OrionB15
patreon
The Dark Apprentice Chapter 79
🕑 Added 2026-01-06 06:05:38 +0000 UTCChapter 79
If Daphne had harbored any hope that Harry would be impressed by the grandeur of Greengrass Manor, she was quickly, and perhaps a little deflatedly, mistaken. The simple truth was that over the last several months, under the tutelage and close companionship of Tom, Harry had passed through the hallowed, often darkly opulent, halls of nearly every prominent family within the political circle aligned with the Darker disposition. These residences were not merely houses; they were monuments to ancient magic, power, and wealth, steeped in centuries of history and defensive enchantments that could only belong to families of the Sacred 28.
In comparison to the pitiful, cramped, and utterly ordinary suburban house on Privet Drive—a place Harry now barely remembered without a shudder—Greengrass Manor was undoubtedly a masterpiece of architectural elegance, a place of light, symmetry, and restrained aristocratic taste. However, when placed beside the imposing, almost fortress-like structure of Nott Manor, with its dizzying library and heavy, ancient wards, or the sheer, intimidating, and slightly unnerving dark majesty of Lestrange Manor, which seemed to drink the light, the Greengrass estate fell noticeably short.
It was a shortcoming clearly not lost on Daphne. As she concluded Harry’s formal tour of the sweeping grounds and the main residential building, she clearly noted the lack of awe, or even simple admiration, in his bright green eyes. A faint shadow of disappointment crossed her perfect, high-boned features, quickly masked by her customary cool composure, but Harry, now far more attuned to the nuances of his girlfriend's demeanor, didn't miss it. The lack of praise or wide-eyed wonder confirmed her suspicion: Harry was no longer the boy who could be impressed by mere wealth and pedigree. He had simply seen too much.
By the time the duo broke off the tour, the dinner hour had already arrived. Daphne, with a gentle hand on his sleeve, led Harry through the echoing, grand hallways toward the main dining hall. The journey was mostly silent, filled only with the soft sounds of their footsteps on the polished stone floors. When they arrived, however, they were greeted by an unexpected quiet—they were the first to arrive.
Daphne paused just inside the threshold, her gaze sweeping over the vast, formal room. It was a space designed for celebration and family gatherings, yet it currently stood stark and somewhat desolate. Her eyes snagged on a specific corner of the room, near a set of tall, narrow windows, and Harry's own gaze followed the subtle movement. Her voice, when she spoke, was neutral, almost detached, as if narrating a distant memory, but the deep, unmistakable pain in her eyes contradicted her calm tone.
“Mum and Dad used to decorate this room with the most magical Yuletide decorations,” she murmured, the memory unfolding in her voice. “They’d put up a massive tree—it seemed to scrape the ceiling—and cover every inch of it with glittering silver and gold baubles that looked like captured starlight. The wireless would be playing constantly, filling the whole house with music, making Tori and I dance.”
She stepped further into the room, drawing Harry along, and pointing toward the windowed alcove. “And over there,” she continued, her voice growing thinner with longing, “there would be mountains of gifts. Stacks of presents piled nearly to the ceiling by those windows. It was... truly magical. It felt like the center of the world, just for that one day.” Her shoulders gave a barely perceptible slump. “That was before Tori got sick, of course. Everything changed after that.” The unspoken weight of that last phrase hung heavy in the air, transforming the memory of past joy into a testament to present grief.
Knowing the girl desperately needed comfort, but feeling completely unsure of how to properly give it, Harry hesitated for a moment. He then recalled a faint memory from one of the few photos he had once possessed of his parents—a simple gesture of affection. Tentatively, almost clumsily, he slid closer to Daphne, closing the small gap between them. He lifted his arms and wrapped them gently around her stomach, just below where her own arms were folded across her chest.
He pulled her snugly into him, holding her close as she fought the silent tears that threatened to fall from her face. The solid, unexpected warmth of his embrace seemed to act as a dam, and Daphne finally let out a choked, ragged breath. He didn't know what to say, but he knew he had to offer some sliver of hope, some anchor in the storm of betrayal and fear she was experiencing.
"We can save your sister, Daph," he murmured against her hair, his voice low but firm, a promise made from the depths of his own complicated resolve. He squeezed her tighter, a comforting pressure meant to convey absolute certainty. "She's still alive, and we will get her back to full health."
