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Chapter Text

The teapot floated lazily between them, steaming faintly in the dim light of the unused Transfiguration classroom. Harry poured himself another cup, trying to remember why exactly Astoria Greengrass had summoned him here with a note that read, rather dramatically, “Urgent. Bring tea. It concerns about Daphne, your future—and possibly survival.”

Astoria sat cross-legged atop a desk, her blonde hair glinting like polished brass and her amber eyes sharp and alive. She was grinning in a way that made Harry feel as though she was privy to some cosmic joke that he wasn’t. He couldn’t help noticing how much she looked like Daphne—except Daphne’s beauty had a cool, composed grace, while Astoria’s was all spark and mischief.

“Alright,” Harry said, blowing on his tea. “You said this was about Daphne? Is everything all right?”

Astoria shook her head, her grin widening.  “You see, Harry, your courtship of my sister has activated the Greengrass curse.”

Harry blinked. “The what?”

“The Greengrass curse,” she said again, voice filled with mock gravitas. “It only triggers when a Greengrass falls in love.”

He nearly dropped his teacup. “Is it something bad? Is Daphne in danger?” Harry had been dating Daphne since last year but it was only this year that she agreed to call it a courtship and now he was worried that this might activate an ancient curse.

Astoria’s amber eyes sparkled as she laughed—a quick, bright sound that did absolutely nothing to calm him. “Oh, no, no, no, Harry. It’s not that kind of curse. It’s much, much stranger.”

“Stranger than mortal peril?”

“See, it all started ages ago. A Greengrass ancestor—Clarissa Greengrass—broke up with her boyfriend, a Japanese mangaka. She didn’t know he was a bit of a sorcerer with a particular Japanese humor on the side. Angry and heartbroken, he cursed her bloodline. The curse was simple: whenever a Greengrass girl truly fell in love, she would… shall we say, transform.”

Harry rubbed his forehead. “Transform how?”

Astoria tilted her head, pity softening her voice. “She becomes… a Yandere.”

Harry stared at her blankly. “A what?”

“A Yandere,” she repeated patiently. “You know—one of those deeply devoted, utterly obsessive, sometimes homicidally affectionate types. They start out adorable, then they… sharpen.”

Harry blinked slowly. “You’re saying Daphne is cursed to become some sort of obsessive, possibly violent lover?”

Astoria’s expression turned solemn, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. “Exactly. The curse lasts six months. If you survive the full term, the family will officially acknowledge you as her one true love and give you their blessing.”

Harry sat in stunned silence. The teacup rattled faintly in his hand.

“And if I don’t survive?” he finally asked.

Astoria shrugged. “Then Daphne will build a nice little shrine in your memory, I suppose. Maybe knit you a sweater from your own hair. The curse manifests creatively.”

Harry gave her a long look. “You’re joking.”

Astoria only smiled sweetly. “Am I?”

He snorted. “You sound like Fred and George when they tried to convince me that chocolate frogs could reproduce.”

Astoria chuckled and hopped off the desk, gathering her things. “Suit yourself, Harry. But if you find any heart-shaped notes written in blood—or Daph starts staring at you for longer than is socially acceptable—you might want to keep your wand handy.”

With that, she left, her laughter echoing down the corridor.

Harry shook his head and finished his tea. A Yandere curse, he thought. Ridiculous. Even for Hogwarts standards.

Still, when he stood and left the classroom, something about the quiet hallway felt… off. The torches flickered faintly, their flames bending toward him as if exhaling secrets. He adjusted his glasses and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake off the eerie feeling that someone was watching him.

The castle’s silence was never absolute; there was always the faint creak of old stones settling, the whisper of tapestries. But now… even those sounds seemed to hold their breath.

Halfway down the corridor, a chill rippled down his spine. He froze. The hairs on his neck prickled. Slowly, very slowly, he turned.

At the corner of the hallway stood Daphne Greengrass.

Her blue eyes glowed too brightly, like polished sapphires reflecting moonlight. Her usually elegant composure had melted into something more—something gleefully intense. A smile curved her lips, too sweet, too calm, the kind of smile that belonged to someone who had just discovered the universe revolved around one person and that she had every intention of making sure it stayed that way.

In her hand gleamed a silver dagger, delicate and polished, the kind of blade one might use to peel fruit—or, Harry thought uneasily, to carve a lover’s initials into something softer.

“Harry,” Daphne said softly, her voice lilting like silk drawn over steel. “I’ve been looking for you.”

He swallowed. “Ah—Daphne! Funny running into you. I was just, er—heading to dinner!”

Her smile deepened. “Dinner can wait. You'd leave me alone? After all we’ve shared?”

“Shared?”

“Breathing the same air,” she murmured dreamily, stepping closer. “Existing in the same timeline. That’s enough to bind us.”

Harry took an instinctive step back, his mind already racing through escape routes, Patronus options, and possibly fake his own death. He was half a step from bolting when Daphne tilted her head, dagger glinting.

“You’re mine, Harry,” she said sweetly. “Forever."

Harry wondered if Durmstrang accepted transfer students in November.

Harry had faced Death Eaters, Dementors, and the occasional homicidal book—but nothing, nothing, had prepared him for a cursed girlfriend who smiled sweetly while casually fingering the hilt of a silver dagger.

It had been three days since the “curse revelation,” and life at Hogwarts had turned into an increasingly bizarre game of survival. Daphne, once serene and reserved, now followed him with the unwavering devotion of a kneazle stalking its favorite toy. The other students whispered as they passed, half in awe, half in fear.

Harry, of course, had made a simple rule for himself: keep Daphne close. When she was near, she was all smiles, gentle touches, and soft giggles. The moment he strayed too far, or—Merlin forbid—spoke to another witch, something inside her clicked. Her expression froze into that saccharine grin, and the dagger appeared as if conjured by thought alone.

Harry once handed Luna some papers about the dueling club. Five seconds later, Daphne had appeared silently behind him, her blue eyes glimmering with the kind of brightness only madness grants. The silver dagger had danced between her fingers, gleaming innocently in the sunlight.

“Talking to her, darling?” she had asked sweetly.

“Uh—just the dueling club,” he had managed, hands raised slightly.

Daphne’s smile didn’t waver. “She’s very pretty,” she murmured, eyes never leaving Luna.

“Y-yes, she is—wait, no, not like that! She’s just—”

“Hmm.”

Luna, bless her ethereal soul, had simply smiled and skipped away murmuring something about “Love curses and protective auras like the rabbits of South Korea, not North Korea.”

By the next morning, Daphne had an actual list. Harry found it when she left her bag open at breakfast—a neat roll of parchment titled “Rivals in Love.” Underneath, in careful cursive, were the names of nearly every female student who had spoken to him in the past forty-eight hours. Hermione’s name was at the top, circled three times and adorned with small, disturbingly precise hearts.

Since then, Harry had learned to adapt. Daphne sat beside him in every class, hand entwined with his, her smile dazzling and just a touch too wide. Whenever another witch so much as greeted him, Daphne’s grip tightened imperceptibly, and the faint shink of metal followed like punctuation.

It reached a new level of absurdity during Charms class.

Professor Flitwick had barely begun his lecture on nonverbal incantations when Harry noticed a folded parchment slip onto his desk. The handwriting was unmistakably Daphne’s—small, elegant, and slightly obsessive in its flourishes. The ink was dark and thick, almost glistening.

Harry sighed and glanced sideways. Daphne sat right next to him, chin propped on her palm, watching him with adoring eyes.

He whispered, “Daph… why are you writing me notes when you’re right here?”

She smiled dreamily. “Because written words are forever, Harry. Spoken ones can be stolen.”

Before he could reply, Professor Flitwick toddled over, curious. “Ah, Mr. Potter! Passing notes in class, are we? Let’s see what could be more interesting than the class.”

Harry opened his mouth to object, but the professor was already unfolding the note.

For a long, horrible moment, silence filled the room. The color drained from Flitwick’s face. His eyes darted between Harry and Daphne, then down to the note again.

Whatever was written there, it wasn’t something a man forgets easily.

The little professor’s hand trembled as he slowly folded the parchment back up and set it, almost reverently, on Harry’s desk. Then he looked at Daphne—the faintest flicker of fear in his tiny features.

“Mr. Potter,” he said, voice tight, “perhaps… perhaps you and Miss Greengrass could continue your studies independently for the rest of the period.”

He stepped back quickly, wand shaking slightly, and spent the remainder of the class pretending they didn’t exist.

Harry, pale, looked down at the note. The parchment felt oddly stiff, and a faint coppery scent clung to it. Daphne, smiling innocently, slipped her hand through his arm.

“Don’t read it now, darling,” she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder. “You’ll blush.”

He didn’t doubt it.

Across the class, Hermione glanced at him with a look that mixed pity and strategic caution. Daphne’s eyes flicked open, catching Hermione’s for just an instant.

Harry felt her muscles tense. The dagger, he realized, was already halfway out of her sleeve.

He quickly placed his other hand over hers, forcing the blade back down with a strained smile. “Daph, love, maybe—no knives in class, yeah?”

Her eyes softened immediately, and she leaned closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Of course, Harry. You’re so responsible.”

The rest of the class proceeded under the tense quiet of students who knew they were one misplaced glance away from catastrophe.

When the bell rang, Daphne stretched lazily and linked her arm through his again. “Lunch?” she asked, as if nothing were amiss.

“Sure,” Harry said weakly, glancing toward the window where Flitwick stood trembling ever so slightly.

That night, the Great Hall was its usual lively self but for Harry, every bite of food had become an exercise in crisis management. He sat at the Gryffindor table, while Daphne, radiant and smiling, perched beside him as though she were guarding the Crown Jewels. Not his crown, of course—just his life.

“Open wide, my love,” Daphne cooed, holding up a forkful of chicken and rice. “Here comes the broomstick~”

Harry stared at her, then the fork, then back at her. “Daph, you don’t have to—”

“Broomstick,” she repeated, voice sweet as poisoned honey.

He sighed and opened his mouth. “Broomstick incoming,” he mumbled, just before she popped the food in, giggling.

Across the table, Ron was watching with horrified fascination. “Mate,” he whispered, “is she—er—feeding you?”

Harry shot him a look that said, Yes, and if you mention it louder, you’ll be hex by her.

Ron raised his hands in surrender and discreetly returned to his shepherd’s pie.

