Chapter 28
A Promise Given
So this is a new chapter not seen before, to my old readers I hope you enjoy and to the new ones I look forward to hearing your thoughts.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
……
“Mrs. Greengrass, I am aware of your daughters’ curse, as I was informed upon their enrolment,” Albus Dumbledore began calmly, his tone measured and eyes thoughtful behind his half-moon spectacles. He sat behind the grand oak desk in his office, its surface gleaming faintly in the warm golden light spilling from the overhead chandelier. Beyond the tall windows, twilight cloaked the castle in lavender shadows, and the soft ticking of the many magical instruments around the room blended with the faint, ever-present crackle of the fire in the hearth.
A silvery wisp of something unidentifiable drifted lazily from a slender brass device nearby, vanishing before it touched the ceiling. The air was laced with the faint scent of old parchment, beeswax polish, and the delicate herbal tang of enchanted incense that warded against eavesdropping spells along with projective charms and runic arrays.
“Naturally, I have been keeping an eye on this—as well as their schooling. Thankfully, nothing troubling has emerged during their time at Hogwarts thus far. But I was wondering if you might be willing to share some light on how this curse came about?”
Seated before him, Daphne’s parents sat composed yet alert, their postures straight but their shoulders betraying a hint of the tension they carried in with them. The Greengrasses, always dignified, wore their concern like silk—quiet, expensive, and unmistakably present. The chandelier’s flickering light danced over Mrs. Elizabeth Greengrass’s dark green robes, glinting off the polished family crest brooch fastened at her shoulder as she inclined her head with quiet formality.
“It was cast in the eighteenth century on my ancestor, Mary Oakhurst, by a wizard named Marcus Wentworth, who had wanted her for himself, yet she loved another,” Elizabeth replied, her voice even but carrying the weight of long-buried pain and ancestral memory. “How he got her blood is a mystery, but his curse didn’t go as intended, from what we’ve managed to uncover, however…”
Her words faltered as her gaze dropped momentarily to her lap. Her husband, Thomas Greengrass, reached over, placing a steadying hand on her knee with practiced tenderness. He gave her a brief, silent look that conveyed the shared burden they had carried through the years.
Dumbledore’s expression softened slightly.
“I presume you’ve had people look into this curse?” he asked gently, folding his hands atop the desk. His gaze flickered between them—not probing, but present.
“We have,” Elizabeth confirmed with a weary nod. “The Wentworth line has died out, so it’s not a standard curse—one that ends when the bloodline of the caster ends.”
“Which would suggest,” Dumbledore mused aloud, his brows knitting just slightly as his thoughts turned inward, “that the blood curse is bound to an object.”
There was a beat of silence as the fire popped softly behind them.
“Most likely the reliquary, yes, Headmaster,” Thomas Greengrass said, his voice low and deliberate. “Possibly the Wentworth grimoire, since we cannot account for its whereabouts.” His voice held a quiet frustration, tempered by years of fruitless investigation.
He paused, then added, carefully polite, “Not to be rude, Headmaster, but… why are you asking about this now?”
Dumbledore leaned back slightly in his high-backed chair, the carved phoenix at its crest catching a glint of candlelight. He steepled his fingers and looked at them with calm gravity.
“We have a sensitive issue with another student here, and the topic of reliquaries surfaced during the discussion,” he said. “I wanted to establish what information you might already have on your family's line, Mrs. Greengrass. If your curse happens to be tied to a reliquary, then it’s possible we share an objective.”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening slightly in her lap. The firelight caught in her tired eyes—eyes that had seen too many doors closed and too many leads go cold.
“Headmaster, we’ve exhausted all routes. My family has tried everything.” Her voice had thinned, the exhaustion of generations bleeding into her words like ink into parchment.
Dumbledore gave a small, reassuring smile. “Then perhaps a fresh set of eyes might turn something up. I will discreetly ask among my contacts about the Wentworth name and Oakhurst—see if anything turns up. I assure you, I will keep you apprised.”
They offered quiet thanks, and moments later, the soft click of the office door closing behind the Greengrasses echoed briefly before fading into the room’s quiet hum.
The candles flickered faintly as if stirred by a wind that wasn’t there.
Dumbledore sat still for a long moment, fingertips steepled beneath his chin, eyes lingering on the flames dancing lazily in the hearth.
