The green flames roared, and then the world spat her out into the familiar gloom of Grimmauld Place. The last time she'd stood in this room, it had been in the aftermath of a Death Eater attack. Now… this.
Daphne stumbled forward, catching herself on the edge of the hearth as the spinning stopped. Her lungs tightened. Magic twitched uneasily beneath her skin—caught between fight, flight, or simply falling to her knees. She did none of those things.
She straightened.
He was already there.
Harry stood in the doorway leading to the hall, framed by flickering candlelight now that the winter sun no longer spilled through the bay window. His arms were folded, not in defense, but as if they were the only thing holding him together. He looked older than he had just hours ago—exhausted in a way sleep couldn't fix. The shadows beneath his eyes had deepened, and the fading bruise along his jaw from New Year's seemed darker, sharper, like it had grown with the weight of the decision he'd made.
He blinked at her like he hadn't expected her to actually come.
"Hi," he said quietly, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Daphne crossed the room in three quick strides and threw her arms around him like gravity itself had betrayed her.
He caught her. Of course he did.
His arms slid around her waist, warm and sure, one hand finding the small of her back. For a long moment they simply stood like that, held together by the silence and the thud of each other's heartbeats. She didn't cry—not yet—but her breaths came sharp and broken, like each one cost her something. She clung to him, imprinting his presence into her bones.
"You shouldn't have to do this," she whispered into his shoulder, voice cracking. "It's our curse, not yours."
"Many things shouldn't be," Harry murmured, voice rough but calm—resigned. "But they are. And I'm the one best placed to stop it."
She pulled back enough to look into his face, her hands still fisted in the fabric of his jumper. "Why is it always you?" she demanded, her voice shaking. "The Dark Lord, this curse… what's next, Harry? When does it stop?"
He didn't flinch.
"Because I can ," he said gently. "And maybe that's not fair. But if I can… how could I not?"
She hated how much that sounded like him. How much it made sense. She hated that even now, with her heart breaking, she still loved him for it.
"You're not a weapon," she whispered. "You're not just a sacrifice for the next curse or prophecy or monster. You're you ."
Harry gave a small, crooked smile. It didn't reach his eyes—but it wasn't sad. It was… quiet. Resigned. Maybe even peaceful. Somehow, that was worse.
"And you're not just someone who needs saving," he replied. "But I'm still going to save you anyway."
That undid her.
She pressed herself against him again, her face buried in his chest, as though she could hold him here with sheer will alone.
Eventually, slowly, Daphne pulled away, her hands still resting over his heart.
"I don't want this to be goodbye," she said, her voice barely more than breath.
Harry looked down. "I know," he murmured. "But I don't think it will be."
"But it feels like one."
He hesitated, then nodded. "Then don't think of it like that. There's a good chance I survive this. And your curse—either way—it'll be gone."
He was slipping into that place again—that place she recognized. The part of him that tucked away fear, turned emotion into duty. Where he made peace with dying before anyone else could try to stop him.
She saw it in his eyes. That quiet resolve.
"You always do this," she whispered. "You carry the weight. You make the choice. And you don't let anyone stop you."
"I don't want to be stopped."
Her fingers curled tighter into his jumper. "Well, I don't want to lose you."
His eyes lifted to meet hers—and something flickered. Something raw and unguarded cracked through his careful calm.
"I don't want to leave you," he said, quiet but sure. "But if it's between me and that curse… between me and your sister, or your family—"
"Don't you dare," she cut in, sharp and trembling. "Don't you dare make it sound noble."
He almost smiled. Almost.
"Daphne… if the worst happens—and that's an if —your curse will break. You might not even feel anything for—"
"No," she whispered, pressing her fingers to his lips, stopping him cold. She knew exactly where that sentence ended. Her mother had nearly said it, too.
"You don't get to finish that thought."
Harry went still. His breath was warm against her palm.
"I know you doubt this. Us," she said. "No matter what I say or do. I could kiss you, hold you, scream that I care—but you'll always wonder if it's just the curse making me feel that way."
Harry looked away, but didn't pull back.
"I want you to know," she continued, voice low, steadying with every word, "that when you came crashing into my life—loud and stubborn and entirely you —and I told you about the curse, you didn't flinch. You didn't run. You didn't treat me like I was broken or weak."
She swallowed hard, eyes shining.
"You took my hand. You made me feel like I was more than a girl bound to a bloodline curse."
Her lip wobbled. "Harry, I know myself. I know what's real."