To make matters worse, Daphne had flat-out banned him from eating anything prepared by the Hogwarts elves. According to her, no one else was allowed to sustain Harry. That had, of course, led to the small domestic incident of the week—Dobby, eager to please, had attempted to serve Harry breakfast.

Harry still wasn’t sure how it escalated, but the results were plain for everyone to see: Dobby was currently tied to a wall in the corner of the Great Hall, humming softly to himself. Daphne had even hung a little sign around his neck that read “Time-out for betrayal.”

The poor elf’s large eyes followed every spoonful that Daphne fed Harry. He made small, despairing squeaks each time Harry chewed.

“Dobby is sorry, Harry Potter sir,” he whimpered. “Dobby just wanted to make toast for the great Harry Potter!”

Daphne smiled sweetly in his direction. “And you nearly poisoned him with it. I saw you reach for butter. Industrial, greasy butter. No elf touches MY Harry’s plate again.”

Dobby whimpered, hanging his head as Harry gave him a weak, apologetic smile between bites.

“Delicious, love,” Harry said quickly, trying to shift the topic. “Really… lovely chicken.”

“I seasoned it with adoration,” Daphne said dreamily, cutting another piece.

Harry decided not to ask what “adoration” was measured in.

He’d almost relaxed when an owl swooped through the Great Hall and dropped a letter right into his mashed potatoes.

“Oh, post for me,” he said, thankful for the distraction. He recognized the seal—an elegant G embossed in green wax.

“From Father,” Daphne said, clasping her hands with excitement. “Oh, he must be so thrilled about us!”

Harry wasn’t sure “thrilled” was the right word, but he carefully opened it under her watchful gaze.

The parchment was thick and smelled faintly of expensive cologne and ink that screamed old money. He began to read:

Dear Mr. Potter,

I am delighted to hear that my daughter has, shall we say, chosen you. Since Astoria has already told you about the family curse, that saves me the awkwardness of explaining it myself. Consider yourself briefed, or warned—both are applicable.

You may be wondering if there’s a secret to surviving a Greengrass Yandere. There isn’t. I’ve been there.

When I was your age, I courted Daphne and Astoria’s mother, Anastasia. Lovely woman. Terrifying. Once stabbed me twenty-eight times in the back because I helped a Hufflepuff girl reach a book in the library. (It was on the top shelf; chivalry has its price.)

But you know what? I don’t regret it. I married her—the most beautiful woman in the world—and I’d take those twenty-eight stabs again just to see her smile.

So if you survive the six months, you’ll understand.

However, if in that time Daphne happens to, ah, neutralize any perceived romantic rivals, It would be very good if you, well, you know, helped her in the post-incident logistics.

Wishing you all the luck you’ll need (and you’ll need it).

If I never hear from you again, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance by letter.

Cordially,
Lord Cyrus Greengrass

P.S. Don't try to hide her dagger, she always has a spare one.

Harry lowered the letter slowly.

Daphne was watching him with those radiant blue eyes. “Father’s letters are always so heartfelt, aren’t they?”

Harry gave a weak laugh. “Yeah. Heartfelt. That’s the word I’d use.”

Ron leaned in and whispered, “Mate, did he give you any survival tips at least?”

Harry didn’t get a chance to answer. Daphne giggled and held another forkful to his lips. “Broomstick~” but then her tone changed and she said “What do you want Brown?”

Across the table, Lavender Brown leaned over nervously. froze, eyes wide. “I—I just—salt—”

It was such a harmless request. So simple. So… fatal.

Harry reached for the salt shaker automatically, passing it to her with a quick smile to try help her but his fingers brushed hers for—what—half a second? A microsecond? But that was enough.

“Harry.” Daphne voice was soft, almost musical.

He turned.

Daphne’s smile hadn’t faltered, but her eyes were sharp now, glacial and glittering. The silver dagger was already halfway out of her sleeve.

“Darling,” she murmured, “why did your hand touch another that wasn’t mine?” Daphne’s tone was unbearably sweet. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

Harry swallowed hard. He could almost hear the whisper of steel as her hand tightened around the hilt.

He reacted fast. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close in a warm, desperate embrace.

“Daph, honey, there’s no need for that,” he whispered in her ear. “You’re the only one I see. Only one I need. Lavender’s hands are just… average. Entirely unremarkable hands.”

Daphne blinked. The dagger paused. “Average?”

“Utterly,” Harry said quickly. “Yours, on the other hand, are art. Beautiful and.. unstoppable. Like—like sculpted lightning.”

A small, satisfied hum escaped her. She tucked the dagger back into her sleeve, melting against him with a dreamy sigh.

“Oh, Harry… you always know what to say.”

“Yeah,” he muttered weakly, still holding her. “Practice.”

Daphne resumed feeding Harry his dinner as though nothing had happened, smiling radiantly.

“Say ahh,” she sang softly, spoon hovering. “Here comes the broomstick again.”

The next day, Harry lost sight of Daphne for more than ten seconds.

It had happened in the blink of an eye. One moment, she was at his side in the corridor, humming and holding his hand, and the next—gone. Vanished like a particularly beautiful and dangerous ghost.

Harry froze mid-stride, his heart immediately deciding this was the end. The walls seemed to close in. His brain replayed every possible scenario at once—was she sharpening daggers? Writing love poetry in blood? Declaring war on the girls’ dormitory?

He jogged through the castle, scanning every hallway until he heard her voice drifting out from the potions classroom.

Peeking through the door, Harry saw Professor Slughorn at his desk, looking slightly paler than usual, and Daphne standing before him, hands clasped politely, a sweet smile on her lips.

“…and theoretically,” she was saying, “If one were to, let’s say, dissolve an entire chicken—about sixty-three kilograms—in acid, which potion would work best?”

Slughorn blinked, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "This is all hypothetical, isn't it, Daphne, academic?"

Daphne tilted her head. “Of course, Sir.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt a strange déjà vu for some reason. Time to intervene.

He stepped into the room, trying to look casual and alive. “Daph! There you are, honey. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Daphne turned instantly, her expression transforming into delighted warmth. “Harry!” she said, skipping over to him. “I was just asking Professor Slughorn a very interesting question.”

Harry slipped an arm around her shoulders in what looked like affection but was, in truth, tactical containment. “I bet you were,” he said quickly. “But how about we take a walk around the lake, yeah? Beautiful day for it.”

"A walk? With you?”

“Yep. The one and only.”

She beamed, the dangerous glint in her gaze fading into pure adoration. “That sounds perfect.”

Slughorn sagged in relief as Harry gently steered Daphne toward the door. “Ah, yes, yes! Excellent idea, Harry!” the professor said hastily. “Enjoy the… fresh air!”

Later in the same day, was the Gryffindor–Slytherin match, from his position high above the pitch, Harry could spot Daphne in the stands immediately. She stood out like a polished jewel among the crowd. She wasn’t shouting or waving banners like the other students; she was just staring—utterly still, utterly focused. Her expression was loving, radiant… and unnervingly unblinking.

She’d even dressed for the occasion. She wore one of Harry’s old Gryffindor Quidditch jerseys—slightly oversized, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. On her left sat Hermione, who looked like she was actively calculating all available escape routes. On her right was Luna, who wore a lion hat that periodically roared so loudly it made first-years scream.

Daphne, naturally, had made Luna wear it. Though, to be fair, Luna had intended to wear it anyway; Daphne had simply “strongly encouraged” her.

“Harry looks very majestic today,” Luna observed dreamily.

“He always does,” Daphne said, eyes still locked on her boyfriend. “It’s in his posture. And his loyalty. And the way he doesn’t make eye contact with other women.”

Hermione coughed. “Er—yes. Quite noble of him.”

Down on the pitch, not one Slytherin dared fly within ten meters of Harry.

It had started when one particularly brave Chaser—Terence Higgs—had decided to aim a Bludger his way. Daphne’s gaze had flicked toward him for half a second. That was all it took. The next moment, Higgs’s broom sputtered like a dying lawnmower, and he dropped from the sky in a graceful, unconscious spiral, landing on the turf with a thud.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle. “Accidental magical backlash!” she called out uncertainly, clearly not wanting to accuse anyone. Especially not the blonde girl in the stands who was smiling just a little too serenely.

From that point on, no one in Slytherin dared point, glare, or even look at Harry.

Halfway through the match, one of the Slytherin Beaters gathered his courage—or what was left of it—and swung his bat toward a fast-moving Bludger aimed right for Harry’s head. The timing was perfect, the angle flawless—until the Beater made the critical mistake of glancing toward the stands.

Daphne’s eyes met his. Just a flicker.

The bat fell from his hands like it had suddenly realized it didn’t want to be a weapon anymore. The Slytherin froze midair, arms limp at his sides, face blank. He didn’t swing again for the rest of the match.

Harry, blissfully unaware of the growing Slytherin trauma in progress, focused on spotting the Snitch. It gleamed just above the Ravenclaw stands, darting like a speck of golden lightning. He leaned forward, wind howling past his ears, heart pounding—then snatched it clean.

The whistle blew, the crowd exploded, and Gryffindor’s section went wild.

Harry landed to a chorus of cheers and scarlet confetti charms. His teammates rushed the field. Ron shouted something triumphantly incoherent, and Ginny was the first to sprint toward Harry, her face glowing with pride.

“Harry!” she exclaimed, reaching out, barely five centimeters from his shoulder—

And then came the cough, a soft, deliberate, and impossibly loaded cough.

The effect was instantaneous. Ginny froze mid-step, color draining from her face. She turned, slowly, as though expecting to see a dragon. Instead, she found Daphne standing at the edge of the pitch, smiling pleasantly but with the kind of smile that could curdle milk.

“Hello, Ginevra,” Daphne said sweetly. “Such energy you have.”

Ginny made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a meow before leaping backward like a startled cat straight into the arms of Katie Bell. Katie yelped, stumbled, and grabbed Demelza Robins for balance. The three of them, half-sprinted toward the locker rooms without looking back.

Harry watched them go, then turned—slowly—to face Daphne, who was already walking toward him. Her smile softened, her eyes warm again.

“Oh, Harry,” she sighed, wrapping her arms around him tightly. “You were amazing out there.”

He exhaled in relief, hugging her back. “Thanks, Daph. I—uh—didn’t expect you to, you know, come down here.”

