Archive of Our Own

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

These words were the words of a muggle. Rajul al-zift, as they were called in the Orient. There were many other words that her fellow mages used for muggles—ones she certainly agreed with—but that was not here or now.

No.

She was going insane.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over, over, over.

Again, again, again.

If she were not so meticulous with her appearance, there would be deep bags under her eyes, that she was certain of. It had been weeks since she had felt the stinging, comforting warmth of hot water on her skin.

Scourgify and other charms kept her perfect.

She was going insane.

Daphne stared at the wall in front of her, head aching as she stood in her lonesome. This place had once been a classroom, unused for centuries until she staked her claim over it. Now, one could hardly tell it had been a classroom at all.

Where there had once been desks, there were cauldrons. Runic circles took the place of chairs. Shelves lined the walls, full of ingredients that cost more than most earned in a year.

What was most noticeable, however, was the smell. It smelled rotten. A nauseating scent clogged the room. Crimson blood—some liquid, some dried—coated the floor. Most of the blood, however, was infected.

Insanity.

Insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

Stacks of books made the room suffocating. She had always suffered from horrible claustrophobia. She hated messes. She hated anything dirty.

Daphne swallowed deeply, looking back down at the table before her. She twirled her wand, tapping several chalk symbols surrounding a smear of blood smattered with rotted black chunks.

"Deo tahir hatha ra," she chanted quietly, watching as the runes lit up and then dimmed. The blood vanished, and she hissed furiously, kicking her foot into the ground.

She jumped back, holding her foot in pain. It had failed. She had failed.

She was going insane.

Daphne slipped, her back planting onto the ground, decayed, gelatinous fluid covering her back. She flinched and squeaked, launching herself to her feet and quickly casting charms to clean herself.

She hissed once more from the sting of Scourgify wiping her skin clean.

Daphne glanced down. "Another," she mumbled. "Another failure."

Thousands of attempts. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands. Over and over and over again, she tried. She failed. She tried and failed.

She couldn't give up, though. Never could. Not until…no. That wasn't going to happen. She would never give up. She would succeed.

Exhaustion weighing on her, Daphne flicked her wand, banishing everything off of the desk and onto the floor, not bothering to clean it up. With another flick, she summoned a jar, the contents inside of it held in stasis.

This was a very important jar.

It held Astoria's blood.

It had been a few drops at first, but Daphne had gotten around the issue of volume years ago. The Gemino charm was useful, very useful. It had turned drops into liters. It was this blood that Daphne was experimenting on.

Waving her wand, she let some of the blood leave the jar, duplicating it a second later. She closed the jar and returned it to its shelf.

Astoria's blood was already decaying, Daphne noticed with a grimace. Red blood was slowly blackening, Astoria's cells were turning into tar. The curse was only getting stronger.

Daphne wanted to sob. It was a truly cruel curse, the one on her sister. The one Baldwin Gaunt had cast on her ancestor.

She was going insane.

She just wanted to hear Astoria call her Daffy, to braid Astoria's hair, to enjoy walking through nature with her.

It wasn't fair.

"Why is Astoria sick, Mummy?" Daphne asked, eyes wide as she looked up at her mother. She had been a foolish girl back then, thinking that Mother would help.

Her mother gently brushed Daphne's hair, running her fingers over her scalp. "Because of a bad, bad man, Honey. You shouldn't worry yourself with this, Dear. Astoria will be alright."

"But she doesn't look alright," Daphne grumbled, unwilling to back down. She glared up, arms crossed. "She—she was coughing up black stuff. It was icky…"

Of course, Mother had done as she always did, deflecting. Daphne had been too stupid back then too notice. She should have known better.

Her mother gently moved Daphne's hair into her face, clogging Daphne's vision. "Are you sure, Dear? With all of this hair, I don't know if you saw anything, Honey. Maybe you just saw dirt in your hair," her mother teased, eyes wandering in the distance.

Daphne squawked, batting her mother's hands away. "Hey! You ruined my hair!" she whined, backing up a little bit to fix it. "My hair isn't dirty. I keep it clean!"

"Oh?" her mother said, pinching Daphne's cheek. "I have photos of you in the mud that say otherwise, Sweetie."

Life had been easier back then, not knowing Astoria's fate. Mother and Father had hid it away, and Astoria had been so full of life that it became easy to gloss over.

It hadn't been much longer after this that she discovered the truth, though. Father had left out a book, and she had been too curious for her own good.

Daphne pouted as she left her mother, trying her hardest to fix her hair after her mother's assault on it. She wasn't dirty! She kept very clean. Sure, sometimes she left muddy footprints after playing with Astoria in the garden, but the elves always cleaned it up.

She wasn't messy…

Daphne kept batting at her hair, wandering through her family's manor. Her legs took her to the library as she aimlessly walked, and a tiny booklet on one of the tables caught her attention. It looked really old, almost as old as her grandmother.

Daphne hesitated. She wasn't supposed to go into the library unsupervised…but curiosity won out. She wanted to read what was in that really old book.

Tentatively, she stepped into the library, almost expecting to be caught immediately. She wasn't. She walked up to the table, pulled herself onto the chair, and looked at the cover of the book.

On Our Malediction, the title read. She didn't know what malediction meant, but it was probably something bad. It sounded like malice, and that was a bad word.

Daphne did what she always did—that is, she did what she shouldn't do. She opened it up to the first page, and she read. Some of the words were too big, but she was a smart girl. She could understand what it meant.

To my descendants, so that you may figure out this curse. I do not know if you know me, perhaps my name has been lost or our family has changed names, as we did when we left Greece centuries ago. Regardless, I am Asclepius Greengrass, son of Daphne Greengrass and Johan Bernt.

I know…you should see the irony in my name, Descendant. I am named after the great healer Asclepius, yet I cannot heal the malediction that Baldwin Gaunt cast onto my mother—ah, I am getting ahead of myself, Descendant. My apologies.

Let me tell you the tale of Daphne Greengrass, Johan Bernt, and Baldwin Gaunt. Baldwin was a pathetic man, as any would tell you. He was the runt of the Gaunts, his name removed from their tree (not until his death, however).