He paused, knowing the ‘but’ part would be hard to hear. He had to be honest about the cost of this ritual, the wreckage it could leave behind. "But I can't say the same for your old family traditions," he continued, the words a soft but heavy blow. "The moment we save Astoria, the moment you choose her over them, you are walking away from everything your family built. There will be no going back to the way things were. It'll be a new life, a new path, for everyone, but especially you." He hoped she understood that the path forward was profound, saving her sister was only part of it. The next would be a new legacy, one built out of blood.
“They aren’t strong enough to give her the life she deserves.” Daphne whispered, the sound of a ragged breath caught in the quiet, seemingly lifeless room. She spoke as if the very walls had ears, as if the profound betrayal and crushing grief she felt could be overheard and judged by some unseen eavesdropper.
“Not even strong enough to give her a fighting chance,” she added, the second thought an even more devastating indictment than the first. The words were a bitter confession, but one Harry had heard before, yet still, hearing them in her ancestral home seemed to carry a different weight.
Before Harry could utter another word, a subtle shift in the air, a familiar ripple in the background magic of the manor, alerted him to an approaching presence. The familiarity was instant. With grace, he released Daphne, his hands dropping away from her mid-section, and took a discreet step back, putting a little space between them just as the door clicked open.
He moved just in time, for a small, slightly wavering voice drifted into the room from the doorway, "Daph?"
Harry didn't turn to greet the younger Greengrass sister immediately. Instead, his focus remained on Daphne. He watched as she quickly, almost fiercely, scrubbed at the corners of her eyes with the pads of her fingers, the gesture quick and private, yet failing to fully erase the lingering redness around her eyelids. She then straightened her spine, took a steadying breath, and finally pivoted to face her little sister. Her eyes flickered up, meeting Harry's for a fleeting, shared moment of silent communication—a plea for support—before she stepped past him, crossing the threshold of their personal space.
"Tori," Daphne said, her voice remarkably even, betraying little of the recent emotion. "Are we still doing dinner down here?"
Astoria, poised in the doorway, shifted her weight uncomfortably. The girl's shoulders dipped visibly for a moment, a sign of minor disappointment or perhaps just the general awkwardness of the situation she'd walked into. She shook her head slowly, her gaze fixed on the polished floor rather than on her sister or Harry. As Harry finally turned his body to fully face the girl, his expression neutral and polite, Astoria studiously avoided meeting his eyes.
"No," Astoria finally murmured, her voice soft and carrying a note of apology. "Our parents have decided to take their dinner in their own quarters tonight. Father says he wasn't feeling very well after his latest trip to the Ministry this afternoon, a terrible headache apparently. And Mother didn't feel up to entertaining a guest on her own. She sent me down to let you both know." She paused, then offered the consolation, "They are planning to save the big family dinner for Yule, though. Mother wants to make sure everything is perfect then."
“I’m sure it will be wonderful.” Harry offered with a soft smile, “And I guess that means I am the lucky man tonight, getting to have dinner with the two most beautiful women from Hogwarts."
Daphne rolled her eyes at her boyfriend, but offered him a grateful look as well, while Harry watched Astoria shrink into herself, “I wish I was as pretty as Daphne. I don’t even think I am the prettiest girl in my year...not anymore.”
The once bubbly girl Harry remembered from the previous year seemed to hardly exist now, a stark shadow of her former self. Her usual cheerful smile was conspicuously absent, replaced by a permanent, slight frown that spoke volumes of her inner struggle. He knew, intellectually, that her protracted, debilitating illness had taken a profound and cruel toll on her spirit and physical well-being over the last year. Yet, knowledge and observation were two very different things. It was discomforting to see the vibrant girl he remembered—full of restless energy and an almost defiant optimism—lose her infectious confidence, the sparkle in her eyes dimming to a dull, weary sheen. Her movements were slower, more hesitant, and the easy laughter that used to punctuate her sentences was gone, leaving a quiet, fragile vulnerability in its place. The loss of her characteristic hope, perhaps the most essential part of her personality, was the most painful change of all to witness.