“Of course I did,” she said, resting her head against his chest. “I couldn’t let my incredible boyfriend celebrate alone. Especially not with… homewrecking cats running around.”

Harry blinked. “Cats?”

 “Yes.”

He decided not to comment.

“You’re the best Seeker in Hogwarts history,” she whispered. “And you didn’t even look at anyone else while doing it. That’s true love.”

Harry smiled weakly. “Right. True love. Definitely not fear.”

“Fear?” Daphne asked sweetly.

“Fear of losing you,” he corrected quickly.

Her expression brightened instantly, and she kissed his cheek. “You always say the perfect things.”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered as she hugged him tighter. “Experience.”

High in the stands, Luna’s lion hat roared approvingly.

Harry was walking down the corridor to breakfast, yawning when Daphne appeared out of nowhere—literally stepped from a shadow, hair immaculate, smile radiant, eyes bright enough to burn holes through sanity.

“Harry!” she said cheerfully. “I made you something!”

“Er—oh? You didn’t have to—”

Before he could finish, she was already holding up a small box. Inside was a silver pendant with a delicate circle shaped like a heart and—if he wasn’t mistaken—tiny runic etchings that pulsed faintly red.

“For you,” Daphne said, her voice all velvet and devotion. “A protective charm. Against… everything.”

Harry hesitated. “That’s… sweet, Daph. But I don’t really—”

“Hold still.”

There was no point resisting. She slipped it around his neck and fastened it before he could even blink.

It fit snugly—too snugly. When he tried to slide a finger under the chain, it didn’t budge.

“Er… Daph, how do I take this off?” he asked, tugging lightly

Her smile was serene. “You don’t. It’s for your safety.”

“My—my safety?”

“Of course,” she said with complete sincerity. “If something ever happens to you, I’ll know instantly.”

“Right,” he said slowly. “Instantly. Great.”

That afternoon, he found himself in the library and ran a few detection charms over the necklace, and his suspicions were immediately confirmed.

It wasn’t a charm of protection. It was a magical tracker. A location beacon. A magic GPS.

Harry groaned softly. “Of course. Because nothing says romance like magical surveillance.”

Before he could continue muttering, Hermione came bounding over, face glowing with triumph.

“Harry! I did it!” she said, barely containing her excitement. “Highest grade in Ancient Runes! I beat everyone—even the Ravenclaws!”

“That’s brilliant, Hermione!” he said honestly.

Without thinking, she threw her arms around him in a spontaneous, joyful hug.

It lasted maybe two seconds, then the pendant began to beep. Loudly.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The sound echoed through the entire library, bouncing off the high shelves like a magical alarm of doom.

Hermione froze. “Er—Harry?”

Harry paled. “Oh no.”

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

And then—pop!

A swirl of air displaced several books as Daphne appeared out of absolutely nowhere, hair slightly windblown from Apparating inside Hogwarts (a thing everyone knew was impossible—unless apparently you were cursed with homicidal affection).

“Harry!” she said, eyes wide, “I sensed distress! And treachery!”

“Daphne—no, it’s fine, it’s fine!” Harry said quickly, raising his hands. “Hermione just—”

But Daphne wasn’t listening. Her wand snapped into her hand like an extension of her heartbeat.

“Depulso!”

Hermione leapt aside with cat-like reflexes, diving behind a shelf as a spell whistled past her ear. Books flew like startled birds.

“Protego!” Hermione shouted, deflecting a flash of pink light that would have done something very unpleasant to her eyebrows. “Harry, control your girlfriend!”

“I’m trying!” Harry ducked as another spell hit a chair and turned it into a screaming toad. It just had to happen when Madam Pince went to the bathroom!!!

Finally, Daphne stopped, breathing fast, eyes locked on Hermione. Her wand lowered—but only because her other hand was already pulling out the silver dagger.

Harry darted forward, catching her wrist. “No, Daph. Bad Daphne!”

Her expression froze. She blinked, confusion flooding her face, dagger trembling in her grip. “B–bad Daphne?”

Oh no. Her lip trembled. Her eyes filled with tears so fast it nearly broke him.

“Harry,” she whispered, voice tiny and heartbroken. “Am I a bad Daphne?”

Harry felt his chest tighten. She looked crushed, like a puppy caught chewing a wand. He knew one wrong word could mean a very bloody week.

He sighed, mustering every ounce of courage and calm he had left. “No, no, Daph, you’re not a bad Daphne. But good Daphnes… they don’t stab other people... Think about what others would say if they saw you like this.”

Daphne sniffled. “Oh…”

Hermione peered cautiously from behind a toppled shelf, eyes wide.

Then Daphne’s expression changed. Slowly, the tears stopped. Her face brightened again, that terrifyingly radiant smile returning as if someone had flipped an emotional switch.

“I understand completely,” she said cheerfully, tucking the dagger back into her sleeve. “If I ever stab, I’ll do it where there are no witnesses.”

Harry froze mid-nod. “…Wait, that’s not what—”

Too late. Daphne was already hanging off his arm again, all smiles and sunshine.

“Let’s get some tea, darling,” she said sweetly, tugging him toward the door. “I feel so much calmer now.”

Harry glanced helplessly at Hermione, mouthing I’m sorry as Daphne dragged him away.

Hermione just stared after them and muttered, “I’m putting this entire situation in my next thesis on the dangers of unregulated love magic.”

As they left the library, the necklace gave one final soft beep—as if confirming that all was, somehow, perfectly fine.

Harry didn’t have the energy to correct anyone. He just kept walking, waiting for the exact moment Daphne looked away long enough for him to discreetly, very discreetly, pull that dagger out of her sleeve and hide it somewhere far, far away and the spare one too.

The night had been peaceful—by recent standards—until, of course, it wasn’t.

Harry had been deep in what might have been his first real sleep all week, wrapped in blankets and blissfully free from dagger-related anxieties. That was, until he woke with a start to find someone sitting on top of him.

A someone with long blonde hair and a gaze that glowed faintly in the moonlight. She was wearing one of his shirts again—something that had become of a habit.

“Harry,” Daphne whispered softly, eyes wide and unblinking. “If I turned into a Kneazle, would you still love me?”

Harry blinked groggily, trying to locate his glasses on the nightstand. “Wha—Daph? It’s like the three in the morning. What are you talking about?”

She tilted her head, ignoring his question entirely.  "Would you still hold me? Would you feed me milk?”

Harry managed to find his glasses and shove them onto his face. “You’d be a cat. Of course I’d feed you milk. Though I’m more of a tea person—”

Daphne leaned closer, her hair brushing his cheek. “And what if I were a caterpillar?” she murmured. “But not one that ever became a butterfly. Just a caterpillar that crawled around forever. Would you still love me then?”

Harry sighed softly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You’re asking very complicated questions for three in the morning.”

She didn’t move. Her blue gaze was intent, serious in that dreamlike way only Daphne could manage. “And what if I were a tree?” she whispered next. “Would you still love me if I couldn’t move or speak, if all I could do was grow toward you?”

Harry smiled faintly and reached up, pulling her down into a hug. Her hair smelled faintly of jasmine and sleep. “Daph,” he said quietly, “I’d love you no matter what you became. Even if you turned into a tree. I’d come every day to water you and read to you—your favorite books. All of them. And I’d make sure no one carved their initials into you.”

Daphne froze, then broke into a small, radiant smile that could have melted iron.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You always know exactly what to say.”

She threw her arms around him and hugged with the kind of devotion—and physical strength—that made his ribs creak ominously.

“Let’s sleep now, yeah?” he murmured, exhaustion returning. “It’s late.”

She nodded, slipping under the sheets beside him. It was only when she settled in that he noticed her reaching up and calmly setting her wand and a silver knife on the nightstand—items apparently taken from between her tits.

Harry decided not to ask.

Instead, he closed his eyes and felt her curl against him, her breath warm against his neck.

Then Daphne kissed him. Once, then again, slow and certain.

“Daph,” he murmured, half protest, half plea. “Not here—this is—”

She smiled against his lips. “I put privacy charms on the curtains,” she said in a whisper that was both mischievous and tender. “Nobody will hear a thing.”

Whatever reply Harry might have had dissolved under her next kiss. The rest of the night blurred into sounds that weren’t meant for anyone else’s ears.

They didn’t sleep much, but Harry had a very good night.

It was during Professor McGonagall’s lecture on partial transfigurations that Harry noticed something strange: Daphne, seated two desks over, was calm.

And Tracey Davis—Daphne’s best friend—was laughing at one of Harry’s terrible jokes.

Normally, that would have been the cue for a hex, a “tragic” accident, or at the very least, someone’s hair mysteriously turning plaid. But Daphne didn’t move. She just smiled at Tracey, humming under her breath as if the laws of jealousy no longer applied.

Harry stared, bewildered. “How—how are you not hexed?” he whispered to Tracey when McGonagall turned to the blackboard.

Tracey smirked. She had light brown hair, bright green eyes, and the relaxed air of someone who’d been surviving Greengrass-level drama for years. “Oh, I’m not immune,” she said, grinning. “I just know how Daph operates. You see, the trick is to anticipate the crazy before it lands.”

Harry frowned. “Anticipate?”

“Yup.” She stood up from her chair and took a casual step back.

An instant later, a bucket of ice water fell from the ceiling and crashed exactly where she had been seat.

The entire class jumped. McGonagall froze mid-transfiguration, lips thinning.

Tracey brushed a stray drop off her shoulder, grinning like she’d just avoided a Bludger. “See? Timing.”

Harry blinked at the bucket, then at her. “That was for you?”

“Oh, probably,” Tracey said cheerfully. “She likes me, but she’s thorough. Keeps me humble.”

Daphne, from her seat, smiled sweetly, twirling her wand as if she’d done nothing at all.

McGonagall sighed deeply, muttered something about “romantic theatrics,” made Daphne clean up the mess and went back to the lesson.

By the end of class, Harry wasn’t sure whether to admire or fear Tracey. Possibly both.

Later Harry climbed to the owlery to send a quick letter to Viktor Krum in case he had experience with a girlfriend or ex-girlfriend with dangerous tendencies. Hedwig landed neatly on his arm, hooting softly. “Hey, girl,” he said affectionately. “Missed you too.”

He didn’t even hear Daphne arrive—she just appeared beside him, as she always did, like an angelic shadow with trust issues.

“Harry,” she said sweetly, looking at Hedwig. “You know I could deliver your letters for you.”

