Chapter 12
A Promise Given
Enjoy!
……
Chapter Twelve
The soft clinking of glasses and gentle murmur of conversations filled the ballroom as the night drifted into its later hours. Harry had thought the first half of the event was intense, but now the subtle political maneuvers and whispers seemed to multiply. He could feel eyes on him from all corners of the room—people he barely knew, but who knew him all too well.
After his brush with Yaxley, Harry had hoped to escape attention for a moment, but the atmosphere was electric, the air thick with expectation. Just as Harry took a step toward the drinks table, a firm hand clamped his arm.
“Harry,” Tonks’ voice sounded in his ear, a familiar comfort amidst the sea of strange faces. “You’ve got another crowd incoming.”
Harry turned his head, already spotting the approach of a well-dressed family. The father walked with an air of quiet confidence, while the mother’s sharp eyes scanned the room as if assessing its worth. Their daughter lingered slightly behind them, her gown elegant but her expression eager, almost nervous. Harry groaned softly, realizing what was about to happen. He had been warned about this sort of thing—a mixture of pushy families and old wizarding customs still running deep in certain circles.
“Again?” he whispered. “I just want a flipping drink.”
“Hush, I have this under control,” Tonks replied quickly, stepping smoothly in front of him with a grin so wide it bordered on predatory. She positioned herself like a protective shield, effortlessly slipping into a role that was both playful and commanding.
“Sorry, ladies and gents, but I’m afraid Mr. Potter is already spoken for this evening.”
The father, a dignified-looking wizard with streaks of silver in his dark hair, raised an eyebrow. “Miss?”
“Tonks, Auror Tonks,” she replied politely, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Well, Miss Tonks, I merely wished to have a word with young Mr. Potter here, and perhaps offer my daughter for a dance,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying the weight of entitlement.
Harry winced at the idea—the very notion of offering up your own child to secure social standing made his stomach turn. The girl, to her credit, looked just as uncomfortable, her fingers twisting the fabric of her dress.
“And steal away my date? Surely you’d want your daughter to aim higher, than a man who walks away from a date?” Tonks quipped, raising an eyebrow.
The older wizard opened his mouth, clearly about to protest, but Tonks smoothly intercepted. “Oh, and I believe the Minister of Muggle Relations was just asking after Harry’s presence. Best not keep him waiting.” She winked at the stunned girl before expertly steering Harry away.
As they weaved through the crowd, Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Merlin, thanks,” he muttered, shooting Tonks a grateful look. “They’re relentless, aren’t they?”
“You’ve got no idea—well, actually, maybe you do,” Tonks grinned. “You’re basically the hottest catch in the room tonight, and a lot of families wouldn’t mind bragging about an alliance with ‘The Chosen One.’ You’ll owe me a drink by the end of this.”
“I owe you a dozen already,” Harry replied with a chuckle, though a weight settled on his shoulders. Every step deeper into this world made him feel further away from the simplicity of life at Hogwarts.
His voice turned more serious. “But surely they know that being linked to me would paint a target on their backs?”
Tonks sighed, her playful demeanor dimming just slightly. “People don’t think about that when they’re chasing power. And since there haven’t been any attacks since Voldemort was outed in the Ministry, I think they’ve lulled themselves into a false sense of security.”
Harry exhaled sharply. “It’ll get people killed.”
“It will,” Tonks agreed, her voice quieter now. “You just have to be wise enough for it not to be you.”
They reached the drinks table, and as Harry reached for a glass, he caught sight of a familiar face among the shifting crowd. Susan Bones stood a few feet away, her red hair shimmering under the soft golden lights. Their eyes met just as he was about to pour himself a drink, and for the first time that evening, Harry felt like he was back among friends—if only for a moment.
“Harry!” she called, making her way over, a mischievous grin on her lips. “Survived the night so far?”
“Barely,” Harry answered, laughing.