"Don't," he said, almost pleading. "Don't say something you might not feel tomorrow. If I survive, and I look at you, and the light's gone from your eyes—if it's not real—I don't know if I could survive that too."
"Harry—"
"Wouldn't you feel the same?" he asked gently.
She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
"You've made me feel something no one else ever has," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, I'm sixteen. Yes, my life's been one long mess. But when I look at you, I don't feel like 'the Chosen One.' I feel like… like I understand what my dad meant when he wrote about my mum."
Tears slid down her cheeks at the weight of those words.
"I know myself, Harry," she whispered. "And I understand why you don't want to hear it now. But what I feel—it's real."
The silence that followed roared louder than the war ever could.
Harry reached up, gently untangling her fingers from his shirt, threading them through his own.
"Let's see what tomorrow brings," he said quietly.
She blinked at him. "You—?"
"Three outcomes," he said. "The curse breaks, and you still feel something for me. The curse breaks, and you don't—which is okay, because at least I'll know I did right. Or… something goes wrong, and I don't come back. But in all of them… you get to move forward."
Her heart fractured under the weight of that truth.
"I didn't think I was allowed to want something like this," he murmured. "Something good. But the time I've had with you? Those moments… they've been the best of my life."
"You are allowed," she whispered, brushing her thumb over his cheek. "You should be. "
He leaned in, their foreheads touching.
"When—or if—I come back…"
"When," she said fiercely. "When you come back."
His lips lifted slightly. "Then I hope we get to see what 'something good' really looks like."
He kissed her.
It wasn't desperate. It wasn't fireworks. It was slow, steady—aching with meaning. A quiet promise spoken in silence: If I make it back, let's see what we can be.
When they finally parted, she pressed her hand to his heart.
"Come back to me," she whispered.
"I'll try."
She wanted to scream that trying wasn't enough. That she needed certainty. That she needed him.
But instead, she held him tighter.
Because for now, this was all they had.
The next day, the basement of Grimmauld Place had been transformed. Furniture had been pushed back against the walls, the rugs rolled away to reveal the cold, timeworn stone beneath—now obscured by the chalk-white sigil etched carefully across its surface. Lines curved in impossible patterns, runes layered in concentric circles, each mark pulsing faintly with the residual magic of ancient intent. It radiated a quiet hum, like the air itself was holding its breath.
Albus stood at the edge of it, bent slightly as he added one final flourish with steady, precise strokes. The tip of his wand hummed as it traced the last of Marcus Wentworth's symbols into the floor.
"It's ready," he said softly, though the silence had already settled like frost over the room.
Harry stood just outside the chalk perimeter, staring down at the space where he would need to place his feet. His hands were steady—but only because he was forcing them to be. The stillness was deceptive. There was a storm beneath his skin, lightning in his blood—but he wouldn't show it. Not now. Not to them.
Sirius hovered at his side, unable to keep still. He ran a hand through his hair for the fifth time in as many minutes, jaw tight. "You don't have to—bloody hell, Harry, we could find another way—"
Harry turned toward him, offering a small smile that was far too calm.
"It's alright, Sirius," he said, voice low. "This is the way. It always was."
Sirius's mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but the words never came. His hands clenched at his sides. "You're sixteen."
Harry's smile twisted faintly. "So were you, once."
A beat passed. Then Sirius let out a shuddering breath and stepped forward, pulling him into a brief, fierce hug.
"You get through this, you hear me? You come back."
"I will," Harry murmured against his shoulder. "I promise. But… if the worst happens—give Voldemort hell for me?"
"I'll remind him why the House of Black was feared for so long," Sirius said, voice thick, his grip just slightly too tight. Harry could tell he was holding strong for his sake.
Across the room, Remus paced like he was chasing ghosts. His eyes flicked constantly to the sigil, then to the closed book Albus had left on the nearby table, then to Daphne—who stood silently, arms folded, her face unreadable to most. But not to Remus. He'd taught her. He knew the signs. She was terrified.
She hadn't spoken in nearly ten minutes. Her eyes never left Harry.
The parchment she held trembled faintly in her fingers, though she kept her expression rigid. The incantation etched across it was the heart of the ritual—her voice, her magic, the catalyst. Because it had to be her. The cursed witch he cared for.
No one said it aloud, but the very air knew the stakes.
Harry turned, about to step into the sigil—when Thomas Greengrass, who stood off to the side with his wife, stepped forward. Elizabeth couldn't even look at him.
"Harry."
The voice stopped him cold. He turned, finding Thomas's gaze locked on his.
