Chapter 29
A Promise Given
Authors Note - Just a quick one from me, I always aim for chapters to be about 4-5k in length but have had a comment about them being too short, I could look at doubling this but then posting time goes up.
Regarding any “sexual” scenes, if I do include any there will be no crude references to body parts/fuilds/graphic detail, you will know sex is happening but very much focused on the emotional side of it. I am still debating this being in the story and I think I know where I will include it but time will tell.
……
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Harry sat nervously beneath Nelson’s Column, shifting slightly on the cold stone bench as he waited for Daphne to join him. It was eleven o’clock in the morning on the twenty-third of December, and the city around him buzzed with frenetic energy—last-minute Christmas shoppers dashed past in all directions, burdened with bags, muffled in scarves, and half-laughing, half-complaining about the chaos. Red buses rumbled by, carolers sang somewhere faintly in the background, and snowflakes threatened to fall but never quite committed.
Harry exhaled slowly, his breath fogging in the frigid air. He had promised himself that today would be perfect—or as close to perfect as he could manage. He was going to make sure Daphne had a good time with him, even if his mind was a battlefield of doubt and hope. He still couldn’t stop asking himself if the incredibly beautiful blonde he was meeting today truly felt something for him, or if the curse that coiled silently around her heart, tugged her towards him like some twisted puppet string.
Relationships were already complicated at their age—laced with confusion, insecurity, and the looming fear of rejection. But this... this was something else entirely. There was always a moral storm raging inside him: Was he, in some twisted way, taking advantage of her? Even though he hadn't caused the curse, was he still benefiting from it in a way that should feel wrong?
Could anything in my life be normal?
The thought was a dark whisper, and Harry shook his head slightly, trying to dispel it. He couldn’t push her away, even if he wanted to. From what she had told him, doing so would only make the curse worse for her, could even hurt her. That wasn’t an option. Not when the truth was, despite everything, he didn’t want to let her go. He found himself craving her presence, the way she laughed softly at his jokes, the way her eyes sparkled when she teased him. Being near her was like breathing in warm air after drowning in cold water.
He reached into his coat pocket, fingertips brushing against the small wrapped box that held her Christmas gift. He hoped she’d like it—he’d spent far too long picking it out, overthinking every little detail. His coat, a new dark grey wool number Siriushad insisted he buy, did its best to keep the December chill at bay, but even that and the subtle warming charm sewn into the lining couldn’t completely fend off the icy breeze rolling through Trafalgar Square.
Then he saw her.
Daphne was weaving through the crowd with that easy grace of hers, her blond hair slightly tousled by the wind, her cheeks flushed pink. A small smile played on her lips as her eyes found his. Harry swallowed hard.
She looked stunning.
Those brown, knee-high boots struck something primal in him—he couldn’t even explain it, but they did—and her thick thermal navy leggings hugged her slender legs just enough to set his brain stuttering. The matching navy wool trench coat cinched perfectly at the waist before flaring gently over her hips, her figure sculpted and elegant in a way that seemed utterly effortless. Merlin, Harry thought, there’s no way a girl like this would be choosing me in any normal world.
“Hello, Harry,” she said softly, her voice carrying over the sound of the street, the smile still gracing her face. Whether her cheeks were pink from the cold or because of how he was looking at her, he couldn’t tell.
“Hello… you look incredible,” he muttered, feeling like the words barely scratched the surface of what he wanted to say.
“Thank you,” she replied, stepping a little closer. Then, without hesitation, she leaned up and kissed him—just a quick, soft press of lips, but it sent heat blooming through his chest, chasing away the cold far better than any spell.
“No, I think I’m underselling it, Daphne,” he said with a quiet laugh, unable to hide the admiration in his voice. He saw the flicker of delight in her eyes, and it made something in him settle, like the ground beneath his feet was a little more solid. Every teenager wanted to feel wanted, to feel seen. “Just... wow.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she said with a teasing tilt to her head, smoothing his coat. “But I’m glad my efforts had the desired effect, Harry.”
She reached out and took his hand, her gloved fingers slipping easily into his.
“So,” she asked, eyes dancing with curiosity, “where are we going?”
“Well, why dont I show you”
The day unfurled like a dream stitched together by moments—soft, scattered, and golden-edged.