Baldwin differed greatly from the other Gaunts. While most Gaunts are well known for their consanguineous relations, Baldwin was not. He went to Hogwarts, as any good wizard should, and was placed in Slytherin along with my mother, as any good wizard should.

There, he developed a crush. If you know anything about the Gaunts, they are raving lunatics. Mother was already engaged to Johan Bernt, born into a strong German family that moved to the Isles. My father, Johan, was a strong and courageous man.

Baldwin certainly was not.

For years, Baldwin chased after Mother, and for years, Mother rejected him. Time passed, and they left Hogwarts. Mother and Father were to be married the summer after graduation, and Baldwin snapped.

He was always a childish sort, Baldwin, from what I have heard. He dove into his ancestor's magics, ones passed down from Salazar Slytherin and the ancient Peverells. Petty as he was—and, mind you, he was betrothed to Elizabeth Gaunt, so he had no claim to my mother—he decided that my mother should pay for what she had 'done' to him.

He engaged in the darkest of magics, sacrificing his own soul to curse our family. The Greengrass Malediction was born on my parents' wedding day, and every generation, one Greengrass woman shall suffer the curse.

If you, my descendant, are a woman, I am truly sorry. I pray to the Most High that you do not bear the curse. Lord in Heaven, let it be that this curse has ended.

I fear, however, that there will not be a cure.

I shall tell you the symptoms, my descendant. My research will begin on page five.

Baldwin was a vile being. He does not deserve to be called a human for what he has done. The Greengrass Malediction begins slowly. She will cough up black sludge at first. This will be one of the only symptoms for years.

Lethargy will follow in periodic bursts until she is left bedridden, her musculature decayed. Her senses will fade next as deep lesions form in the face, black sludge melting from the skin. It is an agonizing experience, as I saw in my mother, cousin, and daughter.

We put Mother out of her misery before the final stage, using the Killing Curse to make it painless.

Cousin Andromeda, may the Lord bless her, told me to monitor her until the disease took her life. The final stage is the total decay of the body. Everything rots away as bodily functions fail. The nerves, however, still remain.

All that is left, in the end, is tar. I theorize that this curse is a derivative of a curse from the Orient, notably because—

That day had been the day that she began to go insane.

"Finally decided to show your face, Greengrass?" Parkinson sneered, her groupies snickering next to her. Daphne had never liked her peers very much.

Regardless, she needed to eat, and duplicated food became miserably bland after awhile. Like a proper lady, she did not roll her eyes, nor did she retort. No, Daphne was not a pathetic swine like Parkinson.

Instead, she sat down, her golden hair resting on her back like an ornate veil. Her robes were in order. She smelled of flowers, and she knew that a dictionary would use her image for the word beauty.

Not that beauty had ever helped her. Beauty wouldn't save Astoria.

Regardless, Daphne kept herself orderly and neat. She was not some muggle cattle, after all, but of pure breeding.

Pansy, shaming her ancestors (per usual), did not know how to shut up. "Going to go find some rabbits to sacrifice next, Daffy?" Pansy taunted, clearly jealous of Daphne's superior everything. "Or do you stop at playing with mice?"

"I gave those mice more attention than Draco ever gave you," Daphne mumbled, placing her serviette on her lap and slowly serving herself food.

Daphne had to prevent herself from blushing in shame. After Astoria had been moved to Saint Mungo's in fourth year, Daphne began experimenting with rituals. She had been caught catching a mouse.

She stopped with sacrificial rituals at that point. Her ancestors had already deemed it pointless, but she still had to try.

Pansy's face reddened in anger. "You—" Pansy began, enraged. "You bitch. You know that Draco has been under a lot of stress this year!"

Daphne just stared at her blandly, cutting into her chicken cutlet. Daphne wished that she knew where the kitchen was. Then she wouldn't have to deal with all of this.

She had discovered a ritual in third year that would remove her need to eat, but she wasn't going to turn her hair into leaves. A proper lady kept her hair in order, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, that meant she would have to eat. She raised her fork to her lips, enjoying the product of the elves' hard labor. She stared at Pansy.

Daphne continued to eat, watching Pansy like she was an ant.

Pansy continued to rant, defending her…beloved.

"And you can't talk about Draco like that—no one loves you!" Pansy said, and Daphne's fork froze in front of her mouth. Pansy smelt blood. "Draco is working really hard for his family, especially with his father in…" She sniffled. "At least Draco knows what love is. You can't be bothered to even save Astoria, Daffy."

Daphne dropped her fork, her appetite gone. The chatter at the Slytherin table, mostly keen to pretend to keep to their own business, quieted.

Delicately, ever the perfect lady, Daphne folded her serviette, wiping her mouth. With great care, she rested it on the table, pushing her chair out to leave. She never took her eyes off of Pansy.

She stopped halfway up, considering Pansy like she was something foul.

Daphne scoffed, wrinkling her nose. "Maybe Draco knows what love is, but you don't," Daphne bit out. Anger bubbled in her heart, and she wanted to make Pansy hurt. "Maybe if you slit your wrists and kill yourself, he'll consider showing up to your funeral—then again, he barely likes seeing you alive. Mummy and Daddy wouldn't bother, though."

She turned on her heel and fled—left the Great Hall.

Daphne wasn't crying.

She wasn't.

There weren't tears crawling down her face. She was not fleeing. She was not hurt by Pansy's words.

Much to her horror, though, as she moved through the halls of Hogwarts, water dripped down her face and marked the ground. It was raining, that was it.

Inside?

With magic, anything was possible. Not her crying, though. She wasn't so…so weak. She had to be strong for Astoria, how could she possibly cry?

Her sniffles, unsteady breaths, and tears cared little for her delusions.

Harry Potter was having a day. Ron and Hermione were still bickering (when didn't they?), Malfoy was still up to something suspicious, and a gorgeous girl had slammed into him. Of those three things, the last one was the only one that mattered at the moment.

He had given up on figuring out what Malfoy was doing for the time being, and he had been on his way to the Great Hall to eat dinner. He had really been looking forward to shepherd's pie with a side of bickering.

Ron and Hermione were going to drive him barmy one of these days, he swore.

Anyways, where was he? Right, he had been walking through the halls after not stalking Malfoy, only for a girl to slam into him when he turned a corner. She had walked into his chest, stumbled backwards, and then fallen right onto her bottom.