Wentworth…
The name settled into his thoughts like sediment stirring in still water. Old, pureblooded, and long vanished from polite magical society. Not many recalled the name now, but he did, vaguely. A family touched by pride and ruin, if memory served. There had been mention of them in the Black family tree—somewhere near the edges, near the names scratched out in fury and shame.
He would begin there. Sirius might not appreciate being asked to revisit the ghosts of his House, but the tapestry still hung in Grimmauld Place… and Kreacher , for all his maddened mutterings, remembered more than he let on.
Then, of course, Bathilda . Her mind wandered now, crumbling like the spine of an old book, but her earlier work on bloodline curses and genealogical magic had been meticulous. She might recall the Wentworth name—or perhaps the Oakhurst girl. Love spurned was a common seed for dark magic… but to anchor it to blood, to carry it across generations, suggested something more deliberate. More practiced.
And if that was true, Cadwallader might know the pattern. Retired, reclusive, half the world believed him dead. But Dumbledore remembered the brilliance hidden behind his eccentricities. Few alive could trace the magic of blood across time like he could.
If the curse was bound to an object—a reliquary, as Greengrass suspects—then there may yet be a path forward. But not one easily found. Two birds with one stone as the muggles would say.
He let out a quiet breath, adjusting the silver instruments on his desk with a slow, absent hand. A softly glowing astrolabe spun idly near the corner, ticking out celestial alignments in an ancient rhythm only a few still understood.
The threads were old, tangled and brittle.
But threads nonetheless.
He would begin pulling.
…
Harry’s breath came in sharp, visible bursts as the wrought-iron gates of Regent’s Park loomed into view, their ornate black bars glistening faintly with a dusting of frost. The early morning sun was just beginning to break through the dense winter clouds, casting a soft, silvery light over the empty pathways and skeletal trees that lined the perimeter. His trainers pounded rhythmically on the pavement, the sound dulled by the layer of crisp frost underfoot.
Behind him, the familiar sound of Sirius’s footfalls lagged, heavier, a little more uneven, but still persistent.
“Keep up, old man!” Harry called over his shoulder, grinning through the chill.
Their “morning jog” had turned to a race in record time.
“Oi! You’re not too old for a time-out!” Sirius’s voice rang out in response, half laughter, half wheeze, carried on the cold wind. Harry laughed aloud, the breath catching in his chest as he skidded to a halt just past the gate, hands braced on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. His cheeks were flushed from the cold and the run, steam rising from his back like mist off a warm lake.
Sirius joined him a few moments later, a hand clapping Harry’s back with a thud before he too bent double, panting dramatically.
“Blimey, you’re quick, Harry,” he said between breaths, standing upright and planting his hands on his hips. “Still got a bit of fight in these old legs, though.”
Harry chuckled, stretching out one leg then the other. “Fancy a tea or coffee from the café there?” Sirius added, nodding towards a modest brick building just across the path.
Nestled near the edge of the park, the café was a charming little spot—small, with ivy creeping across its outer walls, now brittle and leafless in the winter cold. A chalkboard sign out front declared “Fresh Scones & Hot Drinks” in curling, whimsical handwriting. A handful of outdoor tables sat empty, their iron chairs frosted over and dusted with fallen leaves, remnants of the long-passed autumn.
“Sure—but inside. It’s freezing out here,” Harry replied, shivering slightly as another plume of white breath escaped his lips.
“Warming charms?” Sirius offered with a hopeful glance.
“I mean, people would look at us like we’re mad, sitting out in the cold in t-shirts and shorts,” Harry said, gesturing to their running gear. His legs were red from the chill, and he could barely feel his fingers.
“Good point. Right, come on—let’s get in there before my balls freeze off.”
“You mean you’re not neutered?” Harry shot back as they started walking toward the café.
“Is that a dog joke?” Sirius gasped, mock affronted, while Harry just laughed again.
The bell above the door jingled brightly as they stepped inside, greeted at once by a wave of warmth and the comforting scent of ground coffee, toasted bread, and cinnamon. The interior was cozy—quaint wooden floors worn smooth with years of foot traffic, honey-colored paneling on the walls, and shelves lined with books, mismatched mugs, and old records. A few early risers sat with newspapers or laptops, the hum of quiet conversation blending with soft jazz playing over the speakers.
They made their way to the counter, the barista—a round-faced young woman with pink hair tied up in a messy bun—greeting them with a sleepy smile.
Sirius leaned on the counter. “Two of your strongest coffees, please. And maybe a cinnamon bun so I don’t keel over.”