Harry blinked. “Er—what?”

“I could carry them. I’m faster, I have better aim, and I don’t shed feathers.”

Hedwig hooted indignantly, puffing up. Her amber eyes narrowed into a glare that clearly translated to try me, human.

Daphne smiled back at the owl, her tone still perfectly gentle. “I see you’ve grown territorial.”

“Daph,” Harry said carefully, “Hedwig’s been with me for years.”

“She’s just an owl,” Daphne said with a sweet smile that could cut glass.

Hedwig hooted louder, her feathers bristling, wings spreading wide in challenge.

The two of them locked eyes—one a witch of unsettling intensity, the other a snowy owl with the soul of a queen. Harry could feel the magical pressure in the air like static.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he muttered, quickly fishing into his pockets. “Alright, you win—both of you.”

He produced a chocolate frog and an owl treat, offering them like a man negotiating with rival goddesses. “Here. For you, Daph. And for you, Hedwig.”

Daphne blinked, momentarily distracted. “You brought me chocolate?”

“Always,” he said weakly, handing her the sweet.

Hedwig snatched her treat, giving Daphne a final, warning hoot before flapping back to her perch in victory.

Daphne nibbled her chocolate contentedly, leaning against Harry’s shoulder. “You’re so thoughtful,” she murmured. “You know, if you ever want to send a letter through me, I won’t charge postage.”

Harry chuckled faintly. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

Harry, without thinking, commented that Parvati Patil's dark hair was pretty; a serious mistake since Daphne heard it.

It had been a harmless comment — one of those polite, offhand things said in conversation while Daphne was distracted with her tea.

“Parvati, your hair looks nice today,” Harry had said absently, mostly to be polite.

Six hours later, Parvati appeared in the main corridor of Hogwarts, shrieking like a bat with identity issues, and her twin sister, Padma, wasn't far behind. Both had bright, shiny, almost phosphorescent bubblegum-pink hair, as if they'd escaped from a wizarding circus.

Harry avoided looking at the Patil twins; he knew exactly what had happened. Beginning to notice Daphne's antics, Harry had intercepted Daphne's "instant hair loss" potion and replaced it with an innocent, temporary pink dye. Fortunately, that was enough to avert the tragedy.

And so Harry survived until winter break, and Daphne had invited him home to spend Christmas with her family. The Greengrass estate was very beautiful.

Daphne and Astoria excused themselves to “freshen up” after the Floo trip, leaving Harry alone in the sitting room with Lord Cyrus Greengrass — a tall man with black hair going silver at the edges, amber eyes, and the dignified composure of someone who had seen everything and survived out of sheer willpower.

Cyrus gestured for Harry to sit. “Tea?”

“Uh — yes, please,” Harry said.

The man poured it calmly, handing him a cup. “I recognize that look in your eyes, you know.”

Harry blinked. “Sir?”

Cyrus chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. “The look of a man who hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks. Tell me — has Daphne woken you up at three in the morning yet to ask if you’d still love her if she turned into something strange?”

Harry froze mid-sip. “...Actually yes, last night she asked if I’d take her on a date if she were a dementor.”

“Ah, yes! Classic stage-two Greengrass curse behavior,” Cyrus said fondly, waving a hand. “Anastasia used to wake me up all the time with the same question. Yesterday she asked if I’d date her if she became a talking mirror. She almost cursed me when I took a microsecond to answer because I was so sleepy.”

Harry blinked. “Wait—your wife still does that? But I thought the Greengrass curse only lasted six months.”

Cyrus gave him a sympathetic look. "Well, Astoria forgot to mention a small detail, you see...that was the trial run. The curse... repeats itself. Once a year, for a month."

Harry stared at him. “You mean—Daphne’s going to go yandere one month in every year?”

“Exactly. It’s tradition.” Cyrus smiled in a way that could only be described as the serene acceptance of a man who had long ago surrendered to fate.

Harry’s mind raced. Eleven months of peace, one month of panic. Forever.

Before he could respond, a voice rang through the hall — high, feminine, and sharp enough to send a chill down his spine.

“Cyrus!”

Cyrus sighed with the air of a man used to this kind of ambush. “Ah. There she is.”

“Where are you?” came the voice again, growing closer. “Talking to that bitch Amelia again? I already told you that her tits may be a little bigger than mine, but mine are softer and not saggy like hers!!

The door opened—and in walked her.

Anastasia Greengrass was, quite simply, stunning.

Blonde hair cascading like gold silk, blue eyes as bright as winter frost, and a red dress that could’ve been classified as a weapon of mass distraction that hugged her perfect body.

Harry’s jaw nearly hit the teacup. She looked like an older, impossibly polished version of Daphne—same beauty, same confidence, but more magnified. Milf, his brain supplied automatically, before he could stop it. Then louder, panicked: Did I just mentally call my girlfriend’s mum a MILF?!

But Harry suddenly understood where the genetics and the danger came from.

If Daphne was fire, Anastasia was the forge.

“Ana, love, Amelia is my boss, not my mistress,” Cyrus said calmly, “I was merely having tea with our guest.”

“Guest?” she repeated suspiciously, before her eyes landed on Harry. Anastasia’s expression softened instantly into a dazzling smile. “Oh!” she said brightly. “You must be Harry Potter!”

“Er—yes, Lady Greengrass,” Harry said weakly.

“Oh, I’ve been dying to meet you!” she said, gliding forward with a grace that could make statues move aside. “Daphne writes to us about you every day!”

“She does?” Harry asked, trying not to glance at Cyrus, who was smirking behind his teacup.

“Every single day,” Anastasia said fondly. “Little notes about how wonderful you are, how handsome you look when you study, how she’d absolutely murder anyone who hurt you or looks at you for more than five seconds—”

Harry coughed. “That… sounds like her, yeah.”

From somewhere upstairs, Daphne’s voice floated down, bright and melodic:

“Harry, darling! Don’t start drinking tea without me!”

Harry sighed. “Too late for that.”

Cyrus chuckled again, raising his cup. “Ah, yes. That’s the spirit of festivities in this house: tea, knives, and unconditional devotion.”

Meanwhile Anastasia, was already fussing over tea biscuits and calling for the house-elves. Harry took a long sip of tea, he’d already survived two months. A Christmas with the Greengrass family couldn't be so chaotic in comparison, right?

Harry was sitting on the couch between Daphne and her mother, Anastasia, and trying very hard not to sweat.

Astoria sat on an armchair nearby, happily eating her slice of cake and chatting with her father, Cyrus, who looked like a man who had long ago made peace with chaos. The faint sound of a harp played somewhere in the manor, and everything should have been perfectly calm.

Except Daphne had just said, “Mum, look! I brought the photo album.”

Harry blinked. “Photo album?”

Anastasia’s eyes lit up with interest. “Oh, the one you mentioned in your letters, darling?”

“Yes!” Daphne said cheerfully, already pulling a thick, leather-bound book from her bag. “I’ve been collecting these since September. You’ll love them, Mum.”

Harry leaned slightly forward, smiling nervously. “Oh, right, yeah—photos. From school? The Prophet maybe?”

Daphne opened the first page, and the first few pictures looked harmless enough—him and Daphne at Hogsmeade, a couple of Daily Prophet clippings about Quidditch, one or two of him in the library.

Then she turned the page and there he was sleeping. In his bed.

The next photo—Harry brushing his teeth.

The next—Harry in the Great Hall, halfway through a bite of toast, eyes half-lidded, a crumb frozen in the air.

The next—Harry in the showers

Harry blinked. Once. Twice. “Wait. Is that—”

“Oh!” Daphne said brightly, pointing to each photo like a proud curator. “That one was tricky! The steam kept fogging up the lens, but I charmed the camera for clarity.”

“Clarity,” Harry repeated weakly.

“And this one—look, Mum! He’s reading Advanced Defensive Theory. Look at how focused he is! Isn’t he adorable?”

Anastasia clasped her hands together and let out a small, delighted sound. “Oh, he is! You captured him beautifully, dear. Such concentration! I used to take similar photos of your father before we were married.”

Cyrus didn’t even flinch. He simply kept drinking his tea.

Harry turned slowly toward Daphne, voice trembling slightly. “Daph… did you—did you take all these?”

“Of course!” she said proudly. “Who else could? It’s part of my hobby. I even have a tracking diary!”

“You have a what?”

Anastasia’s eyes sparkled. “Oh! You mean that one, dear?”

Before Harry could even process the horror, Anastasia reached into a drawer beside her and pulled out a thick, well-worn notebook with “HARRY POTTER DAILY TRACKER” written across the front in glittery, elegant handwriting.

Harry stared. “You—you have it here?”

“Of course,” Anastasia said, opening it. “She sends us weekly copies. For safekeeping.”

She began to read aloud, delighted: “Let’s see… ‘Monday, 7:43 a.m.—Harry woke up, yawned twice, rubbed his eyes with his right hand first. 7:46 a.m.—brushed teeth, thirty-four strokes, toothpaste flavor: mint. 8:03 a.m.—ate three pieces of toast, average chew time per bite: 4.6 seconds.’”

Harry blinked rapidly. “You… you counted my chews?”

Daphne nodded happily, resting her head on his shoulder. “Consistency is key, Harry. I want to understand you completely.”

Astoria was halfway to choking on her cake, laughing. “She even has graphs! Look, Mum, it’s the ‘Smile Frequency Over Breakfast’ chart!”

Anastasia flipped to another page, positively glowing. “Oh, this is so detailed! Daphne, darling, this is magnificent. You’ve inherited the family precision.”

Harry sat there, mouth open, trying to decide whether to panic, faint, or applaud the sheer dedication. He managed a weak smile instead.

“Right,” he said. “So, full documentation of my daily routine. Very… thorough.”

Daphne beamed at him. “See? He appreciates it, Mum!”

Anastasia nodded approvingly. “A smart young man.”

Harry was about to attempt setting some gentle limits—something like, Maybe fewer photos of me showering, love—but before he could even open his mouth, Daphne spoke again, perfectly calm:

“Oh, Mum, remind me to go shopping later. My bras don’t fit anymore.”

Anastasia smiled knowingly. “That’s perfectly normal, sweetheart. You’re growing. They’ll keep getting fuller for another few years.”

Cyrus quietly coughed into his teacup. Astoria bit into her cake to keep from laughing out loud.