Harry guided Daphne through the bustle of the city with a quiet eagerness, his hand never straying far from hers. For the first time in what felt like ages, the weight pressing on his chest had lifted, and in its place bloomed something lighter, warmer—an almost dizzy kind of happiness that made his heart beat faster when she laughed as he pulled her towards the first destination, she pulled herself close to him as he latched onto his arm, when their eyes met and held he could feel his blood pumping that little bit faster.
They started with the National Gallery.
Inside, the grand halls were hushed and glowing, lit by the pale winter sun filtering through vast windows. Daphne walked slowly, her fingers sometimes lifting to hover in front of a canvas as if she were trying to trace the artist’s intent. Harry trailed beside her, sneaking more glances at her than at the art. She was like a living painting herself in that coat, her hair catching the light like spun gold, her expressions shifting with genuine interest.
“This one’s beautiful,” she murmured, stopping in front of a Monet. She tilted her head, thoughtful. “It’s like… the colours are soft but you feel something beneath it, don’t you?”
Harry blinked at the painting, then at her. “I was just thinking that.”
He hadn’t been. Not even close. But her words made him look again, properly this time. The brushstrokes, the blur of light and water—he wasn’t one for art, even less so with Daphne Greengrass by his side, she glanced out of the corners of her eyes, catching him and offering that smile that had no business being that beautiful, eyes his likely did not guard his emotions, and the light blush on her cheeks made him smile just as wide.
“Come, I would like to see some more works of art”
“As the lady wishes” he replied softly.
They left the museum an hour later with their cheeks ruddy from the warmth inside, stepping back out into the chilly air, which hit like a wave but only made the next stop feel cozier.
The Christmas Market along the South Bank shimmered like something out of a snow globe, wrapped in a blanket of twinkling fairy lights and laughter. The air was rich with the warm scent of roasted chestnuts, cinnamon sugar, and something sweetly nostalgic that clung to the cold like a secret. Behind them, the Thames glittered like molten silver, casting soft reflections of the lights that danced on the water.
They strolled slowly through rows of wooden stalls, each one glowing like a tiny cabin in an enchanted forest. Their hands brushed, lingered, tangled—fingers curling together with a tenderness that sent little sparks skittering up Harry’s spine. Their shoulders bumped in that effortless, familiar way, the kind that didn’t feel casual at all.
Harry couldn’t remember ever feeling quite like this. With Cho, there had been butterflies—but this was different. This was warmth blooming in his chest, a kind of quiet awe. He wanted to hold her, all of her, in some way or another—to stay connected, grounded in her glow. Her touch was a kind of magic, and from the way she reached for him, like she couldn’t help herself, he knew she felt it too.
Daphne stopped to examine a vendor’s handmade ornaments—delicate glass baubles swirling with colour. “These are enchanted, right?” she whispered, smiling..
“Nope,” Harry said, grinning. “All Muggle-made.”
She picked one up carefully, turning it in her hand. “They’re beautiful.”
“But pales to you,” he said without thinking.
She looked up, startled for a moment. Then her eyes softened. “How many other witches have you tried that on? Because its working”
He laughed, a little breathless. “I’m trying very hard.”
They shared hot chocolate next, huddled near a tall heater lamp that cast a golden glow over them like a spell. Their gloves were off—not just to better feel the comforting heat of the cups, but maybe also to feel the accidental brush of bare fingers, the quiet electricity in shared warmth. The chocolate was rich and velvety, crowned with a generous swirl of whipped cream and tiny marshmallows that softened into dreamy clouds.
Daphne had a little dollop of cream on her upper lip, and Harry found himself staring—longer than he should’ve, completely enchanted.
“What?” she asked, lifting a single eyebrow, her voice playful and warm.
“Just… nothing you’ve got,” he murmured with a crooked grin, and then he leaned in—heart racing, instincts louder than nerves—and kissed her softly, brushing the cream away.
As he began to pull back, her lips curled into the faintest smile, and her blue eyes sparkled like frost catching morning sunlight. She looked at his lips, then reached up, her fingers sliding behind his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world, and pulled him in for another kiss—this one deeper, more certain, not caring for the hundreds of people that moved about them.
When she finally drew back, the look she gave him was quiet, full of something warm and unspoken. A kind of softness that made Harry’s chest ache in the best way. Affection, maybe. Or something on its way to becoming even more.
Later, he took her to a small second-hand bookstore he’d found once when he got lost with Hermione during third year. It was tucked into a narrow alley just off Charing Cross Road, warm and soft inside with books piled floor to ceiling and fairy lights strung along the beams.