Harry looked down at the ground, the blonde girl before him averting her face with a hand in front of her. He heard a few sniffles, though.

Did he make a girl cry?

"Are—are you alright?" Harry hesitantly asked, reaching a hand out. "Er, sorry about that. I wasn't looking where I was going."

She didn't budge, continuing to sniffle.

"M'fine," the girl mumbled, probably not fine, if he were being honest with himself. "Just—just go away."

If Harry were a logical, normal individual, that would be that. He would have left, leaving the girl to figure out her problems on her own. There was just a slight issue with this…his 'saving people thing', as Hermione coined it.

Harry sighed deeply. Honestly, his life would be so much simpler if he could let sleeping dogs lie.

"…you don't look fine," he pointed out.

"Am too…" she mumbled, sniffling, her knees curling into her chest as she tried her hardest to hide her face.

Harry stared at her. "Are not," he flatly replied.

She sniffled, burying her face into her knees, hugging her legs. Harry could see warm tears fall onto the ground. He was pretty sure that she was lying, really, but what did he know?

Nothing. He knew nothing. He was deeply out of his depth here. He did not have good experiences with crying girls. They were pretty bad experiences, actually.

"Um…" He cursed himself for sounding so awkward. "Do you, er, want to talk about it?"

She sniffled. He was honestly expecting her to continue the silent treatment, but she shook her head side to side. "…no."

"Riiiiiight," Harry drawled slowly, cursing his habit of being nosy. "So you aren't crying?"

She shook her head.

Bollocks—or, well, that was what he wanted to say. That'd probably be a bit harsh, though.

"If you aren't crying, what are you doing, then? Enjoying a huddle on the ground?" he asked her.

Her eyes peeked through her arms, glaring at him. Her eyes were red, by the way (she was a liar). "Go away," she repeated.

"I would," he began, "but I like standing here. It's a nice hallway. Really…stoney. Honestly, you might be better off leaving first, I might be stuck admiring the walls for ages."

Her head fully peaked up now, her eyes puffy and hair frazzled. He expected to see ruined makeup, too, but no. She was naturally that beautiful. Were there spells that mimicked what makeup did?

Probably not. Bulstrode wouldn't look like a troll if they existed.

"You like…the hallway?" she whispered incredulously, staring at him.

Harry shrugged. "Sure. I think it's wicked. It has…" he glanced around, searching the walls, "…no paintings. Really, er, hall-ee."

He took a second to fully look at her face. It was a bit unfair how pretty she was. Blonde, green eyes, perfect skin, button nose—she could be a model if she were a muggle. He had never seen her before.

Daphne glanced around the hall. "There…are no paintings," she agreed quietly, her crying fully stopping. He was doing something right, probably?

Harry tapped his chin. "You know, I have never seen you before. What year are you in?"

"Sixth," Daphne muttered, frowning.

Harry blinked. She was in his year. No, there was no way that was true. He would have noticed her. She was, well, stunning.

Harry blinked again. "Really?"

"Really," she said with a tiny nod, still hugging her knees. She stilled. "I—I'm sorry. This is unbecoming of me. You shouldn't have to—it was wrong of me to—I…I'm sorry," she mumbled, head falling backing into her knees. "Sorry…"

Something in Harry's heart tugged. "Why're you apologizing?" he confusedly asked. She hadn't done anything wrong.

She sniffled. If she started crying again, Harry might just smash his head into a wall.

She picked her head up, sitting up straight while looking like she wanted to disappear. "It—it is improper for a lady such as myself to—to be seen by a man in this state."

She sniffled again.

Oh. She was one of those haughty purebloods, wasn't she? She didn't seem terrible, though. Just…high and mighty. Noble? Something along those lines.

"Well, anyways," Harry continued, because he had no clue what to say in response, "I'm Harry, Harry Potter. Nice to meet you, Miss…?"

"Greengrass," she whispered. "Daphne Greengrass."

"Like the mouse girl?" he instantly said, immediately regretting it as her cheeks reddened in embarrassment.

Why had such a pretty girl been sacrificing mice? Sure, pretty people could be bonkers too, but it was strange. Maybe it was some sort of pureblood thing?

She bowed her head. "That…Daphne Greengrass, yes," she looked up, meeting his eyes. "I had perfectly good reasons for what I did, though. Jerry was a mostly willing sacrifice."

"Jerry?" he blurted, snickering. "Like—like Tom and Jerry? You watch muggle shows? I thought purebloods were above such plebeian things." He paused. "Wait, you named the mouse that you killed?"

Daphne bristled. "I—I don't watch muggle television!" she protested, freezing. She realized that she had slipped up. "A proper witch would never engage in such bovine, dirty—"

Harry snickered. "I never said the word television."

"I know…" she mumbled, bowing her head. "Fine. I, once or twice, saw…some muggle media. They were, maybe, amusing. That—that doesn't mean I associate with—with—!" she stuttered, clearly embarrassed.

Harry nodded, unconvinced. "Right. So, why did you name the mouse? Actually, why kill a mouse? Bit strange, isn't it?"

She swallowed, pushing herself off of the ground and onto her feet. She hesitated. "It is not any of your business. There are good reasons to kill mice, sometimes."

Harry considered that. "Some mice deserve to die," he agreed. For example, Peter. "I know a rat that I wouldn't mind you killing."

Daphne blinked, surprised. She stared at him for a moment. "Th-thank you for the offer, but I do not engage in such activities any longer. They bore no fruit."

She seemed sad that she didn't accomplish whatever she had been trying to accomplish. Harry didn't like seeing her sad.

"Shame," he shrugged. "I swear that I've never seen you in class, though."

Daphne hesitated once more. Then, she upturned her nose. "That is because I do not bother to attend such frivolous gatherings. A lady need not waste her time on such activities." She paused in consideration. "In…in third year, I attended classes. I now utilize my time for other more useful things."

"You can do that?" he asked, flabbergasted. His mouth hung. "We can skip class and not be punished?"

He would have never attended Potions if he had known that.

She nodded her head. "Of course. Hogwarts will not expel students for attendance nor will they hold students back. This is why apes such as Goyle remain in our year. The only marks that truly matter are OWLs and NEWTs. I earned perfect marks in the OWLs I took, as was expected of me."