Even more? Harry thought. He forgot every thought he’d been about to say. Every word of protest dissolved like sugar in tea. His mind went blank except for a single thought: Daphne, beautiful, terrifying, unstoppable.

He turned, hugged her tightly, and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “I love you,” he murmured helplessly.

Daphne smiled so radiantly the whole room seemed to glow. “I love you too, Harry.”

Anastasia sighed dreamily and said, “Oh, isn’t young love the sweetest thing? Just make sure you label the next photo album properly, dear. The last one nearly gave the owl a heart attack.”

Harry decided right then and there that some battles were not meant to be fought. He just smiled, hugged Daphne tighter, and hoped that by the time dinner arrived, no one brought out Volume Two.

In the night, Harry found himself walking along the stone path beside Daphne, her arm hooked through his. She looked breathtakingly serene under the moonlight, her head resting lightly against his shoulder.

The garden glowed under starlight, white roses blooming with frost.

“It’s so peaceful out here,” Harry murmured, partly to himself.

“Mmm,” Daphne hummed in agreement. “Harry, could you do something for me this Christmas?”

Harry smiled cautiously. “Sure, Daph. What is it?”

Daphne looked up at him with her sweetest smile, the one that always meant brace yourself. “Could you give me some of your blood?”

“I— sorry, what?”

“Just a few drops,” she said cheerfully, as if suggesting he pass the salt. “Enough to make a pendant. I want to fill it with your blood, so I can always carry a part of you with me.”

Harry stared at her, caught between horror and affection. “…You mean, like—literally carry part of me with you.”

“Exactly.”

The snow was falling so quietly that the world seemed to hold its breath. Harry looked at her — her bright eyes, the tilt of her head, the faint smile — and realized he was not in a position to laugh this off.

“Well,” he said carefully, “that’s… very sweet, Daph. Romantic, in a sort of mildly terrifying way.”

She squeezed his arm happily. “So you’ll do it?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, thinking quickly. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Daphne’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “A deal?”

“I’ll agree to the whole… blood pendant thing,” Harry said carefully, “if you promise not to try and kidnap any of my friends again after they talk to me for two seconds.”

Daphne pouted instantly. “Even Hermione?”

“Especially Hermione.” Harry said with the weary authority of a man who had once found Hermione gagged in a broom cupboard with a note that said 'She talks too much to you Harry'.

Daphne pouted, her lower lip trembling in a way that was probably lethal to most men. “But she looks at you like she’s analyzing your soul.”

“She does that to everyone, Daph."

“Mmh.” Daphne frowned, thinking. “Fine. I’ll try. For now.”

Harry smiled with triumph washing over him. “Good. See? Negotiation. That’s progress.”

Daphne tilted her head, curious. “You sound so proud, Harry.”

“I am,” he said honestly. “I think I’m learning how to handle you.”

Her smile turned warm, and she leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked beneath a snow-dusted arch of roses. "Oh, Harry" she murmured. “It’s adorable that you believe that.”

Harry chuckled, missing the faint glint of mischief in her eyes. “Hey, one step at a time, right?”

“Mmm.” She hummed softly, tightening her grip on his arm. “One step at a time.”

“By the way,” Harry said suddenly, “Has any Greengrass ever gone to Azkaban because of the curse?”

Daphne tilted her head thoughtfully. “Oh, no. Only two or three. But that was ages ago—before my great-grandmother’s time. Dumbledore hadn’t even been born yet.”

Harry blinked. “So… it has been improving? Losing… mortality over the years?”

Daphne’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Oh, Harry. Not losing mortality—just getting better at eliminating evidence.”

Harry stared. Then, after a beat, he nodded slowly. “Ah. That makes more sense.”

“See?” she said brightly. “We adapt.”

They reached the edge of the frozen fountain, where moonlight shimmered across the ice. Daphne turned to face him, her expression soft again — no daggers, no curses, just the kind of intense affection that felt both comforting and slightly dangerous.

“Harry,” she said gently, “you make me very happy, you know that?”

He smiled. “You make me happy too, Daph.”

“Good,” she whispered, rising on her toes to kiss him.

It was brief but deep, leaving Harry slightly dizzy. When they finally pulled apart, Daphne looked delighted — glowing, even.

She sighed contentedly, resting her head back on his shoulder. “I can’t wait to make that pendant,” she murmured.

Harry smiled. “Right. We’ll… discuss the design later.”

Chapter Text

By some miracle — divine, accidental, or the result of pure survival instinct — Harry had made it through Christmas at Greengrass Manor alive, mostly intact, and only slightly traumatized.

The holidays had been… lively.

Every evening, as soon as dinner ended, Anastasia would take her husband by the hand, smile in a way that made the house-elves flee, and announce sweetly, “Cyrus, dear, come along.”

That phrase, Harry learned, was code for no one will see them until morning.

Meanwhile, Daphne had spent the entire break radiating joy. Her brand-new pendant — a tiny silver heart filled with a few shimmering drops of Harry’s blood — gleamed against her throat like the world’s most ominous love token.

She’d smile at it, hum happily, and sometimes whisper to it when she thought no one was listening. Harry pretended not to notice. It seemed safer that way.

Astoria, ever the agent of chaos, had taken to sending letters by owl every morning. “To a friend,” she said vaguely, eyes shining.

Harry had asked once, “Who’s your mysterious friend, then?”

She’d just grinned, sealed her letter with a glittering wax heart, and said, “You’ll see. Maybe.”

That “maybe” had sounded far too much like trouble for Harry’s liking.

On Christmas morning, gifts appeared beneath the enchanted spruce tree that Daphne had personally hexed to “sing love ballads.” It mostly performed a romantic version of God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs every hour on the hour.

Harry received thoughtful, if slightly unsettling, gifts from everyone:

From Daphne — a handmade scarf with runes to “keep him warm when she wasn’t there to hug him.”

From Cyrus — a pair of dragonhide boots and a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

From Anastasia — a stack of books titled How to Understand the Greengrass Woman, Volumes 1 through 3.

From Astoria — a box of enchanted fireworks shaped like hearts that exploded into “Harry + Daphne Forever” in the sky.

And from Cynthia and Adrian Greengrass — Daphne’s grandparents — a surprise visit.

Cynthia Greengrass was stunning. Silver-blonde hair, sharp wit, and the sort of poise that could turn lesser witches to dust. She was Anastasia’s mother, which made her Daphne’s grandmother — and terrifyingly. Despite the gray streaks in her blond hair, if she said she was under forty, Harry would believe her.

She kissed Harry on both cheeks and said warmly, “So you’re the boy who’s managed to keep my granddaughter from turning the castle into a mausoleum. Impressive.”

Harry smiled awkwardly. “Er—thank you, ma’am.”

Her husband, Adrian, simply chuckled and said, “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks. You’ll fit right in.”

Then Cynthia handed him her gift — a sleek, black envelope.

“For you, dear,” she said sweetly. “My associate’s card. She handles… evidence removal. Discreet, efficient, no questions asked. You might find her useful someday.”

Harry blinked. “I… hope not to, ma’am.”

Cynthia smiled like a woman who knew better. “That’s what we all say.”

By the end of the holiday, Harry had somehow adapted to the daily routine of minor madness.

Anastasia’s late-night yelling at Cyrus for imaginary affairs.

Astoria’s cryptic laughter over her secret pen pal.

Daphne’s endless affection mixed with casual comments about blood rituals and “eternal togetherness.”

And through it all, Harry found a strange kind of peace.

He enjoy the quiet moments — walking through snow-covered gardens with Daphne humming beside him, or playing quidditch with Lord Greengrass, who looked at him like a man watching a comrade in the trenches.

By the time the Hogwarts Express steamed back into view, Harry actually felt… optimistic.

He was halfway through the six-month trial and hadn’t lost any fingers, friends, or major organs.

That had to count as progress.

As the train carried them back toward Hogwarts, Daphne leaned against his shoulder, toying with her pendant and sighing dreamily.

“Can you believe the holidays are already over?” she murmured.

Harry smiled faintly. “Yeah. They went by fast.”

“Hmm.” She traced the pendant with her finger. “Three months left, Harry. Then the curse ends.”

He nodded. “Glass half full, not half empty, right?”

She tilted her head. “You’ve been reading those optimism books Mum gave you, haven’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Daphne smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “That’s MY Harry.”

It had started innocently enough. Daphne had kissed him on the cheek and said, “I’ll just go talk to Astoria about her little secret friend.” Then she disappeared down the hall, leaving Harry momentarily unguarded.

And that, apparently, was all the opportunity Tracey needed.

“Harry,” she said with a sly grin, “I think you’d better come with me.”

Harry frowned, already wary. “Why do I get the feeling I won’t like this?”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” Tracey said far too cheerfully. “Or—well, you’ll react. That’s almost the same thing.”

Before he could argue, she was already dragging him down to the Slytherin common room.

The common room was every bit the snake den he’d remembered— all gleaming stone, dark leather couches, and green firelight flickering in the hearth. He half-expected the walls themselves to hiss at him for existing.

As if on cue, Pansy appeared from the hallway leading to the dorms, short black bob perfectly in place, expression sharpened to a permanent scowl.

“What in Merlin’s name is Potter doing down here?” she asked, folding her arms.

Tracey only grinned. “Field trip. Educational purposes. He needs to see what Daphne’s been up to.”

Pansy’s annoyance melted into intrigue almost instantly. “Ohhh. You’re taking him to 'that'.”

Lily Moon, who’d been lounging by the fireplace, perked up. “About time. Poor boy deserves to know about 'that'.”

Harry frowned. “I don’t like how that sounds.”

“You’ll love it,” Tracey said far too cheerfully. “Come on, Potter. The coast is clear.”

In the girls’ dormitory of Daphne and the others. The air smelled faintly of mint and perfume, and there were five beds draped in emerald curtains, each with their own subtle personal touches.

Tracey pointed toward the corner nearest the window. “That’s Daphne’s side.”

Harry blinked. “It looks… normal.”

And indeed it did. A neatly made bed, a polished wardrobe, a small stack of books. Nothing screamed “obsessive yandere” about it.

He looked at Tracey questioningly.

“That’s what I thought too,” she said with a mischievous grin. “Until I opened the wardrobe.”

Harry hesitated. “Tracey, I don’t think—”

“Just do it.”

Behind Tracey, Pansy and Lily were already trying not to snicker.