It was a mirror of his own reflection from the end of his second year at Hogwarts, a time when, before he had truly connected with Tom—before their partnership had begun—Harry had been adrift, grappling with secrets and trauma that no twelve-year-old should ever face. He remembered the suffocating silence, the sense of being irreparably tainted, and the deep, aching fear that no one truly understood the darkness he was falling into.
Now, seeing that same emotional desolation etched onto Astoria's features—the slump of her shoulders, the vacant stare in her eyes—the comparison struck Harry with the force of a physical blow. It was a crushing realization that Astoria was occupying that identical, lonely space he had once inhabited during his most vulnerable, darkest moment.
“You have them all beat,” Daphne promised as she stepped to Astoria’s side, placing a hand around her shoulder, “And once Harry and I make you better, I suspect I will have to start hexing boys in every year to keep them away from you.”
“After I am done with the first one, I think the rest will be dissuaded.” Harry promised.
This made Daphne laugh, while Astoria blushed slightly, shaking her head, her eyes downcast, “There’s not much hope of me getting better. Mum…dad…the doctors, they all told me it would only get worse, that finding a cure was impossible.”
Daphne scoffed at this openly, “Everything is impossible until someone does it for the first time.”
Astoria seemed poised on the edge of a stubborn protest, her young face set in a defiant mask against the perceived injustice or difficulty of the situation. Before the words could leave her lips, however, Harry moved, approaching the younger witch and gently placing a hand on her shoulder—the very shoulder that Daphne’s own comforting grip already rested upon.
Held in the subtle, yet firm, embrace of two people she respected and trusted, Astoria was anchored, her nascent protest silenced for the moment. Harry's voice, low and infused with the unwavering conviction of someone who had faced down the impossible countless times, said, “Daphne is right,” his eyes locking onto Astoria's, conveying a deep understanding of her doubt. “They tell us surviving the Killing Curse is impossible. They speak of it as an immutable law of nature and magic. And yet, here I am.” He gave her a slight, encouraging squeeze. “They told me a fourteen-year-old surviving, much less winning, the Tri-Wizard Tournament, was an unprecedented impossibility, an act of sheer madness doomed to failure. But I proved them all wrong, Astoria. I have shattered those impossibilities, one after another.”
His voice grew firmer, rising in a tide of inspiring certainty. “All you have to do is believe. Believe in yourself, believe in your sister, and believe in me, and we will prove them all wrong.”
Glancing towards Daphne, he continued, “I can’t promise it will be easy, painless, or without sacrifice, but I can promise that this curse will not be the end of you. You Greengrass women are made of much more than that.”
Astoria looked like she would burst into tears, so Harry rose to his full height, releasing his grip on the girl, “Now, before anyone turns our meal into a waterworks, I say we dig in.”
This caused Astoria to let out a choked laugh, a sound that was half-amusement and half-stricken, while simultaneously moving forward to embrace Harry. It felt like an issue of trust, a gentle yet firm seal on the pact of trust that was being forged between them. By returning it—slowly, tentatively, raising his arms to circle her in turn—Harry didn't just offer a physical response; he sealed his promise with an emotional tether.
The embrace, a silent reassurance in itself, lasted but a fleeting few seconds. It was Daphne, ever the possessive and protective girlfriend, who broke the quiet moment, her voice cutting through the space with a theatrical clearing of her throat.
“Tori,” Daphne began, an edge of mock-politeness in her tone, “I will kindly ask you to release my boyfriend. Just because it's almost Yule doesn’t mean I won’t hex you.” She crossed her arms over her chest, one eyebrow arched in a perfect imitation of a disapproving Head of House. A small, almost invisible smile played on her lips, betraying the fact that her threat was entirely in jest—or at least, mostly in jest.
Toril, however, seemed utterly unfazed by the gentle warning. She burrowed her face further into the shoulder of the boy she was hugging, a soft, contented sigh escaping her. “He is awfully warm, Daphy, I think I could get comfortable,” the younger girl teased softly, her voice muffled but light. The playful, almost cheeky retort was a stark and welcome contrast to the withdrawn, shell-shocked persona she had worn for months. It was a precious, tangible moment, showing the first true signs of her old, vibrant personality and self finally beginning to emerge from the nearly encompassing shell of grief and trauma that had shadowed her.