Harry stared at her as if she had flipped his entire world upside down. "Wouldn't they give you detention?"

"I did not attend their detentions," she swiftly replied. "Regardless, they would not dare expel a Greengrass."

Harry just kept staring at her. What did she mean, he didn't have to go to detention? What. He had thought that Hogwarts operated like muggle institutions did—oh. He was a moron. Since when did wizards do things logically?

Harry held his face. "Merlin," he groaned. "I could've skipped History with no consequences."

His stomach rumbled.

A second later, her stomach rumbled. Daphne flushed a deep red.

"Do you, er, want to get something to ear?" Harry asked her.

Daphne looked to be genuinely considering it. She opened her mouth and then shook her head.

"I—I should go," she quietly said. She curtsied. "It was rude of me to behave how I did in front of you. I apologize, it was unbecoming of my status. A—a man of your stature should not have to watch that."

Harry wanted to retort that he didn't mind, actually, but she was already fleeing. He watched her leave. He really watched her leave. She was gorgeous. Seriously, genuinely gorgeous. She reminded him of a princess.

She was probably a bigot, though.

Harry sucked his teeth as she vanished behind his corner. He wanted to see her again. She hadn't treated him strangely. Well, no, she had, but he was certain that was because she was a bit odd.

Was he seriously going to befriend a pretty bigot? Hermione would kill him. Daphne seemed to be everything that Hermione would hate: no respect for authority, a bigot, intelligent, attractive, weird…

Hermione had a jealous issue, Harry had noticed.

Anyways, how bigoted could she be? It'd be fine—she liked Tom and Jerry!

Daphne fled, face entirely red. She had said so many things that she certainly should not have said!

She—she had watched those muggle films for purely academic purposes. She had been desperate fourth year, alright? She had considered the potential of muggle sciences…utterly useless, they had been.

She continued to move through the halls at a brisk pace, wanting to hide away. She had to say that to Harry Potter of all people. Sure, he might be a half-blood, but he was a man of great status!

She had brought shame onto her ancestors tonight, shame!

Daphne wanted to groan, but that'd be terribly unladylike. She had already embarrassed herself enough…Merlin, she hated Pansy. That girl was so damned annoying.

Daphne prayed that Pansy would actually take her advice.

She shook her head, moving down the stairs and towards her study. Yes, it might've been a public space once, but she had long since claimed it.

Daphne was tempted to bring Harry Potter there, though. Not because he was attractive! He wasn't. He was…not average, but…there were more attractive men out there.

He was a stick.

Hmmph. What wizard would let themselves be so skinny? There were potions one could take to improve their physiques. There were all sorts of potions, actually. She'd never bothered with them.

She was of pure breeding, after all.

Harry Potter likely didn't use potions to improve his appearance, but there were spells for grooming…that she also doubted he used…and he was already attractive without them—no! He was not attractive.

No.

Not at all.

She had thought about him before—not due to attraction! She was not some…some profligate!

Daphne wanted to bring him down to her study and, well, study him. She was not licentious! He simply had an uncanny ability to not die…and she had sort of once considered if there was any value in cutting him open.

He had survived the killing curse! Surely whatever had saved him then was latent in him, right? She had ultimately rejected vivisection, mostly because it was cruel and unusual, partly because she didn't think it would work.

He wasn't a very impressive wizard.

She shook her head, slinking into her study. Her nose curled from the smell, but she was used to it by now. It was simply unpleasant. Astoria suffered far worse than this mild inconvenience.

Back to Harry Potter—what had she been thinking? Oh, right. He wasn't a very impressive wizard. A remarkable fighter, certainly, but his magic was far from impressive, and his ambition was nonexistent (yet he was remarkable, a treacherous part of her mind teased).

She shook her head again, swiftly banishing such thoughts.

The thoughts did not flee.

Daphne, her face still rather red, groaned as she planted her face against the wall, unable to bear seeing the world.

She was not going to develop a crush on Harry Potter of all people. That would be ludicrous. She'd have to be insane.

Daphne had more pressing concerns.

"You go back to Hogwarts today, don't you, Daffy?" Astoria quietly whispered, looking up at her. Daphne squeezed Astoria's hand comfortingly.

"Only for a few more months, Lamp," Daphne said, meeting Astoria's eyes. Most didn't these days. "Then I will be back for Spring Break. Just wait for me, okay, Lamp?"

Lamp, it was a silly nickname. Back when they had been little kids, before Daphne even knew about the Greengrass Malediction, Astoria had decided that her name meant star like the Greek word aster.

She had teased Astoria, calling her a lamp. It had annoyed Astoria. Little kids got mad at the silliest things. The nickname had eventually stuck.

Daphne didn't want to see Astoria die out like a star. She could keep a lamp, but there was no way to lasso the sun.

Astoria wheezed, flecks of black sludge flying out of her mouth. Daphne grabbed a napkin, gently tapping away at the tar. She carefully wiped it from the white blanket covering Astoria.

She moved the napkin to Astoria's face. Her motions were meticulous. She cleaned around the deep lesions in Astoria's cheeks, making sure not to upset the wounds.

Daphne had to be extra gentle on Astoria's nose, the cartilage long gone.

"I'll w-wait for you, Daffy…" Astoria weakly swore, blank tar leaking from the marks in her face. Daphne, fruitlessly, tried to keep her sister's face clean. "I'll see—see you again, on that day."

Daphne shook her head, still wiping away tar. "Don't speak like that, Lamp," Daphne said, chest hurting. "You'll see me here."

Astoria stared into Daphne's eyes. Daphne saw the hollow look in her sister's eye, the deep agony behind her gaze, and she tried to ignore it. She tried, she so dearly tried. She wanted Astoria to be okay.

Astoria wheezed once more. "R-read it to—to me, Daffy."

Daphne's heart clenched. Her sister was deeply, painfully religious. Daphne couldn't blame her. If she had to suffer what her sister had suffered, she too would yearn for eternal life after death.

