parents and younger siblings. Undoubtedly with everything that had happened in the last few months, families were relieved to be reunited.  In fact Harry believed there were more families on the platform today than he had ever seen before.

As his gaze traversed the happy, chaotic tapestry of young families greeting each other, his eyes eventually locked on a pair of people he only had a passing recognition of, Lord and Lady Greengrass.

Lady Greengrass was a woman whose appearance defied her age. She possessed the same flowing, wavy blonde hair that was a hallmark of her daughters, but her eyes were a lighter, more ethereal shade of green—a striking contrast to Daphne's deeper emerald gaze. The rest of her figure was as slender and graceful as her daughter’s. Though the lines around her eyes and the subtle maturity in her expression hinted that the woman had to be in her late 30s, while a casual glance could easily place her in her early 20s. She carried herself with an air of refined confidence and elegance befitting her station.

In contrast, her father, Lord Greengrass, immediately displayed Daphne's most dominant and arresting feature: those piercing, intense blue eyes that seemed to analyze and hold the attention of anyone they focused upon. His face was immaculately clean-shaven, emphasizing the strong, aristocratic lines of his jaw and cheekbones. However, his hair was beginning to show distinguished streaks of grey at the temples, a subtle but clear indication that the man was likely entering his early 40s. He exuded an aura of calm authority, his posture straight and unyielding, suggesting a man accustomed to command and decision-making within the highest echelons of society. The blend of his daughter's shared features and his wife's enduring beauty created a captivating tableau of the Greengrass lineage.

Astoria had surged forward, a burst of sudden energy, and now stood directly in front of the arriving duo, her arms wrapped tightly around her mother. Lady Greengrass, her face alight with undisguised affection, returned the embrace with an equal measure of warmth and tenderness, clearly immensely pleased by her daughter's sudden, spirited arrival.

In contrast, Lord Greengrass offered a faint, almost imperceptible expression of disapproval. It wasn't one of true anger, but rather the quiet, reserved skepticism of a traditionalist pure-blood father watching his daughter dispense with the expected decorum in what the man saw as a semi-formal setting.

Mother and daughter remained locked in their embrace even as Harry and Daphne made their composed approach across the platform. As they drew near, the teen girl offered her father a slight, respectful bow of her head. Her voice, clear and poised, then broke the silence with a declaration, a statement that was both a courtesy and a subtle challenge. “Father, Lord Greengrass,” she began, her gaze steady, “I would like to introduce to you the soon-to-be Lord Potter, my intended.” Her words, deliberately chosen, set the stage for the conversation to follow.

Harry knew formality dictated that he should bow before the man, but there was only one he would should such deference to now, so instead held his head high, offering the man his hand, “Lord Greengrass, thank you for agreeing to host me over the holidays.”

Though, I imagine you will come to regret the decision, Harry thought internally.

Lord Greengrass seemed unimpressed by Harry’s words and introduction, but took the hand nonetheless, “We were very interested to host you, Mr. Potter.  I look forward to many parlays over the break, so I may gauge the type of wizard you really are.  The Daily Prophet can be so misleading.”

Daphne stiffened instantly, her eyes narrowing slightly as the man’s dismissive words hung in the air. The casual slight against Harry’s title, against his very standing, was not lost on her, and the protective, proprietary instinct she felt toward him flared. She opened her mouth, ready to deliver a sharp rebuke of her own, but Harry’s hand subtly squeezed her own, a gentle, silencing pressure.

Harry, for his part, felt a familiar annoyance at the political games played by those who valued inherited power over earned skill. He cared little for the complex dance of social standing and ancient feuds, but he was certainly no fool; the man had challenged his worth. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips—a smile that promised more trouble than diplomacy.

“I am afraid, sir,” Harry began, his voice smooth, low, and carrying a steely undertone, “that my skills are not in the parlays of politics, or the navigation of our society’s tedious social calendar. I have little patience for posturing, and even less for titles I have only begun to earn.”

“My value should be measured more in my abilities with a wand,” Harry continued, his gaze unwavering. “If you truly wish to gauge the type of wizard I am—if you wish to ascertain my worth in relation to your daughter, and or potentially being a part of your family, perhaps you should put those abilities to the test.”

“Perhaps we could discuss putting such abilities on display over dinner.” The man responded tightly with clear agitation written on his features.

“I look forward to it, sir.” Harry responded in kind.