A crisp pop announced the arrival of a house elf, a diminutive creature in a perfectly starched linen uniform. With a respectful bow that nearly touched the immaculate stone floor, the elf chirped, "Dinner is served, Miss Greengrass, Miss Greengrass, Mr. Potter."
Harry and Astoria had just separated, the quiet moment between them broken. Together, the three made their way to the single, dark oak table that stretched the length of the room, clearly designed to seat a dozen or more guests for a lavish feast. Yet, the three companions took seats close together at the very far end, an unspoken solidarity making the cavernous room feel less daunting.
The meal itself was simple but exquisite—a roasted pheasant served with steamed root vegetables. It was a pleasant, grounding antidote to the heavier matters of the day.
For the remainder of the evening, their conversation remained light and easy, orbiting around the familiar, comforting world of Hogwarts. Astoria, now more relaxed after the initial sadness of her parents’ absence, spoke excitedly about her classes, her friends, and the upcoming social events at school. She was particularly animated about the inter-house Quidditch matches scheduled for the spring term.
Astoria, however, made the mistake of lightly, almost hesitantly, bringing up the escalating, unnerving reports that had been filtering through the Daily Prophet—the articles about the return of the Dark Lord. The effect was immediate. A subtle tension entered the air, a shadow over the otherwise convivial table. Harry and Daphne diverted the topic back to less serious matters with ease, however, and Astoria seemed to drop the topic.
The young girl was bright, resilient, but she had more than enough to concern herself with. Adding the existential, terrifying threat of a Dark Lord—one who would have no direct interest in her or her family—it was a burden Harry and Daphne would not allow. The night was for talking of school rivalries, not ancient, world-breaking evils.
The light-hearted conversation, filled with gentle teasing and comfortable silences, seemed to genuinely lift Astoria’s spirits, a subtle but significant change that Harry was pleased to witness. Daphne, too, seemed lighter, the burden of the day having been somewhat alleviated by the simple act of sharing a meal and simple conversation. By the time they said goodnight to their youngest dinner member—Astoria, who offered a sleepy, grateful hug to her sister before heading to her own room—a sense of peaceful normalcy had settled over the trio.
In turn, Harry and Daphne agreed it was time to turn in for the evening. They walked together down the quiet hallway of the suite, the silence now a comfortable, contemplation of night's events. However, as they arrived at the end of the hall, a pair of rooms awaited them. On the right, Harry remembered from the earlier tours was Daphne’s own, and the one on the left was the guest room designated for Harry during his stay. Needless to say the witch surprised Harry, when instead of entering into her own room, she paused by the door to his own, giving him a look he couldn't quite decipher, a mixture of vulnerability and decisive purpose. Then, she simply turned the knob and slipped inside the guest room which had been prepared for him.
Harry wasn’t sure what was on the witch’s mind, but the unexpected move sent a jolt of nervous energy through him. A flurry of possibilities that were both uncertain and apprehensive, raced through his head. His heart began to beat a bit faster, a nervous, expectant rhythm against his ribs. Swallowing hard, he followed behind her, gently closing the door and plunging the small room into a near-darkness broken only by the faint silver moonlight filtering through the window.
Daphne stood motionless by the long, arched window, her gaze fixed on the moonlit grounds of the estate. The silvery light caught the slight waves of her blonde hair, illuminating the cascades that fell gracefully past her shoulders. It was a picture of striking beauty, yet the aura she projected was far from tranquil. Harry, watching her from across the room, felt a profound shift in the air the moment she had entered. The lightness that had been there at dinner was replaced by a subtle, almost imperceptible stoop to her posture.
This was not the Daphne of their school years, the 'Ice Queen' whose reserve was a shield against the world. This was a young woman burdened by a sacrifice she may still have been uncertain about making. If Harry had any doubts, however, they fell away when she spoke, “I want to give her one last good holiday season with him. I will do all I can to play the dutiful daughter, and not stir up any trouble. I want her to look back on this Yule fondly, so we save it for New Years. Give her a new beginning when we enter 1996.”
“I understand.” Harry promised, before stepping closer to her and speaking softly, “What will we do about your mum? Or Astoria when it's done? We won’t be able to keep it from them, or the rest of the world?”