“After all that gossip earlier, I’m surprised you aren’t surrounded by people asking to see your tattoo,” Susan teased, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
“My tattoo? What tattoo?” Harry asked, confused.
Susan’s cheeks went pink. “Er, there’s a rumor you have a dragon tattoo on your chest…”
“Merlin’s balls, who’s been saying that?” he asked, exasperated.
“Some girls from your house, actually? Vane?”
“Who?”
“Romilda Vane?”
“That name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She’s in your house,” Susan giggled.
“Do you know every name in your house and in fairness, I did have a lot on last year…” Harry countered. “But no, I don’t have a tattoo. Sorry to burst the bubble.”
“Could be worse,” Susan smirked, casting a glance around the room. “Honestly though, you look like you’re handling it well. No one expects you to be... well, this put together.”
He blinked at her comment, taken aback by her sincerity. “Thanks… I think. I’ve had a lot of help.”
Susan smiled warmly, about to say something else when a burst of laughter erupted near the dance floor. They both turned toward the noise, and Harry’s eyes widened as he spotted Neville confidently leading Hannah Abbott in a graceful waltz. For a moment, Harry could hardly believe it. His friend—usually awkward and reserved—was effortlessly guiding Hannah around the floor, his expression full of concentration but also, surprisingly, ease.
“I didn’t know Neville could dance like that,” Harry muttered, impressed.
“He was pretty good at the Yule Ball in fourth year,” Susan said with a fond smile. “But look at him go.”
Harry grinned, pride swelling in his chest. “Good for him.”
Susan gave Harry a gentle nudge. “You know, you might ask me for a dance, you know,” she hinted with a playful smile.
Harry glanced at Tonks, who was watching out for any opportunists, then turned back to Susan with a mock-formal tone. “I don’t see why not. Miss Bones, would you care for a dance?”
Susan chuckled and curtsied playfully. “Why, thank you, kind sir!”
They moved toward the dance floor, slipping easily into the rhythm of the music. Harry, already warmed up from earlier, found himself leading Susan without stumbling over his feet. The atmosphere was lighter with Susan; there wasn’t the same pressure he felt with all the attention elsewhere.
As they glided together, Susan looked up at him with a teasing smile. “So… are we starting up the DA again this year? Or have you retired from teaching?”
Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. We’ll probably have a half-decent teacher this year, for once. Maybe I can take a break.”
Susan nodded thoughtfully. “Well, just so you know, I and others wouldn’t mind learning a few more spells if you ever feel like it.”
Harry grinned, appreciating the offer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
They finished the dance with a spin, both laughing lightly. The music began to fade, and they both stepped away from the dance floor.
“Thanks, Susan,” he said genuinely.
“Anytime,” she replied with a wink, before heading back toward her friends.
Before Harry could respond to anything else, the air around him seemed to shift. He felt a subtle tension, not quite magical but enough to make him glance instinctively across the ballroom. His eyes found Daphne Greengrass, standing with a small group. Her icy blue eyes locked onto his for a brief moment, and something flickered in her gaze—conflict, maybe, though it was quickly masked.
“Harry!” Michael Corner’s voice cut through the crowd as he approached with Terry Boot and Lisa Turpin at his side. Daphne trailed behind them, composed and detached.
“Michael,” Harry greeted casually, shaking the other boy's hand, trying not to make too much eye contact with Daphne. It was important that no one noticed anything unusual between them.
“Thought we’d come over and say hello,” Terry added, grinning. “You’re not getting out of this place unscathed, are you?”
Harry chuckled. “Its not been to bad to be honest”
Lisa smiled brightly. “You clean up well, Harry. I almost didn’t recognise you.”
“Thanks, you look wonderful yourself” he replied, nodding politely, but his attention drifted to Daphne, who stood just slightly behind the group. She was quiet, her arms folded loosely in front of her, her expression cool and unreadable.