There was no coldness in it. No stern patriarchal judgment. Just gravity. And a strange, almost resigned kind of pride.
"Walk with me a moment," Thomas said.
Harry glanced at Dumbledore, who gave a single, solemn nod. Then he stepped away from the circle and followed Daphne's father to the far side of the room, near the stairs that led back up into the house.
They stood there for a second in silence, the rest of the room fading into background noise: the rustle of parchment, the quiet breath of magic, the faint buzz of nerves.
"You're about to do something most grown men would run from," Thomas said quietly, hands clasped behind his back. "My family is forever in your debt."
Harry nodded. "No, you aren't. I know the risks—and there's a part of this ritual that may save me. That might… help end the war."
"And still you're going through with it, knowing you might not live to see the result?"
"Because it's the only way, sir. It's cliché, but the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few—every time. If my dying breaks Daphne's curse and her bloodline, and leads to the end of the war? It's worth it. I'd do it, even if my death was the price."
Thomas studied him for a long moment, and Harry held his gaze without flinching. There was something behind the older man's eyes Harry couldn't quite name—but even Thomas Greengrass seemed surprised to find it there.
"I didn't know what to make of you when Daphne started acting a certain way. I'm not a blind man, Harry. Though your connection to her curse was only recently confirmed, deep down… I think I knew."
He paused, folding his arms, his tone lower now.
"I thought perhaps you were just caught in the net. I feared you might exploit it—or worse, believe it made her yours."
Harry's shoulders tensed. "I would never—"
"I know that," Thomas interrupted, voice firm but not unkind. "I see the way you look at her. The way she looks at you. And I see a young man who's about to walk into fire without knowing if he'll ever come out."
He stepped closer.
"If you come back—no matter whether Daphne still feels the same… you'll always be able to come to me. For anything. And for what it's worth, Harry—I hope she still feels the same."
Harry blinked. Whatever he'd expected, it wasn't that.
"Thank you," he said, voice soft.
Thomas nodded once. "Come back to her, if you can."
Silence fell again in the basement of Grimmauld Place as they returned, deeper and heavier than before. It wasn't just quiet—it was weight. Tension coiled through every breath, through every heartbeat, as though the room itself knew that something ancient and irreversible was about to happen.
Albus remained by the edge of the sigil, his expression unreadable but his eyes alight with cautious intensity. He had spent hours poring over Marcus's notes, cross-referencing texts that hadn't been opened in a century. He had double-checked every line of the ritual twice—then again, just to be certain. And still, it wasn't enough to silence the worry thrumming behind his ribs. He knew magic like this—old magic, primal magic—never moved in straight lines. It twisted, reformed, obeyed only its own nature. He had prepared everything he could, but once Daphne spoke the words, it would be out of his hands. If Harry's soul was lost—if the horcrux refused to go quietly—he would have to destroy the boy's body. He told himself he would do it. That he could. But he wasn't sure his hands would obey him.
Sirius stood back, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, jaw tight enough to ache. Every fiber of him wanted to storm forward, grab Harry, drag him out of the sigil and bar the door behind him. This felt wrong. It felt like letting his brother die again. Like Azkaban, like James, like losing everything a second time and standing idle to watch it happen. But Harry had looked him in the eyes and said he was ready. That calm, determined look had gutted him. Now all he could do was be here. Hold the space. Pray that the boy who had become his entire world walked back out of that circle when it was over.
Remus stood still now, arms crossed tightly over his chest, pacing abandoned. His expression was drawn tight, his brows knitted as he watched Daphne. He hated this. Hated rituals that drew blood and tore souls and twisted children into martyrs. Harry had always reminded him too much of James—and now, here he was, standing on the edge of a sacrifice that felt too big for any boy to carry. Remus wanted to scream at Dumbledore. At fate. At the curse that had dragged them all here. But mostly, he was terrified. Because deep down, some awful part of him wasn't sure they'd get Harry back whole.
Daphne stood at the far edge of the circle, her parchment held in trembling hands. She was the stillest of them all, and yet her magic roiled beneath her skin like a thing alive. It clawed to get out, pulsing wildly in her chest. Every instinct she had screamed at her to run to Harry, to stop this, to drag him away. Remain cursed! Her feet felt nailed to the floor. Her breath shallow. Her heart caught somewhere between dread and a grief that hadn't happened yet. The words on the parchment were burned into her mind, ancient syllables she could barely understand but would never forget. She was the cursed witch. The one fate had tethered to this moment. And though the curse still bound her to Harry, she'd begun to understand that something deeper—something real—lived beneath it. Something that terrified her more than any spell..