“I was hoping you could help with that.” Daphne said, not meeting his eyes as she spoke, but turning to face him with a nervous expression, “I was hoping you would leave the mark over the manor when it was done. Make the world believe the Dark Lord was involved.”
Harry’s eyes widened, and his mind raced with intrusive thoughts, before he moved to the bed, and took a seat. He folded his hands, staring at them, as he rested his elbows on his knees, contemplating the consequences of such a request.
“I couldn’t do that without informing him.” Harry countered softly, “The risk would be too severe.”
Daphne’s shoulders slumped slightly, but her gaze remained earnest, filled with a desperate question. “Do you think he would try to stop us?” she asked cautiously, stepping closer, her voice barely a whisper, as if the very air might carry the question to unwelcome ears. “Do you think he would interfere, or say no? The mark would be a boon, Harry. It buys us time. It casts a shadow of fear that no one will dare look closely into, and it points the finger away from us.”
Harry rubbed his jaw with one of his free hands, the motion contemplative as he wrestled with the tricky proposition. The very idea of asking Tom for anything outside of their established dynamic felt like walking a tightrope over an endless pit. Tom, for all his sophisticated charm and occasional displays of calculated patience, remained a profoundly unpredictable entity at times. One moment, he could be an exacting but brilliant mentor, discussing complex, arcane theory with surprising clarity; the next, he could be the merciless Dark Lord, ready to unleash a nasty, creative curse for the slightest perceived insult or sign of weakness.
Harry imagined a thousand scenarios, many ending poorly. If there wasn’t a clear, immediate, and significant benefit for Tom wrapped up neatly in the request—a benefit that appealed directly to his goals of power, knowledge, or, perhaps most dangerously, entertainment—Harry wouldn't just be denied; he fully expected the man might just lash out with a particularly vicious curse for the sheer audacity of wasting his time. Tom did not abide by pointless inconvenience, and in his mind, anything that didn't further his own agenda was, by definition, pointless. The risk-reward calculation was skewed heavily toward "risk," and Harry needed to frame his request with surgical precision, making it sound less like a favor and more like an essential, though currently unappreciated, component of Tom’s own grand design.
“I would need to find a way to show him that he could benefit from the decision. He is very pragmatic in a lot of ways, and if he sees potential in an idea, then I don’t think he will turn me down.” Harry said thoughtfully, before turning his head to face the witch, the dark of night nearly obscuring him from his vision after she had stepped away from the window, “Who inherits the Greengrass family fortune when he passes? Are there Aunts or Uncles we would need to be concerned about?”
Harry knew the Greengrass family had been neutral in the last war. He was also unsure if their defensive political position meant that there were more members of the Greengrass line still out there, or if their neutrality had simply made them less visible targets without actually ensuring a greater rate of survival.
Daphne considered the question before responding. "I believe my claim is the most legitimate," she stated, "though my mother would need to act as a proxy until I come of age." She acknowledged that an uncle in America might object, but since her grandparents perished in the great war, the matter might hinge on her father's will, the contents of which she was unsure. Daphne mentioned her father's distant brother, who has a poor relationship with the family. "I doubt he would return to claim the Greengrass fortune," she mused. "If he did, we could always find a way to remove him from the equation."
“Too uncertain.” Harry muttered, standing up now, and pacing in front of his bed, trying to come up with a solution, “Too many variables we can’t account for.”
“It would be the best way.” Daphne urged, before suggesting, “We could even spin it to Dumbledore that the manor was attacked, and we escaped with our lives.”
Suddenly, Harry’s eyes widened, a profound and calculating thought solidifying in his mind. He needed leverage, a compelling and undeniable pretext to force Dumbledore’s hand and finally gain access to the full, unedited recording of the prophecy. He couldn't just ask; Dumbledore would find a hundred reasons to refuse, citing danger, youth, or the necessity of maintaining the fragile peace of the wizarding world. No, Dumbledore needed a reason to believe that withholding the prophecy was a greater risk than revealing it.