He sighed and opened the wardrobe, and immediately regretted it. The inside was not neat, it was an altar.

A disturbingly organized, candle-lit altar.

There were photos of him — so many photos. Harry reading, Harry eating, Harry sitting in class, Harry brushing his teeth — all carefully pinned in heart-shaped frames. A few had lipstick marks, some had “Mr. & Mrs. Potter” scrawled beneath them in glittering ink.

On the lower shelf lay several small journals labeled Tracking Diary #7, Tracking Diary #8, and, disturbingly, Potter’s Favorite Breakfasts.

Tracey leaned casually against the bedpost. “Told you she redecorated this room instead of her home one. After all, the curse was activated when she was at Hogwarts. She didn't have time to redo her room in her house since you were there.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Why are there… candles? And my—hold on, are those my spare glasses?”

“Probably,” said Lily. “Also your Charms essay. She said she needed it for, um, sentimental reasons.”

Harry stared. "I had to do it redo from zero!"

The girls laughed — loud, merciless laughter that echoed off the stone walls.

Pansy wiped a tear from her eye. “Oh, Potter, we’re not even at the best part yet.”

Lily grinned and gestured at the bed. “Check under the pillow.”

Harry looked at her as if she’d asked him to pet a basilisk, but curiosity won. He reached under the pillow and pulled out — A teddy bear.

Not just any teddy bear, though. This one wore a tiny Gryffindor uniform, glasses, and had a little lightning bolt stitched onto its forehead.

“Oh, for Merlin’s—”

“Go on,” Pansy said, smirking. “Give it a hug.”

“I don’t think I should—”

“Hug it!” all three said in perfect Slytherin harmony.

Harry gave them all a flat look but, sighing, squeezed the bear lightly.

The teddy bear speaks and it was his voice.

“Daphne, I love you.”

Harry froze. The girls burst out laughing.

He pressed it again.

“Daphne is the best.”

Another press.

“Daphne, the perfect woman.”

Now even Tracey was wheezing, half-doubled over on the floor.

Harry blushed scarlet. “Do you hear this often?”

Lily managed between giggles, “Only when she’s sleeping here instead of sneaking into your bed. Which—” she checked an imaginary watch, “—is maybe twice a week.”

Harry buried his face in his hands. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

That was when a very familiar, very melodic voice drifted from the doorway.

“Harry?”

The laughter stopped instantly.

Daphne stood there, serene as a saint, she looked around at the scene — Harry with the bear in his hands, her friends trying very hard to look innocent — and smiled sweetly.

“Oh,” she said, “you found my things!”

Harry turned slowly, like someone facing down a dragon. “Er—yes. Just… appreciating your, uh, craftsmanship.”

Daphne clasped her hands together. “I’m so glad! It took ages to organize everything properly.”

Behind him, Tracey whispered, “We’re leaving.”

Pansy and Lily nodded so fast they blurred. Within seconds, all three of them were gone, leaving only a faint echo of giggles and the smell of panic.

Daphne walked toward him, calm and radiant, her smile both angelic and terrifying.

“I was hoping you’d see it one day,” she said, stopping right in front of him. “It’s important you know how much I care.”

Harry nodded slowly, clutching the teddy bear like a talisman. “Oh, I—uh—definitely know that now.”

Daphne’s eyes softened, and she reached up to brush his cheek with her fingertips. “Good,” she whispered. “Then we understand each other.”

Harry gave her a smile. “Perfectly.”

And as she kissed him, the teddy bear in his hands murmured in his own recorded voice, muffled between them— “Daphne is love, Daphne is life.”

Harry had done many brave things in his life. But nothing — absolutely nothing — compared to sitting in an empty classroom at Hogwarts with a handwritten list of fifty reasons why Daphne should not poison Cho Chang.

He sat across from his girlfriend, who was looking at him sweetly, quill in hand, as though taking notes on how best to argue in favor of murder.

“Reason number forty-three,” Harry said firmly, scanning the parchment. “If you poison Cho, Madam Pomfrey will notice, and then I’ll have to spend my weekend explaining things again to the Aurors.”

Daphne tilted her head, smiling serenely. “But she winked at you.”

Harry sighed. “She didn’t wink. A petal flew in her eye. You saw it happen. The wind was blowing, remember?”

Daphne’s expression softened for half a second before narrowing again. “Then why did she smile?”

“Because she’s gentle, Daph. That’s what people do when they talk to other people — smile.”

“Hmm.” Daphne twirled her quill, still unconvinced. “Nice people can be very dangerous.”

Harry groaned and rubbed his temples. “Please, can we not add ‘attempted homicide’ to this semester’s chaos?”

She pouted — adorably, of course. “It’s not homicide if I use slow-acting venom. Just a lesson.”

“Daph,” he said, setting the list down and giving her the most serious look he could muster, “if you poison anyone’s food, I won’t let you feed me anymore.”

That did it.

Her eyes went wide with genuine horror. “You wouldn’t!”

“I would.”

She gasped, hand clutching her chest. “But feeding you is my love language!”

“Then keep the love untainted,” Harry said with the grim authority of someone who had seen enough poisoned pumpkin juice to last a lifetime.

Daphne sulked but eventually nodded. “Fine. No poison. For now.”

Harry smiled. “That’s progress.”

“Can I at least hex her hair to fall out in clumps?”

“Daph—”

She grinned mischievously. “Kidding! …Mostly.”

Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Merlin, I need a holiday.”

They stepped out into the corridor just in time to see something Harry never thought he’d witness.

Draco Malfoy, heir of the Malfoy name, self-declared aristocrat, with overly gel blond hair,  trudging down the hallway carrying books.

And not just his books — Astoria Greengrass’s books. And her bag. And what looked like a cushion shaped like a puffskein with a bow.

Astoria herself was walking beside him, radiant and chipper, flicking her fingers imperiously. “Come on, Draco, chop chop! You’re slowing down again!”

“Yes, Astoria,” he said faintly, adjusting the precarious tower of items in his arms.

Harry blinked. Slowly. “Am I hallucinating?”

Daphne clasped her hands together, utterly delighted. “Oh, that’s right! I haven’t told you the good news!”

Harry braced himself. “Good… news.”

“My little sister,” Daphne said proudly, “is dating Malfoy.”

Harry’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Daphne said cheerfully. “They’ve been writing and talking to each other for months. And apparently he’s the mysterious ‘friend’ she kept sending letters to. They even had a few dates.”

Harry stared as Draco tripped slightly under the weight of Astoria’s things, his blond hair falling in his face. Astoria giggled and adjusted his collar with exaggerated affection.

“She’s… in yandere mode, isn’t she?” Harry said quietly.

Daphne beamed. “Yep! Isn’t that adorable?”

Harry gave her a flat look. “Adorable isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Well, not all yanderes are the same,” Daphne said wisely, as though lecturing on a family trait. “Mum and I, we’re more the devoted, protective, maybe-slightly-possessive type. But Astoria? She’s a different breed. Think of her like an energetic diva yandere. Like a Kneazle on sugar quills and homicidal enthusiasm.”

They both watched as Astoria clapped her hands, and Draco immediately adjusted her bag’s strap while balancing three more books.

“She makes him carry her things,” Daphne continued, “so she can keep him close, mark her territory, and test his endurance. It’s her way of showing love.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “So basically, she’s trying to see how long it takes to break him.”

“Exactly!” Daphne said proudly. “She’s such a romantic.”

Astoria and Draco turned the corner, her laughter echoing down the hall, followed by a faint, defeated “Yes, Astoria,” from Draco’s lips.

Harry watched them go, shaking his head slowly. “He’s doomed.”

Daphne leaned her head on his shoulder, smiling blissfully. “Oh, he’ll survive.”

Harry looked at her, the pendant with his blood glinting around her neck, and muttered, “Define survive.”

She kissed his cheek. “Half the fun is finding out.”

By the time February rolled around, Harry had learned three valuable survival rules about dating a Greengrass under the family curse.

Rule One: Never compliment another witch.

Rule Two: Always know where her dagger is.

Rule Three: Plan ahead for Valentine’s Day, because if you don’t, you might not live to see February 15th.

He’d been counting down to this day since Christmas — months of cautious diplomacy, creative excuses, and emotional minefield navigation. He hadn’t lost any limbs. He hadn’t been stabbed. The blood pendant was still mostly full and not being used for rituals (as far as he knew). By all accounts, he was winning.

But Valentine’s Day was like the final boss fight.

If he didn’t make it perfect, Daphne might assume the worst: that he was cheating, and if she assumed that… well, the Hogwarts hospital wing only had so many beds.

So Harry had spent weeks planning. He’d strategized like he was prepping for a duel with Voldemort himself. In his mind, he ran every scenario possible:

— If he took her to the Great Hall, Hermione might walk by. In that version, Daphne stabbed Hermione with a fork. Not good.

— If they went for a picnic near the lake, Luna might appear chasing Nargles. Daphne hexed the lake into boiling. Worse.

— And if they met in Hogsmeade, there were too many witnesses, too many 'temptations'. Instant catastrophe.

So he’d found the only solution: completely private romantic date.

The highest tower at Hogwarts — where the wind was soft, the view spectacular, and most importantly, no one could wander in by accident.

Harry put on some of the cologne Lady Greengrass had sent him by owl. The accompanying note read: "Guaranteed to make any Greengrass more affectionate. Use with care."

Taking a deep breath, Harry walked down to the Slytherin common room. The door opened with a whisper of magic and out came Daphne, radiant as ever, her blonde hair shimmering.

The second she saw him, she was at his side, looping her arm through his.

“Good morning, Harry,” she said sweetly. “We’re skipping breakfast in the Great Hall?”

Harry smiled. “We are. I planned something special. Just for you.”

Daphne’s eyes narrowed instantly, suspicion blooming like a reflex. “So this is your way of asking forgiveness for cheating on me?”

Harry froze. “What? No! No, no — this is because I love you, Daph. I planned this for weeks. Only for you.”

Her smile returned, sudden and bright, as if the clouds had vanished. “You did?”

“Of course,” Harry said, resisting the urge to wipe the sweat off his palms.

Her eyes softened again, and with an elegant little flick of her wrist, she slipped the silver dagger back into its sheath.

“Then lead the way, my love.”