“Make that two,” Harry added, rubbing his hands together for warmth. He glanced around, taking in the steam-fogged windows and the stack of board games by the hearth. The place had the kind of charm that made you want to stay for hours.
Sirius nudged him. “See? Not a bad way to thaw out.”
Harry smiled and nodded. “Not bad at all.”
With their drinks and snacks in hand, they wandered deeper into the café, finding a small table nestled beside a broad, steamed-up window that offered a misty view of the park beyond. The pane was gently fogged from the warmth inside, but the silhouettes of bare trees and the occasional bundled-up jogger were just visible beyond the glass. The table itself was wooden and slightly uneven, worn by time and use, and the chairs let out a faint creak as they sat.
Harry took a long sip of his coffee, letting the warmth spread through his chest and fingertips. Then he bit into the cinnamon bun, still soft and sticky, the sugar catching in the corner of his mouth. With a sigh, he leaned back into the chair, stretching out his legs under the table as the comforting ache of the run settled into his calves and thighs.
“Mm. Coffee’s good here,” Sirius murmured approvingly, cradling his own mug with both hands, then peering out the window with a distant sort of expression.
Harry watched him for a moment before asking, “Did you have a good time while I was away?”
Sirius’s eyes flicked back to him, his face lighting with a smile. “I missed having you around, of course,” he said with casual warmth, “but it meant I could really knuckle down with the house. Took care of some of the darker rooms—nothing too nasty, just stubborn charms and lingering bad energy. Remus helped out a bit, and we hit a few pubs now and then. It was quiet… but nice, in its way.”
“You’ve done amazing with the house, its completely different” Harry complemented, earning a smile from his godfather.
He took another sip, then added, “But I’m glad you're home for Christmas. I’ve been looking forward to these next two weeks.”
Harry smiled, wrapping his hands around his mug. “So what’s the plan?”
“Well,” Sirius began, leaning forward a little, his voice lowering with a kind of conspiratorial excitement, “I thought we’d actually make something of it this year. None of that half-hearted Grimmauld Place gloom. We can start decorating—properly today, I mean. Lights, a big tree, charmed ornaments, enchanted snow in the sitting room. You’ll love it.”
He paused to grin. “And I invited a few people. Remus, of course. Tonks’ll be around—she’s promised to behave. Molly and Arthur said they might stop by, though she’s determined to have the big day at the Burrow with the whole Weasley herd we have been invited. I figured we’d do our own Christmas Eve dinner—just us and whoever wants a bit of quiet.”
Harry nodded slowly, already picturing it. “Sounds great.”
“Oh—and we’re doing presents properly. No weird socks from Dobby or mystery jumpers from Kreacher,” Sirius added with a mock grimace. “I’ve even wrapped yours already. I think you’ll like it.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Can I get a hint?”
“Not a chance,” Sirius said, smirking. “You’ll have to wait. Builds character.”
They shared a laugh, the kind that lingered even after the sound faded, and for a moment, the heaviness that had always clung to Grimmauld Place prior to Sirius and Remus’ efforts seemed far away—just two blokes in a warm café on a cold morning, coffee in hand, and something like peace between them.
Outside, the frost was starting to melt where the sun touched it.
“Come on lets get back, decorations would go up themselves!” Harry announced
Back at Grimmauld Place, the transformation had begun. Boxes of decorations floated lazily down the stairs, guided by Sirius’s flicking wand. Bright, multicoloured baubles and shimmering tinsel spilled out as they went, filling the air with the quiet hum of enchantments. It was like the house itself was waking up from a long, weary sleep, shaking off the shadows and welcoming a burst of colour to enhance its new look.
Harry stepped into the sitting room, already full of a warm, crackling fire and a festive energy that was slowly infusing the clean space. Gold fairy lights hung across the mantle, twinkling in time with the faint rhythm of a nearby enchanted clock. The large tree stood proudly in the corner, its branches adorned with an array of silver and gold ornaments that glistened in the soft light.
Sirius was at the center of it all, his wand flicking here and there with the flourish of an artist, directing a series of sparkling garlands to wrap themselves around the stair banister. Remus was carefully straightening one of the ornaments on the tree, holding it just a little to the left, then a little to the right, before giving it a satisfied nod.
“Careful, Moony,” Sirius teased as he floated a string of golden stars toward the ceiling. “If you adjust it one more time, it’s going to fall off.”
“I’m just making sure it’s perfect ,” Remus replied with a small smile. “We’ve got a long-standing reputation to uphold, after all.”