Daphne looked down, pausing for a moment. A second later, she pulled the book off of the bedside table and began to read. "When he was come down from the mountain, great multitudes followed him. And, behold, there came a leper…"

Harry couldn't get Daphne off of his mind. He stared at the Slytherin table, watching her. She hadn't been there yesterday or the day before. Was she skipping meals? Perhaps that was why she had been crying.

That wouldn't make much sense, though. She was gorgeous, almost effortlessly beautiful. He doubted a girl like that needed to skip meals.

Why had she been crying, then?

Maybe she just cried a lot. Some girls were like that, willing to cry over anything. Hermione cried fairly easily…but that didn't seem right, either.

"Oi, Harry. You look a bit distracted, Mate," Ron teased from the other side of the table, Lavender pausing in feeding her Won-Won. "A girl caught your fancy?" He wagged his eyebrows. "A bloke?"

Hermione piped up from Harry's side, doing her best to avoid looking at Ron and Lavender. "Ugh, honestly, Ronald, Harry isn't staring at any girl or—" she stammered, blushing, "—or guy. He still thinks Malfoy is up to something."

Ron shrugged. "I don't know, I've never seen him look at Malfoy like that. Parkinson might get jealous if it's Malfoy Harry fancies."

"I'm not watching anyone," Harry shot back, holding back a gag. He pushed his plate away. "Don't even put that thought in my mind, Won-Won."

"Hey!" Ron protested, and Lavender held onto him. "Won-Won is a…a great name!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Sure it is, Ronald. You must like it a lot, what with how you cannot help but—"

Harry tuned them out. He had years of ignoring their arguing. They bickered like an old married couple. He went back to staring at the Slytherin table.

Not because he fancied Daphne or anything, he was simply curious about her. She ate her food in the most delicate way possible, and princess comparisons kept popping up in his mind. It was almost ornate, the way she ate.

She even used different forks and knives for different foods! Most Slytherins didn't do that—Malfoy didn't, at least, and he was the epitome of Slytherin haughtiness.

Daphne had stolen Malfoy's crown, it seemed. She ate in such a sophisticated manner. No one else put their napkin on their lap. It was as if she had been summoned from centuries ago.

Her style, however, was not old fashioned. It wasn't typical for a wizard, either. Her robes were a rich black, silver and green lines forming patterns across it. It reminded him of the robes of a Chinese noble, anglicized and placed on the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

They weren't tight, nor were they baggy. They were neither excessive nor plain. They fit her perfectly, hugging her body yet never once becoming risque.

Blimey.

Ron was right, he did fancy her. That was probably an issue.

Her family could be Death Eaters—what if she was a Death Eater? He hoped not. She was a bigot, however. She could be a Death Eater. He really hoped not.

Maybe she just hated muggles on the side. Perhaps she knew creative ways to insult those beneath her status, lineage, blood, and so on. That didn't mean she was violent, though.

She had said that she had given up sacrificing mice. See? She had seen the error of her way. He was all for sacrificing Wormtail, though.

She didn't seem evil. A bit barmy, sure, but evil? Voldemort was evil. Bellatrix was evil. Daphne was…sexy.

An owl landed at her table, carrying with it a letter. She took it from the owl, graciously handing it a slice of something. He couldn't tell from this far—evil people weren't kind to animals, though, surely.

Delicately, Daphne opened the letter and read it. Her face paled, and she soon fled the dining hall.

Harry, minding his business, followed.

Harry had judged too hastily, he realized, watching Daphne in the owlery as he stood beneath his invisibility cloak. Tears streaked her face. She was a crier…or she had a lot going on. Judging by the crumpled letter in her fist, it was the latter.

She took a piece of parchment, writing frantically on it. She cursed as she spilled ink all over her letter, elbow smacking right into her inkwell. She tapped the paper, muttering a spell he didn't know as the parchment cleared.

Once more, she got back to writing. She wrote swiftly yet cautiously. In her haste, the crumpled letter fell on the ground, forgotten. She gave the letter to an owl and fled the room, clearly distressed.

Harry wasn't a nosy person (liar), but he needed to see what was in that letter. It'd be a severe invasion of privacy…but he walked over to the crumpled letter on the ground, picking it up and unraveling. A tap of his wand straightened it out.

He began to read. It was an awfully short letter.

Dear Daphne,

Please request permission from your professors to come home for the rest of the week, Honey.

Love,

Mum

Harry stared at it. This is what had her in tears? Her parents wanted her to come home…and it had her near catatonic? Harry swallowed, mind jumping to conclusions. Was…was she being abused?

His throat tightened, and he pocketed the letter.

It made sense. No wonder she was so obsessed with being a perfect lady. Her parents probably harmed her if she didn't match their standard. With how bigoted she was, her parents must be Death Eaters.

They forced her to be like them, but she doesn't want it.

Harry's blood ran cold. She had been ashamed of knowing muggle things. Had they hurt her for that? He didn't know, but he was inclined to believe that they had.

Daphne was certainly being abused.

He barely knew her, she hardly knew him, but he was certain of one thing—he would stop her from heading home. He couldn't stand to let someone else get hurt by their own family.

Swiveling, Harry took the Marauder's Map out of his pocket and sprinted.

Daphne struggled to breathe as she made her way to her study. She dizzily walked in, struggling to not slip on the utterly black floor. It smelled foul, and she leaned to the side, vomiting as she began to hyperventilate.

She had to stop.

She couldn't breathe.

She had to figure this out now.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She gasped for air, her heart thumping furiously while her lungs refused to cooperate.

She stumbled forward, world spinning, making her way to her desk. She had planned out another ritual. It wouldn't work. She knew it wouldn't. She wasn't ready to save Astoria. She wasn't good enough to.

She was drowning on air.

She tripped, falling forward against the desk as she barely caught herself. Everything fell off, the jar of Astoria's blood tipping sideways and cracking, spilling its contents.

She froze, heart dropping.

"Daphne!"

She swivelled backwards, suffocating, tears soaking her face and blocking her nostrils. She nearly tripped over again.

She couldn't make out who it was behind her. No one went to this part of the castle besides her. She hadn't bothered warding it.

A person—a man, she soon realized—rushed over to her, catching her in his arms as she continued to have a panic attack.

"What…what is this place?" he asked, horrified. He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Are you alright—Merlin, is that blood?"