There was no hostility, no outward sign that she was uncomfortable, he played her part of the act well. But something about her still seemed different to Harry—almost like an invisible thread connecting them, though he couldn’t quite place why.
“You look… different tonight, Potter,” Daphne said, her tone carefully neutral. “Formal events suit you.”
“Thanks, I guess,” Harry replied with a nod, keeping his own tone neutral. He wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or merely an observation, but he understood the game they were playing. Public perception mattered, especially in a room filled with influential figures, many of whom had connections that led back to Voldemort.
Terry Boot, oblivious to the subtle undercurrents, grinned. “I saw you sneak a dance with Susan—and that Tonks bird you brought with you.”
Harry chuckled. “Careful calling her a bird, mate firstly she is my cousin. Secondly Tonks might overhear, and I doubt you’d like her reaction.”
Terry paled slightly, glancing around as though expecting Tonks to pop up behind him. Lisa Turpin elbowed him playfully. “Terry’s just jealous Harry got to dance with his crush.”
“Fancy Susan, do you?” Harry asked with a smirk.
“Maybe,” Terry shrugged.
“Well, go ask her for a dance, then,” Harry suggested.
“After you’ve danced with her? No thanks! I’d rather not be compared,” Terry replied with a laugh.
Lisa grinned, turning her attention to Harry. “Perhaps you can save a dance for me next, or... for Daphne, maybe? Have you been introduced before?”
“Not formally but of course I know of Daphne, we share charms and defense together I think?” Harry replied.
“I should hope you know the name Potter given we’ve been in the same year for five years” Daphne replied casually, though a playful expression lingered behind her gaze.
Harry chuckled, but his eyes flicked back to Daphne. She remained still, her face a mask of calm neutrality. Yet there was a fleeting softness in her eyes—warmth, maybe—though it quickly disappeared. Dancing with her now could send a signal, one that might complicate things. But if he declined, it could look like a slight, and in this crowd, every small action was scrutinised.
Bloody politics.
“I think that would be... acceptable,” Harry replied, careful to keep his voice light.
…
Daphne had stood at the edge of the ballroom, watching with a carefully schooled expression as Harry Potter moved across the dance floor. First, it had been Nymphadora Tonks—an Auror, no less—spinning with him effortlessly, drawing whispers and murmurs from various corners of the room. Tonks, with her bold presence, seemed to shield Potter from the growing throngs of curious witches eager to catch his attention. But Daphne could still feel the undercurrent of the room, its buzzing energy fueled by the glances, gossip, and interest circling around him like moths to a flame.
Her magic had stirred uncomfortably within her, reacting to the attention Harry was receiving from those around him. As Susan Bones had taken his hand next, laughing lightly as they glided across the floor, Daphne felt a strange, sharp pang. Her magic bristled, tightening beneath her skin, almost as though it resented the way Bones looked at him. She quickly stamped it down, but the sensation lingered, prickling at her nerves. The girls who had fawned over Harry earlier, the rumors of his supposed tattoo that had come across her attention, and the giggling witches fluttering near him all made it worse. Desperation, admiration—she could sense it from them, and her magic responded each time, flaring as if trying to warn her, or perhaps to ward off his admirers.
When Lisa Turpin had stepped up, offering Harry a dance, Daphne had forced herself to maintain her calm exterior, even as her magic bristled again. Lisa was playful, teasing him as they danced, and Harry, for his part, seemed relaxed, smiling at her. Daphne's stomach twisted involuntarily. It wasn’t that she cared who Harry danced with—no, it wasn’t that at all. It was the way her magic reacted, as if it were... territorial.
The curse. It had been subtle at first, little tugs here and there over the weeks they’d spent together in their study sessions. She had tried to ignore it, convincing herself that it didn’t mean what she feared. But now, standing here in this crowded ballroom, watching him, feeling her magic flare every time another witch drew too close to him—it was undeniable.
Her magic had chosen him. It wanted him.