A narrow escape—a brush with mortal danger that would rattle the old Headmaster to his core—could be precisely the kind of sharp, emotional push Dumbledore’s conscience required. If Harry could make it appear as though his life had been perilously compromised, Dumbledore would have to reconsider his protective stance. Such an event would serve as irrefutable evidence that Harry was already deeply entangled in the conflict, that the danger was imminent, and that ignorance was no longer an option for the one the prophecy bound. Harry would argue, with manufactured urgency and distress, that only by understanding the true, complete words that linked his fate could he prepare himself to survive the next encounter.
The fear of failure, of losing his "weapon" to a foreseeable threat, would, Harry calculated, finally compel his Headmaster to take him to the Ministry of Magic and the hallowed Hall of Prophecy. He could use this incident at Greengrass Manor—a controlled crisis—to spur the Headmaster into action. If Harry could convince Tom that this was the way forward, then perhaps he would be able to complete this journey of saving Daphne’s sister, and set a trap that was six months in the making.
“Give me some time. I have an idea.” Harry promised.
Daphne nodded, a flicker of uncertainty giving way to a deliberate trust in him. With a decisiveness that belied her previous hesitation, she stepped into his space. Her hand, warm and firm, came to rest against the taut muscle of his chest, a grounding point for both of them.
She lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes that looked down upon her. Without breaking that stare, or saying any further word, she closed the remaining distance. What followed was a kiss that was neither gentle nor tentative. It was a searing, urgent claim, born of relief, danger, and a desperate temptation.
When they separated, Daphne let out a soft, shaky sigh, a sound that was more an exhalation of long-held tension than simple relief. She didn't move far, instead burying her head deeper into the familiar, comforting curve of Harry's shoulder. Her hands, which had been clenched with emotion just moments before, now rested gently, almost tentatively, gripping the inner lining of his dark cloak.
“Thank you, Harry,” she whispered, her voice slightly muffled against the fabric, but thick with genuine emotion. The words encompassed so much more than the immediate past; they were a tribute to the long, difficult path they had walked together. “For everything.” She tightened her hold just slightly on the cloak, a small, involuntary gesture of her dependence and gratitude. “I couldn’t do this—any of it—without you.”
Harry wasn’t sure what to say, but breathed deeply as he wrapped his arms around her, “You’ve had every chance to run, but instead you’ve shown faith, even when things became impossibly complicated. You have earned your place at my side, and everything that comes with it.”
“It would’ve been easy to be scared of you.” The girl whispered, “Most of the house is. The entire world will be when they discover who you really are. But… your demons don’t scare me.”
Harry stiffened at her words, a sudden tension rippling through his body like a startled wire. His arms, which had been loosely holding her moments before, involuntarily squeezed her in reassurance, before pulling away. The sensation of her absence was immediate, leaving his skin feeling oddly cold where she had been warm. His mind, still trying to process the subtle but undeniable shift in their interaction, barely registered the light, fleeting pressure of her lips against his cheek. It was a mere whisper of a kiss, a chaste, almost perfunctory gesture of farewell, delivered as she murmured a soft, slightly hesitant goodnight. He watched her turn, her silhouette dissolving into the ambient shadows of the corridor, his own departure stalled by a confusing tangle of emotions that he couldn't immediately unravel or name.
One step, one problem at a time. Soon he would go to Tom with his plans. Then he would help Daphne save Astoria. Then he would find a way to kill Dumbledore. Only then would he be free. Only then could he have it all.
Comments
Deep Tewari
I think Harry’s judgement here is good, like yeah the immensely powerful dark lord who’s very brilliant but prone to anger should probably be notified, but at the same time Harry lad don’t sell yourself short u have the golden mask for a reason you can make some decisions on your own too .
Beau Brown
It is 100% super complicated, but you're right, he is the consummate Slytherin, and these last few master strokes just proves he was a worthy successor to Tom!
Vrail
Ah yes, let me murder my girlfriends father, get permission to pin it on my master, convince my headmaster that it was my Master and I just barely escaped with my life, allowing me to further manipulate my headmaster for my Master. All the while further manipulating my Girlfriends Mother and possibly killing her uncle to ensure her ascension, and somehow explain all of this to Tori while probably just mind controlling my girlfriends mother because that’s just easier at this point. Good lord the complex web of manipulations is just hilarious yet very fitting for a consummate Slytherin.