Tonks arrived with a loud pop , almost tripping over a pile of stray decorations. She bounced to her feet with an exaggerated flair, her hair now a vibrant shade of electric blue, sticking out at odd angles. “Who left this obstacle course here? Seriously, I’ve almost broken my ankle three times already.”
“I seem to remember you being rather graceful at the summer ball,” Harry grinned. “Whats the excuse for today?”
Tonks stuck out her tongue at him. “Maybe you just bring the graceful out in me?.” Then, spotting an unfinished garland on the table, she snatched it up with a wink. “I’ll handle this. Watch and learn.”
The room buzzed with energy as they worked together, an easy camaraderie between them all. Hedwig, ever the silent observer, perched on her usual spot by the window, her feathers fluffed up. Harry caught her eye, a flicker of warmth spreading through him as the owl hooted softly, as if to approve of the festive chaos. Before a squawk of indignation erupted from her as a charmed bit of tinsel tried to wrap itself around her. Reminding the room that owls were predatory she proceeded to shred it to pieces, her wings flapping aggressively..
“Sorry girl” Sirius called.
Sirius, unable to resist, was using his wand to make the ornaments spin around the tree, only to have them occasionally spin a little too fast and scatter across the room like confetti. Tonks would burst into laughter, catching the ornaments mid-air with quick, fluid movements, and Remus would shake his head in mock disapproval.
“Honestly, you’re worse than the twins,” Remus said, chuckling as he gingerly placed another bauble on the tree. “How do you always manage to make things more difficult than they need to be?”
“Because ‘difficult’ is fun , Moony,” Sirius shot back, his grin widening as he added a string of floating snowflakes to the mantle.
There was a sense of joy in the air—nothing grand, nothing showy, but the simple, good kind of happiness that felt like it would fill up every corner of the room, Harry had felt elements with the Weasley’s but this was something he could call his own. The house seemed to breathe a little easier with each passing moment, the shadows of its old, dark past easing with every burst of laughter, every twinkling light, and every thoughtful decoration that went up.
By the time they’d finished, the house was transformed. The tree stood proudly in the new bay window, its branches laden with glistening ornaments, each one sparkling like a tiny star. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting a golden glow that reflected off the festive garlands strung along the walls and across the mantle. Snowflakes danced overhead in a slow, magical spiral.
They all stood back to admire their work, tired but satisfied. Sirius raised his mug of mulled mead in a silent toast. “To the least miserable Christmas this place has ever seen,” he said.
“Here, here,” Remus said, raising his tea in return.
Harry smiled, his heart feeling unexpectedly full as he leaned back against the arm of the sofa, watching the soft, flickering light. For the first time in a long time, the house felt like home—a place filled with warmth, laughter, and people who cared.
As the others chatted, Harry’s gaze drifted toward the window, where the sky had begun to darken, and the first few flakes of snow were falling gently outside. He felt a quiet warmth settle over him—one that wasn’t just from the fire.
It was the kind of peaceful moment that made him realize just how much he had missed this—this sense of belonging, of family, of having a place where he could relax and truly be himself.
But then, his thoughts shifted—gently, almost instinctively—toward Daphne.
With a deep breath, Harry set the quill to the parchment, the crackling fire and quiet chatter in the background grounding him. The world outside was falling silent beneath the snow, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Harry allowed himself a quiet moment of peace surrounded by those he loved.
…
Daphne Greengrass sat at her polished desk, the soft glow of flickering candlelight casting gentle shadows across the room. The rich scent of pine from the freshly decorated Christmas tree mingled with the faint, comforting aroma of parchment and ink, filling the air with a sense of warmth and nostalgia. Her fingers, nimble from years of handling delicate tasks, brushed over the carefully wrapped gifts—each one adorned with silver ribbons that shimmered in the low light and intricate tags bearing her precise handwriting. The task was complete, but still, her mind wandered elsewhere.
She found herself thinking of him. Harry. His easy laugh, his comforting presence. How he made her feel safe in ways she had never expected. Her thoughts drifted to their stolen moments together—the stolen kisses shared in the quiet corners of the castle or hidden in the shadows between classes. The first kiss, that brief, electric moment that had taken her completely by surprise.