He stepped by her, hand touching Astoria's blood. Astoria's red blood. It hadn't turned black. Daphne fully froze as…no, that was Harry Potter. Harry Potter was in her study.

He had touched Astoria's blood, and it was still red. It hadn't turned to tar. Was he the cure? She couldn't test it. She had no more blood to test it with. She didn't have time to test it. This could be her only chance.

Daphne looked up at Harry, speaking in a garbled mess of broken English.

He steadied her. "Breathe, Daphne. We—we need to leave this room. This place is horrific," he muttered, cringing. "You're not bleeding. That's good."

Daphne forced herself to breathe. Inhale, exhale. Small, steady breaths left her mouth. It felt like a razorblade had scraped her lungs. She forced herself to breathe.

"I need…I need you to come with me. Please…please," Daphne begged, struggling to speak. "Just, just come. You can have my hand…my—my chastity. Anything! J-just come. Please…please."

She continued to babble, desperate. He could be the only way to save Astoria.

Harry was startled. "I—what? Your…" he flushed, but quickly grew serious. "You don't have to go to that place. You'll be fine. I can go to Professor Dumbledore and—"

"—no!" she cut him off, frantic. "We need to go! Now, or—or…" she choked. "Please."

Harry grimaced, hesitating. "Right. I don't know where exactly that is or how to get there."

"Floo. Professor Binns' office," she said, grasping his hand and running, only to grow limp the moment she slipped from his hands.

She gasped as he steadied her, pulling her with him.

"I didn't even know Binns' had an office," Harry thought aloud, pulling something silver over the two of them. "Lead the way."

She did, quietly telling him directions as he essentially carried her. The world felt impossibly light yet infinitely heavy as they walked.

It didn't take long to get to Binns' office, the place unused for decades. It had a fireplace, however, and floo powder.

She had once used it to sneak off to the muggle world so she could learn their sciences.

Harry opened the office door, pulling her inside and then closing it. He walked forward, moving to the opposite end of the room. She moved with him.

Harry pointed his wand at the fireplace. "Incendio," he cast, lighting the fireplace. "So, where are we going?" he asked, very clearly hesitant.

Daphne didn't bother answering him. She didn't have time. Instead, she grabbed a handful of floo powder in her left hand, her right hand forcibly taking his own as she walked into the fireplace.

"Saint Mungo's Room 418!" she said, the fire burning a bright green as she and Harry were teleported hundreds of kilometers away.

Harry looked frazzled as he stepped out of the fireplace at her, a deeply confused expression on his face. "Saint Mungo's?" he questioned, unsure why they were there.

Daphne didn't bother to answer, though. She stumbled forward, stepping up to Astoria's bed. Agony filled her heart.

She felt defeated.

She looked down at her sister's corpse. Even as she forced the hand of a confused and shocked Harry onto her sister's arm, nothing happened.

Astoria's eyes stared up lifelessly. There was no soul in them. There was no tar left. The deep gashes on Astoria's face remained, the only sign that she had ever been sick.

Daphne stared down, feeling empty.

The embalming process had begun. With the curse, they couldn't move the body from the bed with how weak it was.

Daphne traced her fingers across Astoria's cheeks. She felt the deep lesions. They were going to seal those soon. There was no point.

Astoria had always been beautiful, no matter how sick she was. She had always been strong. Astoria had always waited for her Daffy to save her.

Gently, Daphne left her fingers in one of the wounds. "I will; be thou clean," she whispered, too exhausted to cry.

Astoria's beauty was gone. Not because of her wounds, not because of her disfigurements, but because there was nothing left.

They had killed her. They had extinguished her star, her lamp. Her sweet, precious sister. There was nothing beautiful about a corpse.

Insanity really was trying the same thing over and over again, expecting it to work. The muggles were smarter than her.

Harry stood awkwardly behind Daphne, realizing that he had terribly misunderstood everything. Somehow, this was even worse than his assumptions. Child abuse was…horrible. Seeing a dead, disfigured girl was, somehow, even worse.

Daphne looked completely hollow, too. Tentatively, he walked beside her, glancing at her face.

She had stopped crying. She had stopped hyperventilating. Now, she just stared at the body—her sister's body, probably—with an empty gaze.

He was intruding, he realized. He shouldn't be here. He hadn't been thinking before, and now he had no clue what he should do.

Before, he had seen her sobbing, choking, struggling to breathe, and it had been hard to say no. His 'saving people thing' had kicked in, and he hadn't bothered to question anything.

Now, he had a lot of questions.

What had the room been before? It had been horrific. It had a terrible smell, and there had been blood and black goo everywhere.

There were a lot of other things he could ask. He wasn't going to bother.

Daphne looked so soulless. He barely knew her, but seeing her eyes like that felt fundamentally wrong. It reminded him of Sirius when he had died, his life fading as he went through the veil.

It reminded him of Cedric, pulling his corpse from the graveyard. More horrifyingly, her blank gaze was painfully similar to the dull, vacant gaze Crouch had after being kissed.

He had no clue how to comfort her. Usually, he'd just bottle up his emotions and refuse to speak about them to anyone. It probably wasn't healthy.

Certainly wasn't healthy.

He didn't get the chance to. She turned to him, staring right into his eyes. She looked like a punctured balloon, all of the emotion sucked from her when she had been deflated.

She spoke, voice cold, face utterly closed off. Still, her throat was gravely from sobbing and choking. "Thank you for entertaining my request. I apologize for wasting your time, Harry."

He stared at her, unsure what to say.

"You didn't waste my time," he told her, confident of that. He had chosen to follow her, after all.

Daphne shook her head. "I did. It was abysmally boorish of me to fritter your day," she bowed her head low, her every motion artificial. "I proffered you my hand if you went with me, and you did. I am willing to uphold any and all promises I offered, espousement or more.

Harry swallowed, suffering emotional whiplash. Her words were hard to digest, too, and he practically had to gnaw on them to grasp their meaning. Could she not speak in a simpler way?

"I—uh…" he stumbled, figuring out what she meant. "You don't have to marry me. I went with you because you asked, not because of—of any other reasons," he choked, cheeks reddening.