At the top of the tower, Harry’s work awaited them: a table set with breakfast under shimmering conservation charms — croissants, pumpkin juice, strawberries, and a pot of tea brewed just the way Daphne liked it.

She gasped, her whole face lighting up. “Harry… you did all this?”

“With a little help,” he admitted. “Some friends who… value their lives.” Even Pansy had helped make the croissants to keep Daphne calm.

Daphne giggled and immediately began cutting fruit to feed him. “You’re wonderful.”

Harry smiled and fed her back, careful to match her energy. The morning air was crisp, the view perfect, and for the first time since October, he almost felt like he was on a normal date.

Halfway through breakfast, Daphne paused, spoon halfway to her lips. “Harry,” she said softly, “thank you for this.”

He smiled. “Anything for you.”

She leaned forward to kiss his cheek, her pendant gleaming like liquid fire in the sunlight. “You’re mine forever, right?”

Harry nodded immediately. “Yours. Forever.”

“Good,” she said cheerfully. “Because if anyone else ever—”

“They won’t,” Harry interrupted quickly. “I promise.”

That seemed to satisfy her. She went back to her pancakes.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of careful, meticulously choreographed romance.

Between classes, Harry guided Daphne through hidden corridors and lesser-used stairways to avoid any… incidents. After all, the last time he’d tried to take a “short cut” to Potions, Romilda Vane and her friends had stepped around the corner, Romilda said “Hi, Harry!”, and nearly been vaporized by a Bombarda so strong it almost singed old portrait.

He’d managed to deflect the blast — barely — and dragged Daphne into the classroom pretending nothing had happened. “Accidents happen,” she’d said innocently, while Romilda and her friends run away.

So, yes. Caution was the key word of the day.

After dinner, when the sky turned soft violet, Harry took Daphne to the broom shed. Her eyes widened when she saw the broom waiting there.

“A flight?” she breathed. “Just us?”

“Just us,” he confirmed.

They took off into the cold air, Daphne’s arms wrapped tightly — very tightly — around his waist. She held on as though trying to merge into his spine, her laughter ringing in his ears as they soared over the glittering towers of Hogwarts.

Then, with a smile, Harry reached into his robes and touched the firework he had bought for the Weasley twins. Sparks exploded across the night sky, painting words of glowing gold and red:

💫 DAPHNE GREENGRASS — MY ONE AND ONLY 💫

Daphne gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “Harry…”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, turning to smile at her.

She looked one heartbeat away from tears. “It’s perfect.”

Harry exhaled in relief. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that.”

She laughed and kissed him midair, her grip tightening. “You’ve outdone yourself, my love.”

When they finally landed, Harry was exhausted but triumphant.

He’d done it. A perfect Valentine’s Day. No stabbings, no curses, no missing classmates.

As they walked back toward the castle, Harry heard voices drifting from the courtyard — other couples.

“Why can’t you be more like Harry Potter?” one witch complained.

“He wrote her name in the sky, for Merlin’s sake! And you only got me a flower?” another said.

“Potter ruined it for all of us!” came a desperate male voice.

Harry winced. He glanced at Daphne, who looked utterly pleased.

He sighed softly to himself. “Great. I’ve started a relationship crisis epidemic.”

Daphne leaned on his arm. “What was that, love?”

“Nothing, Daph,” Harry said with a smile. “Just… happy Valentine’s Day.”

The library was quiet, sunlight spilling through the tall, dust-flecked windows, and for once Daphne wasn’t trying to hex anyone. She sat beside him, quill in hand, working on her Transfiguration essay with frightening focus, the tip of her tongue peeking out slightly whenever she concentrated too hard — a sight that made Harry’s brain forget whatever McGonagall had ever taught him about vanishing spells.

He smiled faintly. No drama, no daggers, no explosions. Just the gentle scratching of parchment and the smell of ink and parchment.

It was, by Hogwarts standards, suspiciously peaceful.

Which, of course, meant it couldn’t possibly last.

Because out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw something move — fast, golden, and furry.

A ferret. A blonde ferret.

It scurried between the shelves, peeked around the corner, and looked directly at him with what Harry could only describe as the most terrified, pleading expression a small mammal had ever given him.

Harry frowned, whispering, “That’s odd…”

He wasn’t entirely sure if ferrets were even allowed pets at Hogwarts. Owls, cats, toads — sure. But ferrets? Not so much.

Before he could investigate, the library doors creaked open and in walked Astoria — blonde hair bouncing, amber eyes full of manic energy.

“Harry! Daph!” she said brightly. “You haven’t seen a ferret pass by here, have you?”

Harry froze. His eyes flicked toward the shelves, where the little ferret was now desperately shaking its tiny head, as if begging for mercy.

Daphne didn’t even look up from her essay. “Astoria, do you have a pet ferret?”

Astoria grinned, her tone sing-song sweet. “Something like that.”

Harry, feeling that familiar creeping sense of doom, decided to test the waters. “And… what’s its name?”

Without missing a beat, Astoria said, “Draco.”

Harry’s quill slipped from his fingers. He turned very slowly to look at her, half-afraid to ask the next question. “Draco…?”

Astoria giggled. “Of course! It’s poetic, isn’t it?”

Harry blinked several times, torn between horror and pity for the poor blond Slytherin.

Daphne, however, didn’t look remotely surprised. In fact, she gave her little sister a look of calm approval, even maternal pride. “What did he do this time?” she asked, like one might ask about a misbehaving pet kneazle.

Astoria puffed out her chest. “He’s been cheating!”

Harry blinked again. “Cheating?”

Astoria nodded furiously, pacing with enough energy to power the Hogwarts clock tower. “Yes! I found out he’s been receiving letters from some bitch named Narcissa. Narcissa! Can you believe it?”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again, then opened it halfway. “Er… I think—”

But Daphne held up a finger, all seriousness now. “That is unforgivable, Astoria. Betrayal cuts deep.”

“Exactly!” Astoria agreed, eyes blazing. “I asked him about it, and he said, ‘That’s my mother.’ Do you believe that? Such a pathetic lie!”

Harry debated whether to say something or remain silent, after thinking it over and analyzing the pros and cons, he decided that silence was safer.

That was when the sound came — a faint thud as a book fell from the top shelf.

All three of them turned toward it.

And there, revealed in the gap between the shelves, was a small golden ferret — with Malfoy’s terrified gray eyes staring back at them.

There was a frozen moment of mutual recognition.

“Er,” Harry began. “Astoria, maybe we should—”

Too late.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

The spell hit the ferret dead-on, freezing it mid-squeak. It toppled over stiffly, landing on the floor with a plop.

Astoria dusted off her hands, looking immensely satisfied. “There. That’s better. I told him I’d teach him not to hide from me.”

Then, humming happily, she bent down, scooped up the frozen ferret by the scruff like a mother cat, and began dragging him toward the door.

“Bye, Daph! Bye, Harry! I’m going to put Draco in time-out.”

Harry stared as she vanished down the hall, blonde hair bouncing, humming something that sounded suspiciously like the empire march.

Daphne delicately wiped a tear of pride from her eye, smiling softly. "They grow up so fast."

Harry had a mission today, simple in theory and suicidal in practice: distract Daphne before she decided Hermione’s continued breathing qualified as high treason.

They were sitting together in the courtyard, the sunlight painting the lawn. Harry had learned to appreciate peaceful settings like this — mostly because witnesses were harder to find out here if Daphne got ideas.

He noticed her gaze drifting toward where Hermione was chatting with Sue Li and Lisa about Herbology. The gleam in Daphne’s blue eyes sharpened, her hand slipping instinctively into her robes.

Harry reacted instantly, leaning forward with the kind of smile that said please don’t stab she right now.

“So, um, Daph,” he said, quickly. “I’ve been wondering something.”

She blinked, distracted just long enough to stop fingering the dagger’s hilt. “Yes, love?”

“Well,” Harry said, forcing a casual tone, “with your family being… you know, powerful, and having all those contacts and records… why hasn’t anyone ever tried to break the Greengrass curse?”

That did it. The question hit her curiosity switch, and she actually put the dagger away. Harry mentally marked that down under “successful deflection strategies.”

Daphne smiled, resting her chin on her palm. “Oh, that’s an easy one! As you know, the curse was cast by a Japanese mangaka centuries ago when one of my ancestors broke up with him.”

“Right,” Harry said carefully, because there was no safe way to react to that.

“And he knew,” Daphne continued, “that no curse was be truly unbreakable. So he designed this one with what he called balance — a good point and a bad point. That way, every generation of Greengrasses would have to decide for themselves whether it was worth keeping.”

Harry actually found himself nodding. “That’s… surprisingly reasonable for a curse.”

“It’s kind of artistic, really.”

Harry thought about this for a moment. “So… the bad part is obviously the whole yandere thing.”

“Uncontrollable obsession, mild homicidal tendencies, you know, the usual.”

“Right. But what’s the beneficial part?”

Daphne’s smile turned sly, her voice dropping into that dangerously pleased tone that made Harry’s spine tighten in instinctive self-defense. “Well, the curse is based on what the mangaka called the hot-crazy scale.”

Harry’s brain stopped. “The… what?”

“Hot-crazy scale,” Daphne repeated matter-of-factly. “The curse ensures that every Greengrass woman is a perfect ten on both scales.”

Harry blinked. “…You mean—”

“Yes,” she said, grinning. “Beautiful and dangerous. The ideal combination.”

Harry felt another doubt. “So, are there ever Greengrass mens born or only womans?”

Daphne’s smile dimmed to a thoughtful pout. “Oh, it’s not impossible, but it’s very rare. We mostly have daughters. That’s not because of the curse, though — that’s just… how our bloodline runs. Always has.”

“Huh.” Harry nodded, genuinely intrigued. “Curious.”

She tilted her head, studying him closely. “Why are you blinking so much, Harry?”

He blinked again, startled. “Er—because I’m thinking?”

Her expression turned immediately fragile. “You’re blinking because you don’t want to look at me anymore, aren’t you?” Her voice softened, trembling. “Is that it, Harry? You’re tired of me?”

Harry froze. He’d seen Dementors. He’d seen Voldemort. But nothing — nothing — compared to the terror of Daphne Greengrass’s lower lip trembling.

“Daph—no, no, love, that’s not it at all,” he said quickly, reaching for her hands.

Her fingers brushed the handle of the dagger again. “You don’t want to see me,” she whispered. “You think I’m—”

Harry didn’t even let her finish. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, pressing her against his chest before the dagger had a chance to come out.