Daphne closed her eyes, replaying the memory. She poured everything she couldn’t say into that kiss—the unspoken emotions that had simmered beneath the surface, the longing that had built between them over the weeks. Her heart had raced, the intensity of the moment almost overwhelming as his lips had met hers, steady and grounding, a stark contrast to the chaotic whirlwind inside her chest. She had never kissed anyone before, but in that moment, everything felt so right.
She sighed softly, a mixture of excitement and frustration swirling within her. Her magic, ever sensitive to her emotions, had been increasingly unsettled. She could feel it pulsing beneath her skin, as though it too was caught up in the storm of her thoughts. But it was nothing she couldn’t handle. The one thing she couldn’t seem to handle, however, was the boy who had taken residence in her thoughts.
She thought about writing to him, but it had only been three days since they’d parted ways at Hogwarts. Was that too soon? She didn’t want to seem overbearing, desperate.
Daphne hesitated, nibbling thoughtfully on her lower lip, her fingers wrapped tightly around the quill in her hand. She longed to write, to reach out to him, but the uncertainty lingered. Could she? Should she?
Lost in her thoughts, she barely noticed the soft fluttering sound outside her window until a gentle tap brought her back to reality. Startled, she rose quickly, her heart skipping a beat. She approached the window, drawing back the heavy, velvet curtains with a swift motion.
There, perched gracefully on the sill, was Hedwig—the snowy owl she recognized in an instant. A rush of warmth spread through her chest, and before she could stop herself, she bolted to the window. Her fingers fumbled slightly as she unlatched it, allowing the owl to hop inside, her soft hoots filling the silence. Hedwig extended her leg, offering a letter, and Daphne’s breath caught in her throat.
“Thank you, Hedwig,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, as she took the letter with gentle hands. The owl gave her a soft nip on the finger, a tiny gesture of affection, before settling onto her desk. Daphne chuckled quietly, stroking the owl's soft feathers. "You are rather beautiful, aren’t you?"
Hedwig hooted once more, a sound of approval, and Daphne smiled, her heart fluttering. "Would you like to wait for me to reply?" she asked, but the owl only settled on her desk and waited..
Daphne moved to her bed, sitting down as she unfolded the letter with trembling hands, the excitement in her chest bubbling up as she read.
Dear Daphne,
Sorry it’s been a couple of days—things have been rather mad here! I hope you and your family are enjoying the holiday so far.
I confess, I’m not very good at this sort of thing, but I’ve really missed seeing you at school. I confess, Daphne Greengrass, that meeting you this summer… well, properly meeting you… has been an incredible experience, and I can’t wait to see you again soon.
I know it’s short notice, but would you be able to meet before Christmas? Just for a few hours? Only if you can spare the time, of course.
I hope you can,
Yours,
Harry
Yours, Daphne’s heart skipped. He had missed her. She smiled to herself, a mixture of joy and relief washing over her. How could she have ever doubted his feelings for her? He had always been nothing but kind, and his words were a balm to the anxiousness gnawing at her. The way he spoke—he hadn’t lied to her, and there was no mistaking the sincerity in his message. The smile that tugged at her lips threatened to turn into a giggle, but she stifled it with a little shake of her head. She was not a schoolgirl, not anymore—but in that moment, she felt as though she were.
She jumped up from the bed, her heart racing with excitement. She moved quickly through the hallways of the manor, her slippers barely making a sound against the polished stone floors. She found her parents in the study, leaning over a thick stack of documents on her father’s desk, their voices hushed in quiet conversation.
Her mother was the first to look up, a smile lighting her face as Daphne entered the room.
“Oh dear,” her father added with a knowing grin, “she wants something.”
Daphne arched an eyebrow, feigning indignation. “Sorry?”
Her mother chuckled softly, the lines around her eyes crinkling with affection. “You have a certain look when you come to ask us something, dear. But what is it?”
Daphne bit her lip for a moment before speaking. “I received a letter from Harry. He asked if I was free to meet before Christmas day. Would you object to me going to London?” Her voice was tentative, but hopeful.
“I don’t see why not,” her father replied casually, offering her a reassuring smile before his eyes met her mother’s.
Her mother’s smile softened, and she nodded. “It’s fine, darling. Just let us know when you plan on going, alright?”
“Thanks!” Daphne replied eagerly, the words tumbling out as she hurried back to her room, a surge of excitement propelling her forward. She couldn’t wait to write him back.
As their daughter left the room, Elizabeth turned to her husband, raising an eyebrow. The light from the fireplace flickered softly across their faces, casting a warm glow that made her expression both playful and inquisitive.