Daphne glanced away, looking down at the girl on the bed. "Then you are a very kind man," Daphne murmured. She looked back at Harry. "This is my sister, Astoria. I had hoped that your presence would cure her of her ailment."

Astoria, so that was her name. She was painful to look at. He avoided judging people, but Astoria's face was horribly disfigured.

There were remnants of what must've once been pretty features. Even through all of the wounds in Astoria's face, Harry could see the similarities to Daphne.

Somehow, Daphne had believed that he had the power to fix this.

"I—I'm not some bezoar, no matter what the Prophet says," Harry awkwardly said, feeling very out of place. "Why would I have been able to heal her?"

"You wouldn't have been able to," Daphne said, detached, almost clinical. "Her blood remained red when you touched it earlier, and I foolishly assumed that meant your presence destroyed the curse."

Harry blinked. "All of that blood—that was your sisters?"

That sounded horrific. How could someone do that to family?

"Geminated blood," Daphne replied sharply, eyes narrowed. "I would never—" She cut herself off, face closing. "…regardless, my conclusion was flawed. It remained red because she was dead, the Malediction no longer proliferating in her cells."

"Then the letter you received…" Harry began tentatively. "Why did they send that to you?"

Daphne looked unsurprised. "You followed me to the owlery, then, and read it. My behavior earlier was…certainly unladylike." She pursed her lips, and embers began to light in her eyes.

A silence passed between them for a moment, and Daphne stewed in brewing anger. Her hands balled into fists.

"Mother and Father knew that I would oppose this," she coldly muttered. "I would never take part in sororicide. They had her executed behind my back, removing my ability to defend Astoria," Daphne hissed.

"Executed?" Harry echoed.

Daphne nodded, a cold rage to her. "Executed. You of all people should be able to identify the effects of the Killing Curse."

He glared at her briefly, but it wasn't worth it, and she certainly did not mean it that way. He looked down at Astoria's body. For someone who must've been in such agony all of the time, she looked surprisingly peaceful.

Avada Kedavra was gentle, and that was the most cruel part about it. He had seen his mum's corpse in his dreams dozens of times. It had been a painless death.

There was no pain in Astoria's eyes. Her muscles were loose. It was as if her soul had simply been pulled out while her heart stopped.

Harry felt a blazing anger for someone he had never known. To kill your own daughter? Was the pain truly so bad? Was the disease truly incurable? This seemed wrong, terribly wrong.

He felt nauseous.

This went against everything he knew about parenthood. His parents had died for him. Astoria's parents had slaughtered her.

"How do you feel?" Harry asked.

Daphne's lips flattened. "I am well. What reason would I have to not be well?" she asked, voice cracking. "Everything is fine."

Nothing about this seemed fine.

He glanced at Astoria again. He felt like he was intruding once more. This conversation felt disrespectful to the girl. Talking casually around a corpse—Hermione would scold him. He would deserve it.

"Do you want to return to the castle now?" Harry asked, turning back towards the fireplace built into the room. This was probably some specialized ward, or maybe it had that because the Greengrasses were rich.

It was strange, however, that Astoria's corpse was just left in the middle of the room. Then again, he knew little about how wizards did funerals.

Daphne hesitated, head turning from Harry to Astoria, from Astoria to Harry, and then back again. Her face shut down. "I would. There is no purpose in me being here. Let us leave, Harry."

Daphne turned, fleeing, taking Harry with her.

It was days later that Daphne mustered the will to consider leaving her bed. Much as she wished to pretend that everything was fine, everything was certainly not fine.

Her parents had written to her again. She didn't bother to respond. They were not worthy of it. They had killed Astoria. Daphne had no intention of going to the funeral, much as her parents pleaded.

She couldn't bear to. She didn't know what she would do if she went.

Astoria's face, reconstructed to look as if she had never been ill. Daphne was such a failure. Utterly worthless. She had segregated herself from most of the castle for years, and for what? A corpse?

Daphne stared up at the ceiling, resting flat on her bed. The other girls had gone to classes, as they were supposed to. She had no intention of moving.

Why should she?

Where were her friends? Where was her family? What loved ones did she possess? Who in this world cared for her? No one. Certainly not her parents. They would not have executed her sister if they loved Daphne.

Astoria had loved her, but Astoria was dead.

Daphne giggled, unblinking. She was so pathetic. She was hardly a good lady. What proper woman was as introverted as she? No.

No.

She was an unloved, worthless freak, and she was certainly insane. No wonder Harry Potter had no interest in a woman like her.

Harry had spent the past several days staring at the Marauder's Map, looking at one particular name. Concerningly, the words Daphne Greengrass did not budge from their place.

He had hoped it was an error two days ago, finally mustering the will to go back to the creepy classroom Daphne had been in. It had been as nasty as before, so he had cleaned it, and he had snooped.

He had seen her notes, and they almost read like a scattered, messy diary.

"Still watching?" Ron asked, looking over at Harry from his bed.

Harry briefly glanced up over the map. "Yes, Ron. I'm just madly in love," Harry dryly replied, swiftly bringing his attention back onto Daphne's name…which continued to not move. "Maybe she will give me a cute nickname like Har-Har."

"Ha," Ron huffed, rolling his eyes. "Real funny. Laugh it up now, Mate—I bet you will be even more whipped than I am. Who even is she?"

Harry tapped the map, folding it shut. "You wouldn't know her. She's the loveliest girl in Britain."

Probably the barmiest girl, too, but that only added to her appeal. She was mysterious, and he hated mysteries.

"Pretty sure I'd know Lavender." Ron snarkily replied. "I'm not sharing."

Harry snorted. "Lavender? Loveliest girl? That's all you, Mate."

"Oi!" Ron protested. "I'll have you know that Lavender—"

Harry snickered. "I don't need the details. I thought you weren't sharing?"

Ron grumbled. Then, it was like a light lit up in his eyes. "Say, was Hermione right—oh, who am I kidding, when isn't she right?" he huffed, wagging his eyebrows. "Are you pining for Malfoy?"

Harry gagged. That was as naueasting to think about as before.

He grimaced. "He'd probably prattle about his hair more than any girl. Merlin…he even has daddy issues."

"Right. Sounds perfect for you, then, Mate," Ron teased. "Unless you like a different girl?"