And that terrified her.
The thought of dancing with him herself now filled her with equal parts dread and anticipation, firstly she wouldn’t have suggested it, it would draw attention to them and Daphne had never been one to crave attention. Yet here she was, standing at the edge of a precipice, knowing that with one misstep, her entire life, and possibly his, could be forever altered.
As Lisa’s dance with Harry came to an end, Daphne’s heartbeat quickened. Her mask of neutrality remained firmly in place, but the conflict within her was a storm.
"I believe it is Daphne’s turn now” Lisa spoke, releasing Harry’s hand at the edge of the floor.
Harry’s gaze met hers, and for a moment, there was an unreadable expression in his eyes. Was it curiosity? Was it an attraction? She couldn’t tell. Her magic, however, surged, pushing against her control as if eager to find out.
Harry was saying something but she didn’t hear the words, she just saw his hand extend, she swallowed hard, stepping forward with a poise she didn’t quite feel. Their hands met—hers gently resting in his. The moment their skin touched, her magic roared to life.
It was overwhelming. A rush of heat flooded her veins, her magic swirling wildly inside her, sparking in response to his proximity. She tried to push it down, suppress it, but it was like trying to contain a wildfire, or a caged animal as it slammed against the bars in desperation to escape. Her pulse raced, and she forced herself to meet his gaze, praying he wouldn’t notice the conflict raging within her.
Harry, however, seemed unaware of the turmoil she was struggling with. He smiled, calm and oblivious, as they began to move to the rhythm of the music. His touch was light, and he was far more skilled at dancing than she’d expected when they spoke about the ball back at her home.
“You didn’t mention you were bringing a date,” Daphne said, her voice steady and quiet so as not to be overheard and despite the chaos inside her.
Harry glanced at her, eyebrows raised slightly. “You never asked,” he replied casually, before adding, “And it wasn’t a date. Tonks is just here to keep me from getting swarmed by matchmaking families.”
Relief washed over her at his words. It wasn’t a date. She felt the tension in her chest ease just a little. For now, at least, the possibility of rejection—of the curse’s full effects becoming devastatingly clear—remained distant. Her magic still bristled, but she managed to keep it in check, focusing on the steps of the dance instead of the burning heat where her hand rested on his shoulder.
“You seem... different tonight,” Daphne remarked quietly, echoing the observation she’d made earlier, though now it carried a deeper meaning. It wasn’t just his formal attire or his unexpected dancing skill—it was something more, something that made their worlds feel as if they were shifting, colliding.
“You mean I don’t look like a troll?” Harry asked, tilting his head slightly, his eyes searching hers.
“Yes, clearly” she said deadpanned.
Harry chuckled softly.
They continued to dance, her magic still a restless force beneath her skin. Somehow, she managed to keep her composure, moving with him as though nothing were wrong. But every step made her wonder how long she could keep pretending—how long she could dance around the truth of the curse.
“You look lovely, by the way,” Harry said quietly as they spun. The words weren’t novel—many young men had said as much tonight—but when he said it, her magic flared once more, burning bright. Somewhere deeper inside, warmth bloomed at his compliment.
“Thank you,” she replied, managing a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re not so bad yourself.” She tried to ignore the warmth of his hand on her waist, the connection between them buzzing softly under her skin, intensifying with every passing second. She cleared her throat, pushing back the unexpected fluttering. “But don’t think flattery will earn you a reprieve from studying.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry replied, his tone light but with a hint of something more—something deeper, a thread of amusement that wrapped around them both.
She glanced across the room, her eyes catching her father’s stiff posture as he spoke to a well-dressed man. "My father has been approached by a few potential suitors this evening," she said after a moment, voice low. "He looks like he’s about to hex someone."
Harry chuckled softly, a sound that warmed her more than she cared to admit. “I don’t blame him. Seeing some of these parents try to barter their daughters for gain... It’s been rather sickening, to be honest.”