“I was expecting more resistance from you, my dear husband,” she teased, nudging his shoulder gently. Her voice, light and affectionate, made the moment feel intimate, and Thomas let out a short, amused snort in response.
“I’ve learned to pick my battles,” he replied, his tone softening but still carrying the weight of a man who had seen enough of life to know when to yield. “If I say no without a good reason, she’ll only resent me later. Plus, it’s not like Harry is someone we need to be wary of. The muggle world is probably safer for her right now, anyway,” he reasoned, his voice carrying a certain quiet strength, the kind that comes with age and experience.
Elizabeth’s gaze softened as she looked at him, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “I knew I married you for a reason,” she said tenderly, her fingers brushing through his graying hair before planting a soft kiss on the top of his head. The touch was warm, grounding, and spoke volumes of their years together—years filled with laughter, challenges, and moments like this.
Thomas, however, didn’t smile back. Instead, his face shifted, and he leaned back in his chair, suddenly looking more distant, more contemplative. His eyes, once steady and certain, now looked troubled, his brow furrowed as if wrestling with a thought he had been keeping to himself for far too long.
“About that,” he began, his voice lower now, laced with a seriousness that made Elizabeth’s heart skip a beat. He straightened in his chair, his hands folding in front of him as though preparing for a difficult conversation. “With Dumbledore looking into the curse… if—and I pray—he finds a way to rid you and the girls of it, what happens then?” His eyes met hers, filled with unspoken fear and vulnerability.
She tilted her head, her heart beginning to ache with the sudden weight of his words. “If what?”
“If the only reason you’re with me is because of the curse,” he said, the words coming out in a rush, like he had been holding them back for too long. His voice trembled ever so slightly, betraying a vulnerability that was rare for him. In that instant, he no longer seemed like the confident man she had built a life with, the man who had always been her rock. Instead, he looked like the young, awkward teenager she had fallen for all those years ago—the one with uncertain eyes, unsure of himself in the face of her love.
Elizabeth felt a lump form in her throat as her heart sank. She reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing against his hand, her touch soft and steady. “My love, don’t think like that,” she whispered, her voice full of warmth and certainty. “I love you. And I know that I do.”
His sad smile pierced through her, one that felt so painfully genuine it almost knocked the wind out of her. “Do you?” he asked, his words soft but edged with something more vulnerable than she had ever heard from him. “I will do everything in my power to rid you and the girls of this curse. Even if it means losing you in the process. And if I did, just know this—you have given me a wonderful family and twenty amazing years. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Thomas—” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
He shook his head, his gaze distant, as if accepting a truth he had no control over. “What will be, will be,” he said softly, squeezing her hands tightly. “I’m sorry for being morose about it.”
Elizabeth wanted to say it would be fine—that even without the curse, she would love him. That he was the one, the only one she could ever want. He was a good man, a strong man, and no one else could possibly take his place. She wanted to promise him that no matter what, they were meant to be. But a small, painful doubt lingered, just a flicker in the back of her mind, that if the curse were ever lifted, if the spell that bound them together was broken, what if everything she felt for him was just a shadow of the magic? What if all her love, all the deep, unshakable affection she felt for him, had been artificially created by forces beyond their control?
The thought struck her with an unbearable weight, as if a piece of her very foundation was crumbling away. What if their entire life together, the beautiful family they had built, was nothing more than a beautiful lie? A trick of fate, a charm that had made her feel a love that wasn’t real.
What will be, will be, regardless of the suffering we inflict on ourselves.
Elizabeth leaned forward then, pressing her forehead gently to his, her heart aching as she closed her eyes. What would be? She didn’t know. But she knew, deep down, that despite the uncertainty, despite the fear that their love was only temporary, she couldn’t imagine a life without him. Even if the curse was lifted, even if the magic was gone, he was her home. He was everything.
Yet still, that tiny, terrifying doubt lingered—a whisper of fear that if the curse was broken, it might all fall apart. And that was the hardest truth of all.
……
Cor it got a little heavy towards the tail end but it is a reality of this curse. I often think of myself in Thomas’ shoes, your children are everything, youd give your life without a second thought for them (A feeling as a parent is disturbing easy, for my daughter i wouldn’t even think about giving my life for hers) so in curing his daughters he might lose the love of his life. I can’t imagine one second that person is devoted to you, needs you and the next they are almost like a stranger.
The next chapter will have Haphne in it as well as the hunt for the Greengrass curse is on.