"Malfoy's a girl?" Harry asked.

Ron snorted. "More dramatic than one, at least. He had the damsel act down in third year—" Ron cut himself off. "—oi! You're dodging the question."

Harry leaned back against his pillows, frowning. Should he talk about Daphne? It wasn't like Ron had room to judge, dating Lavender.

"Daphne Greengrass," Harry decided to say.

Ron squinted his eyes. "Daphne Greengrass…" he trailed off, thinking. "Daphne Greengrass—like the mouse girl? Huh. Guess you were right, I haven't the foggiest who she is."

"She had good reasons for that," Harry defended, fairly certain she had sacrificed mice to try and find a cure for Astoria. "She's in our year. Pretty blonde, sometimes at the Slytherin table?"

"I could guess she was in Slytherin," Ron shot back. "She's a Greengrass. Of course she's in Slytherin. Whole family has been. I think I'd notice some fit girl, Mate."

Harry shrugged. "She skips classes, alright? Every class. Besides for third year, she didn't skip then."

"You can do that?" Ron asked, gobsmacked.

"Apparently."

Ron groaned, falling back against his bed. "Well that's bloody unfair. I would never of gone to Potions if I knew that."

"That's what I said," Harry agreed. "History, too."

Ron shook his head. "I'll let you continue stalking Greengrass. Does she even know you fancy her?"

Harry didn't bother with a response.

A tired Daphne walked into her study. It was…different. Radically different. It didn't smell of death, and the mess on the ground had been cleaned up.

She stood at the entrance, staring.

The cleanliness wasn't the only thing she noticed. Harry Potter was sitting on a chair, looking right back at her, clearly waiting for her.

"How did you know I would be here?" she blurted. "Did—did you do this?"

Harry grinned, but it was weak. "I have my ways. I thought it looked terrible, so I cleaned it, yeah."

She just nodded slowly, taking a hesitant step into the room. This was the first time she had talked to anyone since…then. Of course it would be Harry.

"I offer you my gratitude, in that case," she curtsied, pushing away the pathetic weakness in her. "Once more, I give my sincerest apologies for the ordeal recently."

Harry frowned. She had messed up somewhere, but she didn't know how. She felt bad for it, however.

"How're you feeling, Daphne?" he asked, and she opened her mouth to respond, but he added a few more words. "Don't just say fine. When my godfather died, I also said I was fine. It's an easy lie."

She lowered her head, letting the door close behind her. She did not address his question. "For what purpose did you come here, Harry?"

He sighed. Looking up at the ceiling. He drummed his fingers against his leg, indecisive. He looked back at her. "I was thinking about you, alright?" he awkwardly said, unsure of his own feelings.

Daphne's eyes widened. "You were reconsidering my proposition to—"

"—no." Harry shook his head. "Well, I mean, yes, but no. How couldn't I think about it? Blimey, you're you."

That made sense, she realized. "I am pulchritudinous," she agreed, certain.

"What?" Harry groaned. "Did you accidentally transfigure yourself into a dictionary when you were younger? Just say pretty."

"Pretty, then," Daphne acquiesced, still standing. "I am certainly pretty. None would deny that. If you aren't here for me, then why are you here?"

"Huh? Of course I'm here for you," Harry flatly said. "I said I'm not here to marry you."

Daphne blinked. "Oh." That made sense. "I see."

Harry nodded. "How are you?" he pressed again, staring into her eyes.

Daphne shuffled uncomfortably. His eyes were intense. They were as green as her own, but they pierced like a blade.

"I am…" she trailed off. She wanted to say she was fine. He wouldn't accept that answer. "I feel strange. Lost and angry."

She wavered. Answering felt wrong yet right. Her hands balled into fists, and the words seemed to spill out. "They—they killed her, and they expect me to just be okay with it? Yet—yet I know that I never would've been able to save her. Never."

Daphne grit her teeth, and Harry remained silent, simply being a willing ear.

"I'm still just so furious. I want to kill them," she admitted. "They killed my sister. They deserve to die, my parents." Her hands balled into fists. "I want them to burn for what they did…but I failed her, too. How am I any better than them?"

Daphne stopped talking. She breathed heavily. She had failed Astoria. She was just worthless. It was the only thing she had ever wanted to do in life, and she fell short. No, she didn't just fall short.

She completely and utterly missed the mark.

"You can sit, you know," Harry quietly said. She did, and Harry continued. "I don't really know what to say. I want to kill Bellatrix for taking Sirius from me. Just…don't do something you'll regret."

Harry sighed as Daphne didn't say a word.

"Do you just want to talk for a while?" he asked her.

"That would be…acceptable," Daphne murmured.

They stared at each other. Neither had any idea what to talk about. Neither Harry nor Daphne would be considered socialites, even if Daphne pretended to be one.

It took a while for them to find the right usage for their lips. Harry preferred this to talking, he realized, Daphne laying against his chest as they sat on a transfigured loveseat.

Her hair was sprawled wildly, and her eyes were puffy. She had cried more, but she always cried around him, it seemed like.

Somehow, things had gone from crying to snogging, and Harry wasn't going to complain.

Daphne, chest against his, utterly exhausted, rested on him. "Thank you," she mumbled weakly. "I feel insane."

Her face was only centimeters from his own, and her eyes were captivating.

"Yeah," he breathlessly said. "Insane."

"Insane," she agreed, equally breathless.

Their noses were pressed together, foreheads touching. They were impossibly close, but it felt right. Harry liked it, at least. Daphne didn't seem to have complaints.

"Wanna kiss again?" he suddenly asked.

Daphne, sleepy, stared into his eyes. Her lips were lightly upturned in a tiny, genuine smile. "You can't just kiss a lady…unless you'll stay?"

"Like—like dating?" Harry asked.

She nodded, her lips gently pressing against his own. "Or something."

How could he possibly say no to that?

Sure, he had so many other worries. Daphne did, too. He had to worry about Voldemort, about Malfoy, about surviving this war, and so many other things.

Daphne had her own problems, her own things to deal with.

Right now, none of that mattered. It was hard to care about worldly worries when her lips were so close and her eyes captured his soul.

He kissed her back.

Harry wanted to do this over and over again, expecting the same result. It'd be insane not to.