His words made her smile, though there was an edge of bitterness in it.
“Any daughter grab your attention?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow, an easy smirk pulling at his lips. “Even if they did, I wouldn’t indulge their parents' whims.” His gaze softened as he looked at her, and she felt it—like a sudden warmth spreading through her chest.
A small, involuntary stab of disappointment hit her, though she quickly masked it. She wasn’t fishing for anything; she told herself that. Still, she couldn’t help the way her heart shifted uncomfortably. “I could ask you the same,” he said, voice steady.
“Sorry?” Daphne’s brow furrowed, a slight confusion in his voice.
“Do any of the sons take your fancy?” he smirked, though she felt a tightness in her chest. The teasing tone didn’t quite mask the flicker of something else—something vulnerable.
She saw the flicker of realization in his eyes before he smirked back. “No, and you know why,” she muttered, avoiding his gaze, the tension suddenly thick between them.
He immediately softened. “Sorry. That was unfair.”
“Don’t be daft,” she replied with a smile that felt a little too bright. “I’m just glad you haven’t stepped on my toes tonight.”
The dance ended, and as Harry let go of her hand, Daphne felt a strange pang deep within her. Her magic recoiled, almost as if it resented the loss of contact, buzzing under her skin in frustration. She fought to keep her expression neutral, her practiced composure in place.
"See you for studying?" Harry said quietly, his lips curving into a small smile. There was no grand farewell, no lingering gaze—just a simple, casual comment. Yet, the way his eyes caught hers left her momentarily breathless.
She nodded, her tone steady despite the storm within. "Looking forward to it."
But the moment lingered like smoke in the air, a delicate tension that neither of them spoke aloud. As he walked away, Daphne took a moment to collect herself, her heart hammering in her chest, the usual cool calm she maintained slipping. The magic inside her flared restlessly, a faint hum of dissatisfaction, but this time it felt different—darker.
She rejoined her friends, Michael, Terry, and Lisa, who had been watching the dance from a distance. Their casual chatter did little to ease the unease that clawed at her insides.
"So, did you enjoy the dance?" Lisa asked, her curiosity barely hidden behind a playful grin, but it was a thin veil over her concern. Daphne could tell.
Daphne met her gaze and replied evenly, "It was... acceptable." She wouldn’t give more than that, not tonight.
Lisa raised an eyebrow, but before she could ask more, the conversation shifted toward the closing moments of the ball.
Gradually, the atmosphere began to wind down. The music softened, and guests began saying their goodbyes. Daphne scanned the hall, her eyes lingering for a moment on her family near the entrance. Her father was speaking in low tones with Astoria, who looked a little tired but pleased. Her mother, always composed, stood elegantly to one side, her eyes flickering over the guests, ever watchful.
Daphne approached them, and as she did, her mother caught her eye, a knowing look passing between them, sharp and perceptive. "Daphne," she said softly, her tone thick with unsaid words.
They, along with the rest of the crowd, filtered out of the manor and into the courtyard, making their journey home.
And then it happened.
Daphne hesitated. Her heart raced, and her breath caught in her throat. She opened her mouth to speak to her mother, to ask the question that had been nagging at her, but before she could utter a single word, the world around her seemed to shift. A strange, unnatural chill crept into the air. At first, it was subtle—a mere prickling of the skin—but it grew more pronounced, like an invisible hand creeping up her spine, sending a sharp, involuntary shiver down her bones.
The festive ambiance of the ball seemed to dim, like a candle guttering in a stiff wind. The whispers of the crowd grew louder, tinged with unease, a murmur of uncertainty, rippling through the guests like a wave of tension that had nowhere to go.
Daphne’s senses snapped to attention. Something was wrong.
Then, in the distance, she caught a flicker of movement—a shadow, a flicker of darkness amidst the trees, as if the woodland itself had come alive with malevolent intent. Her heart began to pound, faster, harder, as the whispers of fear among the crowd grew into frantic murmurs.