Elizabeth Greengrass stood beside her husband in brittle silence, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She hadn't spoken since Harry had stepped into the room. Couldn't. She had never wanted this. That her daughter would be a pawn of such ancient, ruinous power. That the boy who might die to save her would do so without hesitation. All she could do was hold her breath and hope—something she hadn't done in years. And Merlin she hoped her daughter would forgive her.
Thomas stood straighter than most would expect, his jaw set, eyes locked on Harry. There was pride in him now, fierce and strange. But underneath it, there was a hollow pit of fear he refused to show. He had not raised Harry Potter. But in this moment, he wished he had.
Harry stepped forward at last, into the center of the sigil. As soon as his feet touched the chalk, the air changed. It grew thicker. The circle began to hum, faint and eerie, like breath in the back of the throat. Magic crackled up his spine like ice water.
He looked up, finding Daphne's eyes across the room.
"I'm ready," he said, voice steady.
Albus gave Daphne a solemn nod.
And she began.
Her voice was soft at first—barely above a whisper—but each word echoed as though the air itself carried it forward. The language she spoke was older than fire, each syllable slicing through the silence like a blade. The parchment in her hands trembled as her magic surged outward, wrapping itself around the sigil like invisible smoke.
The moment Daphne's voice hit the final cadence of the opening stanza, the circle came alive.
Lines of the sigil ignited like phosphorus struck by flame—first in a quiet ripple, then a blazing surge. The runes shone with blinding white-blue light, lifting faintly off the stone floor like they were trying to peel away from the earth itself.
Harry staggered.
His breath hitched mid-inhale, and for a moment he froze—like something invisible had reached into his chest and grabbed hold. Then the screaming started.
Not out loud. Not yet.
It began as a pressure behind his eyes, behind his sternum, in his skull—as though his blood had turned to fire and was trying to claw its way out. He doubled over with a dry gasp, shoulders convulsing. His hands twitched violently at his sides, fingers curling against the air like claws.
Then the real pain hit. He screamed.
The sound cracked through the basement like a gunshot. His back arched inhumanly, mouth open in a raw, animal howl as his knees hit the stone. The sigil beneath him flared brighter, lines pulsing in time with his heartbeat, with his agony. The light began to flicker—strobe-fast—as magic churned like a cyclone inside the circle, the room shook with fury.
Then it began to manifest.
Above Harry's chest, something started to pull —like a tether catching wind, invisible threads being drawn outward. From within him, two lights began to emerge. One was pale and white, shaped like a flame or a flickering silhouette—translucent, pure, and thrumming with resistance. His own soul.
The other was black, viscous and coiling like smoke, but somehow heavier—denser, oily with hatred.. A fragment of darkness. Contorted and stunted, but very much alive.
They tore from him slowly, as though fighting the very nature of the ritual. Their shapes writhed as they emerged, overlapping, clawing at each other—like shadows caught in a death spiral. They fought with no form of weapon but intent. Rage. Will.
Harry's body convulsed again—harder. He fell to his knees, his arms flailing, nails dragging against the stone floor, cracking, splitting with blood blooming from his palms. Her heart twisted at the sight. The blood— blood —the raw violence of it all.
"No—Harry—" she gasped, her breath hitching as though she could feel his pain as though it was happening to her .
But no. She couldn't. She couldn't fall apart. Not now.
Her throat tightened, forcing out the incantation, her voice trembling under the weight of it all. She felt the room darken, felt a pull in her chest as the two souls battled, warring within the sigil. She could hear Harry's voice—hoarse, broken—from the depths of his scream, the sound almost drowned out by the fury of the magic. But then, in the chaos, she felt something shift. Something that pulled at her, deep inside.
The black smoke of Voldemort's soul fought to merge with Harry's, curling around him like poison—suffocating, contorting. It twisted around Harry's soul, and Daphne felt her stomach turn as the two fought, fought , until the very air felt thick, heavy. Her magic struggled against the pressure of it, as though she too was fighting against the curse still lingering in the room.
And then— his soul lit up —a fierce, blinding light.
It was like watching Harry's soul shatter in the most beautiful, painful way.
His heart slammed in his chest. Eyes rolled back.
Voldemort's soul shrieked—a thin, high-pitched sound that echoed inside the skull, like nails dragging along bone. It twisted toward Harry's soul, wrapping around it like tendrils, trying to merge , to anchor itself back in. It wasn't going willingly. It couldn't .