Turning his attention to Lady Greengrass his expression softened, and he put on a more charming smile in hopes of diffusing a potential situation, “Lady Greengrass, it seems I finally get to meet the woman who brought the brightest witch of our age into our world."

Lady Greengrass was visibly slighted by Harry's pointed refusal to offer a compliment. Her wounded pride was betrayed by a subtle, yet unmistakable, change in her posture and a tightening around her eyes. Harry didn't know if she had expected flattery from Daphne's potential suitor, but he would not indulge her.

His brief observations of her interactions with Daphne had consistently shown a relationship that was cold and distant, lacking any genuine warmth. Further evidence of this emotional disconnect was the parents' striking silence and apparent indifference regarding Daphne's near-constant absence from home during the Summer break.

Harry saw this silence not as trust, but as a clear lack of true parental investment. He was certain Daphne would neither expect nor appreciate him trying to gain favor with her mother. Such a gesture would feel like a betrayal of their mutual understanding and an unnecessary social effort that would yield no benefit. Harry's sole loyalty lay with Daphne, making her mother's approval irrelevant, and potentially detrimental, to their current dynamic.

“Mr. Potter…your reputation precedes you.” The woman’s tone indicated this was not a compliment, but Harry didn’t bat an eyelash, as he slid closer to Daphne, much to the woman’s disapproval, “It seems we all have much to learn about each other over the coming days.  I am sure it will be enlightening.”

“I am certain it will be ma’am.” Harry responded in kind, allowing the tension to rise.

Lord Greengrass produced a small, leather-bound book from the inner pocket of his robes and presented it to the two with a curt, almost dismissive gesture.  “This portkey,” he stated, his voice devoid of warmth, “will take you directly to the gates of the manor. Our house-elf will meet you there. He has his instructions and will ensure you can get in. We will, of course, speak more fully at the traditional dinner hour.”

The message was not merely clear to Harry; it was a cold, hard slap of unwelcome formality. The subtext of the brief transaction was unmistakable. The fact that Lord Greengrass had no desire—or felt no need—to personally escort them, or even wait a few moments to see them through the final leg of their journey, spoke volumes about the family's view of their new guest. He was being handed off a package to be delivered to the back door, his status as an upcoming Lord apparently meant little within the walls of the Greengrass ancestral home.

Before further questions could be said the man apparated away in a soft pop, while Lady Greengrass did the same with Astoria.  When just Harry and Daphne were left on the platform with a portkey, Daphne let out an exhale, “That went well.”

“I think we are going to have quite the holiday, my lady.” Harry said with a devious grin, completely undisturbed by the family's dismissal, “Let’s go see if I can make that blood vessel in your fathers right temple rupture tonight at dinner.”

The girl let out her first genuine laugh of the afternoon that seemed to chase away some of the lingering shadows of their recent tension. A perceptible lightness returned to her shoulders, the slight stiffness that had held her posture easing away as she gazed at the teen. She leaned in, her eyes shining with affection, and offered him a soft, lingering kiss—a silent promise and a thank you all in one.

The witch wasted no more time as she gripped the old book, and Harry’s arm tightly spoke the activation phrase softly. The familiar, slightly nauseating lurch in the pit of their stomachs was the only warning before the world seemed to contract and spin violently around them. In the space of a single, dizzying moment, they were whisked away from the bustling platform and instantly deposited amidst the well-kept grounds and stately architecture of Greengrass Manor.

(A/N) I know I don’t usually leave you guys many Author notes on Patreon, but I just kind of wanted to provide a general update of where we are and where we are heading.

This Greengrass storyline has been in the background for a long time, and I promise I am not going to let it linger for much longer.  This is more of a show of what really brings Harry and Daphne together.  That’s what all this has been about.  This is really more about Harry’s commitment to Daphne, and his own ability to manipulate and guide people down the path of the Dark Arts, and the consequences of doing so.  It’s all related I promise!

I am thinking the story is going to have right around 100 chapters before we move onto what’s next.  I have only begun to write the next story, but honestly I am not completely sold on the idea.  It is HarryXBellatrix, but honestly I think it might be too complex for what most will enjoy, so I am still considering where to go.  I might do a Poll to see what you guys might want to read, and go from there.  So look for that in the coming days!  

Questions, comments, thoughts, or concerns?  Please leave them in the comments, or post in the forums so we can talk about it.  A lot of my best ideas usually come from you guys, and I just expand on them immensely, so please chat with me if you have ideas!  Much love everyone, and happy holidays!