And then, like a knife through the air, the scream came—a shrill, piercing cry filled with pure terror. It tore through the night, and in that moment, everything froze. The festive buzz, the laughter, the music—everything.
Daphne’s stomach lurched. Her instincts screamed at her to run, but her body refused to obey. Her eyes widened in horror as she turned toward the source of the sound—toward the dark treeline.
Dementors. Dozens of them, swarming toward the gathered witches and wizards like dark, twisting clouds, emerging from the forest in waves, filling the air with an oppressive weight of dread.
The temperature plummeted. Daphne’s breath came out in visible clouds, her skin prickling with the biting cold. Her magic flared wildly in response to the presence of the dementors, but it wasn’t the curse inside her this time—it was the raw, unrelenting fear the creatures brought with them. The chill of despair curled around her heart, tightening like an iron grip.
Chaos erupted. People screamed, some instinctively drawing their wands, others backing away in terror. Bright silver spells shot into the sky, but they fizzled out, disappearing before they even came close to the swarming black shapes. The dementors pressed forward relentlessly, their presence suffocating.
"Daphne, behind me!" her father’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. His wand was already drawn, his figure a shield against the encroaching darkness.
She stumbled backward, her heart hammering, as she fell behind him, instinctively reaching for her own wand. The air around her crackled with power, but it was tainted, overshadowed by the cold despair that sank deep into her bones. In front of her, streaks of silvery light shot up from the crowd as Patronuses materialized in an attempt to hold back the tide, but the dementors were too many, pushing forward relentlessly.
The air was thick with terror. Amelia Bones and several Aurors shouted orders, forming a line to protect the guests, but the dementors pressed on, some slipping past the shields with terrifying ease.
And then, as if to tear through the darkness itself, a brilliant light shattered the night.
A stag—so radiant that it seemed to burn the very air—burst from the entrance of the manor. The crowd gasped, shielding their eyes from its overwhelming brilliance. The stag’s antlers were tipped with light so pure and fierce that it seemed to cleave the darkness itself. It charged into the chaos, its presence like a beacon of hope amidst the despair.
The stag’s light blazed as it collided with the dementors. One by one, the dark creatures were torn apart by its power, their twisted forms reduced to nothing but swirling shadows, vaporized by the stag’s unrelenting energy.
The remaining dementors shrieked in terror, their form and will disintegrating under the sheer might of the stag’s magic. They fled, scattering into the dark corners of the night, vanishing like phantoms.
For a moment, the air was still. The stag stood tall, its light flickering in the silence before it, too, dissipated into a thousand sparkling fragments, leaving only the echoes of its magic behind.
The crowd stood frozen, the panic slowly ebbing away as the threat dissolved. Daphne could hardly breathe, her chest tight with the mix of shock and terror. She glanced around, seeing Madam Bones crouched over a torn black cloaks, her eyes wide with shock.
The crowd's gaze followed the source of the Patronus, and they all looked toward Harry Potter.
His wand lowered, his eyes wide with equal disbelief, as if he, too, couldn’t comprehend what had just occurred. His expression mirrored theirs—a mix of astonishment, fear, and something else that Daphne couldn’t quite place.
"Mum," Astoria whispered in the silence.
"Yes, darling. Are you alright?" Elizabeth soothed, her voice calm despite the chaos.
"I’m fine, but can I marry Harry Potter, please?" Astoria’s innocent question made Daphne stifle a laugh, and Elizabeth’s soft chuckle was the only moment of levity in an otherwise oppressive night.
Her father’s grip on his wand tightened. "Let’s get you home. The Aurors can handle this," he said, his voice low and grim.
As they moved away, Daphne could not help but glance back toward the hall, her mind racing with the implications of what she had just witnessed, and the realization settling in—this was only the beginning.
……
Hope you enjoyed.