Inside the sigil, lightning forked upward from the floor in a jagged column. The two souls fought in the air now—visible to all in the room. Sirius had backed away, hand over his mouth, his eyes wide with horror. Remus stood frozen, sweat beading on his brow, muttering under his breath like a litany. Dumbledore's hand twitched toward his wand—but he didn't interfere. He couldn't. Not yet.
Daphne's voice cracked as she pushed on, her magic surging outward. The spell was working—but the price was climbing.
Harry's body spasmed again—then lifted off the floor.
The magic seized him entirely now, his limbs stretched as though tied to invisible ropes. The whites of his eyes showed. Veins stood out along his throat, his jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might break. Blood trickled from his nose. Then his ears.
The souls twisted tighter.
Harry's soul shone brighter now—blinding, pure, pushing against the black mass that writhed and hissed around it. For a moment, it looked like he was losing—sinking beneath it. The dark soul wrapped around him, folding in, whispering, claiming .
But something broke inside him.
A spark ignited in the center of Harry's soul—like a heartbeat of flame. Love. Purpose. Every memory, every sacrifice, every reason he'd walked into the circle surged forward. His parents. Sirius. Ron and Hermione. Daphne.
The light erupted outward.
Voldemort's soul screamed . It writhed away like smoke being sucked into a vacuum—howling as it was wrenched toward the relic in the center of the sigil. The obsidian stone pulsed once—twice—then began to absorb .
A soul willingly given is accepted, thus the curse breaks as the soul dies! The words were dark and malevolent.
It dragged Voldemort's soul in inch by inch, devouring it whole, it hissed with each second. The black smoke turned violet, then red, then black again before vanishing into the relic with a thunderous crack that shook the walls. The rune-light flared so bright it seared vision.
And just like that— Harry dropped.
He hit the stone floor in a heap, limbs limp, gasping as if he'd been drowning for hours. His eyes fluttered—then closed. His soul snapped back into his body like an elastic band pulled too far.
The light of the sigil went out. Stillness fell.
But Daphne felt it before she saw it.
The curse broke like glass inside her chest. One moment, the magic that had been wound around her soul was screaming—pulling toward Harry even harder in protest as he was seemingly dying before her—and the next, it was gone.
Gone. It felt as though chains slipped from her shoulders.
Her breath hitched sharply. She stumbled a step forward, nearly collapsing from the absence of it. The constant thrum of connection—the pull, the pressure, the overwhelming need—fell away like chains hitting stone.
But what came next knocked the air from her lungs.
Relief.
Not the kind born of escape. But of clarity. Because the feelings left behind weren't fading—they were stronger . They didn't surge with curse-magic anymore. They pulsed with something deeper. Real. And when she looked at Harry's still form on the ground, there was nothing binding her to him.
Except her heart, which bloomed with a pure and vibrant energy that only came with young love but it felt more than that. Everything inside her screamed to go to him.
Tears slid down her cheeks silently as she crossed the floor, Sirius already pulling an unconscious and bloodied Harry into his arms whilst Remus swiftly came beside him. She didn't hear all his words, only that he was breathing he was still alive. She gripped one of his hands and held it to her lap.
He was alive. Her heart steadied.
Behind her, the quiet shifted.
Out of the corner of her eye, Daphne saw movement—Deliberate. Measured. Dumbledore stepped forward, eyes locked on the relic at the center of the now-dormant sigil. In his hand was a silver sword—one she hadn't seen before. Its blade shimmered faintly in the dim light, etched with runes that seemed to pulse with ancient judgment.
And with one clean, merciless arc, he brought it down.
The sword struck the relic with a sound that was not metal on stone, but something deeper—more primal. It rang like the shattering of a scream, like death made audible. The relic split with a suddenness that made Daphne flinch—cracking open from the center like a rotten egg.
A jet of pitch-black smoke burst from the fissure.
It screamed.
It was not a human scream, nor one of pain, but something older and more terrible—a scream made of hatred, rage, and the desperate terror of a soul being obliterated. The remnants of Voldemort's essence thrashed and twisted like a creature being dragged into hell. It formed a face—distorted and snarling, half-formed with red eyes burning—and then another, each one vanishing in a swirl of darkness as whatever had come out of Harry met its end.
The air itself seemed to recoil.
The smoke shrieked one final time, then evaporated with a hiss, leaving behind only the cracked shell of the relic, dull and lifeless.
...