“Of course I want to see you,” he murmured softly. “I just blink because… well, because I like seeing you clearly. And blinking keeps my eyes from drying out.”

There was a pause. A long, heart-stopping pause.

Then Daphne sighed happily against his shoulder, tension melting away. “You always know what to say.”

Harry smiled — tired, relieved, and still acutely aware of the silver weight resting against her ribs. “Comes with practice.”

The Great Hall was unusually calm this morning.

Unusually calm… until Daphne arrived.

Harry had barely sat down, poured himself some pumpkin juice, and reached for toast when she appeared beside him with the speed of a jealous banshee and the pout of a goddess scorned.

Her blue eyes were glossy, her lower lip trembling just enough to make half the Gryffindor table flinch preemptively.

Harry froze mid-toast. “Er… morning, Daph.”

“Don’t call me Daph,” she said coldly.

Every sound in the Great Hall stopped. Even the ceiling clouds froze.

Harry’s mind raced.

Okay. Calm tone. No sudden movements. Compliment her hair, maybe. Compliments are safe.

“Er… Daphne, you look… radiant today?” he offered weakly.

She crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Oh really? Is that what you said to her too?”

Harry blinked. “Her who?”

Her nostrils flared. “That Beauxbatons bitch!”

A piece of toast fell out of Harry’s hand. “...Come again?”

Daphne slammed her palms on the table, shaking the cups. “Last night, I had a dream. There was a party — with music and candles — and I walked in, and you were there, Harry. With another girl! From Beauxbatons! Laughing. Smiling. And...And... Holding her hand!”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. Nothing prepared him for being interrogated over something he did in someone else’s dream.

Daphne leaned closer, voice trembling. “So? Care to explain why I dreamed that, Harry?”

Harry blinked rapidly, searching desperately for an answer that didn’t sound like “I control your subconscious.”

He could almost hear all his survival instincts saying, Choose your next words carefully.

“Er…” he began slowly. “Well, dreams are… complicated, love. They don’t mean what they show. Sometimes they’re just random memories or fears, or…” he hesitated, “…a manifestation of how much you love me?”

She squinted at him. “So you’re saying it’s my fault?”

“No, no, no! It's not your fault!” he said quickly. “It’s… it’s your heart’s way of showing how much you care about me!”

There was a pause. Daphne seemed to consider it.

Harry took the opportunity to look around for help.

Across the table, Hermione hunched over her cereal, studying it like it contained the secrets of the universe.

Ron had already vanished entirely, leaving behind only a faint puff of smoke — the Weasley survival instinct in action.

Lavender and Parvati were pretending to talk about fashion, but both were clearly eavesdropping with the intensity of Aurors on a case.

At the Slytherin table, Tracey had a camera. Harry could actually hear the soft mechanical click as she focused the lens.

“…why you looked away now?”

“What?”

“You looked past me.” Her tone sharpened. “Who are you looking at? Is that Beauxbatons bitch here?”

“Daph—”

“Where is she?!” Daphne hissed, spinning with sudden fury, pulling her silver dagger from her robes in one smooth, elegant motion. The dagger caught the candlelight in a way that made several first-years faint.

Half the Great Hall quietly began evacuating, moving like trained professionals in crisis response.

Only the gossip enthusiasts remained — mostly Ravenclaws, a few Slytherins, and Tracey, snapping photos like her life depended on it.

Harry swallowed hard. He’d made it five months. He was so close.

He could not die before of that.

“Daphne,” he said softly, raising both hands in a placating gesture. “Look at me. There’s no Beauxbatons girl. You’re the only one I want to see in my dreams. Both in my dreams and in my daily life, you are the only girl who brightens my day”

Her blue eyes softened — just barely — and she tucked the dagger away.

Then, with a flash of her wand, she whispered, “Depulso.”

Harry didn’t even have time to register the spell in his chest before his world went sideways. The next thing he knew, he was airborne, then airborne through a Gryffindor banner, and then he was not airborne at all but lying flat on his back in the infirmary bed.

Madam Pomfrey sighed as she set a potion on the table. “Miss Greengrass again, I presume?”

Harry winced. “Depulso this time. I’ll give her points for variety.”

The nurse rolled her eyes and muttered something about romantic stupidity being incurable.

As Harry lay there, staring up at the enchanted ceiling of the infirmary, he couldn’t help but smile faintly.

He could still see Daphne’s face in his mind — radiant, fierce, terrifying, very beautiful — and he finally, truly understood what Lord Greengrass had meant in that letter

"I’d take those twenty-eight stabs again just to see her smile."

Harry let out a quiet chuckle. “Wise man,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

Finally the six months had passed and now the curse had run its course.

And that morning according to Tracey, Daphne had entered the post-yandere stage — which apparently consisted of crippling embarrassment and total refusal to leave bed.

So that was how Harry, Chosen One, Hero of Hogwarts, ended up awkwardly standing in the Slytherin girls’ dormitory for the second time in his life.

Tracey, flanked by Pansy and Lily, had greeted him at the door like some kind of war general handing off a classified operation.

“General Potter,” Tracey said solemnly. “It’s time. She’s stable but… delicate."

“Understood,” Harry said, fighting a smile. “Anything else?”

“She’s under the blankets,” Pansy added.

Harry nodded like he was about to defuse a magical bomb. “Right. I’ll take it from here.”

“Good luck, Potter,” Lily said with mock gravity. “You’ve earned your veteran’s badge.”

Then, with the coordination of a trained retreat squad, the three Slytherins saluted and slipped out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The room was in silent.

Dim candlelight flickered over green and silver hangings. The air smelled faintly of lavender and Daphne’s perfume.

And there, on the bed, was a lump under the sheets — one that very clearly had blonde hair poking out from the top.

Harry approached carefully, stopping a few feet away. “Daphne?” he said softly.

The sheets shifted. A muffled voice answered, “...Go away. I’m a disgrace.”

He smiled faintly. “Tracey says you’ve you’ve been in bed all morning.”

“Good. Maybe if I never leave, people will forget I once threatened to set the Astronomy Tower on fire because someone borrowed your quill.”

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, leaning slightly closer. “I don’t think anyone’s going to forget that anytime soon.”

A small, guilty groan came from the covers. Then, slowly, Daphne peeked out — hair messy, cheeks pink, clutching the Harry Potter teddy bear tightly to her chest. The little toy was wearing a miniature Gryffindor robe and glasses, of course.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “For how I behaved. I should have told you before we started dating about the curse. You didn’t deserve to go through all that.”

Harry’s heart softened instantly. “Hey,” he said gently, “don’t worry about it. I don’t regret anything.”

She blinked at him, surprised. “Really?”

“Really,” he said, smiling. “I stayed because I wanted to. Not out of fear, not because of the dagger — well, mostly not because of the dagger — but because in these months, I realized something.” He reached for her hand, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “I really love you. Not just as a teenage crush. The real thing.”

Her eyes glistened, and she hugged the teddy bear tighter. “You’re not angry that I… sent you to the infirmary seven times?”

Harry chuckled. “Nah. Kept things interesting. Sure, I probably got a few grey hairs...”

That earned a small laugh from her, the kind that made all the exhaustion worth it.

She looked touched. “Harry… I can’t believe you still want to be with me.”

He squeezed her hand. “If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Daphne smiled softly. “You know, Harry,” she began, “There are things I regret from the last six months.”

Harry glanced at her with a teasing grin. “Like the time you hexed Romilda into thinking she was allergic to air?”

Daphne’s lips twitched. “That… and perhaps the time I nearly drowned Draco in pumpkin juice for looking at you for more than six seconds.”

Harry chuckled. “Fair enough.”

She tilted her head slightly, her tone turning playfully thoughtful. “But there are also things I don’t regret.”

“Oh?” he asked, already bracing himself.

Her eyes glimmered. “Marking territory. That felt good. Watching other witches take a few steps back whenever I looked at them — oddly satisfying.”

Harry couldn’t help it; he laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, I can imagine that.”

Daphne smiled wider, catching the faint blush on his cheeks. “Oh, don’t act so innocent, Harry. You liked it more than you admit.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, flustered. “It’s not a fetish or anything, I swear,” he said quickly. “It’s just… you look really beautiful when you’re casting jealousy spells on me.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence — then both of them burst out laughing.

Daphne leaned into him, still giggling. “You really are impossible.”

Harry smiled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Maybe. But somehow, we make a pretty good pair of impossible people.”

A quiet moment passed between them. Then, Daphne held up the teddy bear. “Can I at least keep this? It’s incredibly soft… and warm.”

Harry chuckled. “Of course you can. He’s survived this long; he’s earned it too.”

That earned another small, embarrassed smile. “Thank you.”

“Now,” Harry said, standing up, “it’s time to get up, Daph. You’ve already apologized to me, but there are a few other people who deserve one too.”

Her blush deepened, the tips of her ears going pink. “You’re right… It’s fair.”

He offered his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it. Slowly, Daphne climbed out of bed, still clutching the teddy bear like a safety charm.

“I’ll just… change into something less shameful,” she said, glancing at her disheveled nightgown. “Then we can go to the Great Hall together.”

Harry smiled. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

He stepped out of the dormitory and back into the Slytherin common room. The moment the door closed behind him, every conversation stopped. Dozens of cautious, sleep-deprived eyes turned toward him — students who’d lived for half a year in fear of accidentally smiling at Potter and meeting an untimely end.

A fifth-year Slytherin boy swallowed hard and whispered, “Is… is it over?”

Harry gave him a small, reassuring nod. “It’s over.”

There was a collective exhale, like the entire House had been holding its breath for months. Some slumped onto couches, others high-fived, and one girl actually started crying tears of joy.

Even the Bloody Baron drifted by, muttering, “Finally, some peace…”

Harry chuckled quietly. He glanced back toward the dormitory door where Daphne was getting ready, feeling warmth spread through him.

The curse was gone.

He had survived.

And somehow, against all odds, so had they.

When Daphne finally emerged — radiant, composed, and just a little shy — the common room parted like the Red Sea. She slipped her arm through his, the teddy bear peeking out of her bag, and together they walked toward the Great Hall.

No one say a word.

But as Harry led her out, he could swear he heard Tracey whisper with a grin:

“Long live General Potter for surviving a Greengrass Yandere Season.”