Daphne wandered the aisles slowly, trailing her fingers along cracked spines. Harry picked out a book he thought she might like—an old illustrated edition of Pride and Prejudice, its corners worn soft. She accepted it with a small, surprised smile that felt like a reward.
“Might i like it?,” she asked softly.
“I hope so,” he said, as they enjoyed the warmth of the shop.
Outside, snow finally began to fall—light at first, then thicker, drifting lazily down from the clouds as they walked through Covent Garden. A choir was singing somewhere near the market square, and people were stopping to listen, to drop coins into a hat, to hold each other closer against the cold.
Harry and Daphne paused near a tree lit with golden bulbs, its branches heavy with ornaments and dusted in real snow.
Daphne took his hand and looked up at him fondly. “Thank you for today Harry”
They wandered into a tiny Italian cafe to warm up before the sun dipped fully below the horizon, and the waiter, clearly amused by Harry’s wide-eyed curiosity about how to pronounce cioccolata calda, brought them free biscotti with their drinks.
Harry kept trying to make her laugh, once knocking over the sugar jar by accident, which she found far funnier than she should have.
But the truth was, every laugh he pulled from her felt like sunlight cracking through his ribcage.
As twilight deepened, they crossed the Thames again, now wrapped more tightly in their scarves and each other. They moved slower now, more tired but reluctant to end the day. The London Eye sparkled in the distance, a halo over the city, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry wished he could trap this day in a Pensieve and relive it again and again.
Dont forget her gift!
At one point, as they sat side by side on a bench watching skaters glide like whispers across the Somerset House rink, Daphne quietly leaned her head against his shoulder.
Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
In the hush between their words, everything was already being said.
“I got you a gift,” Harry murmured, breaking the silence gently. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package.
Her eyes widened—not in delight, but something closer to alarm. “Oh, Harry—I didn’t bring your gift. If I had known—”
“I don’t give to receive,” he said quickly, offering a reassuring smile, though his voice betrayed a flicker of nervous energy. “I just… wanted to give you this in person. I hope you like it.”
“May I?” she asked softly, taking the parcel into her hands.
“Of course.” His heart pounded as she carefully unwrapped the paper, revealing a small box. When she opened it, she gasped—a breath of wonder escaping her lips.
Nestled inside was a delicate silver chain, its pendant a glowing orb, no bigger than half a Snitch, wrapped in silver ivy leaves that shimmered like starlight.
“Harry, it’s…” she breathed, fingers tracing the intricate ivy.
“The light inside is a memory,” he said, voice low. “From our Hogsmeade trip. I asked Dumbledore how to capture a feeling… and he helped me. You can relive it—just tap it three times. No Pensieve needed. I know your curse makes things hard sometimes, and I just wanted you to have something that proves how I felt that day… and how I feel now.”
He only noticed the tear slipping down her cheek when she smiled—soft and luminous. Panic flared in his chest.
“I—I didn’t mean to upset you—”
“Harry,” she whispered, blinking through the emotion, “this is the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received.”
She handed him the necklace with trembling fingers. “Would you… would you mind putting it on for me?”
She turned away, gently lifting her golden hair aside. With slightly shaking hands, he fastened the chain around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin—eliciting a quiet gasp from her lips. Once clasped, he let his thumb linger, tracing her neck with the softest touch. She drew in a breath, this one shuddering, and turned to face him again.
Her eyes shimmered, not just from the tears, but something deeper—profound, unspoken, true.
“How is it,” she whispered, “that I’ve been so lucky for my curse to have chosen someone as wonderful as you?”
He swallowed hard, unused to words like that, not when spoken to him.
“I’d argue I’m the lucky one,” he said, voice thick. “You’re kind and thoughtful, and… I don’t think in another life you’d even look my way.”
But she reached out, touching his hand to stop him.
“You undervalue yourself, Harry. Curse or not, I believe I would’ve chosen you. You walked into my life and saw me—not the curse, not the name. Me. I resent the five years we lost not knowing each other.”
She held his gaze, and it was like all the world had quieted just for them.
“Daphn—”
“Be rid of the notion that someone has done you a favour for me feeling the way I do for you” she whispered, her voice trembling with truth her hand coming to rest on his cheek.
And something inside him cracked open—gently, but deeply. That small, hidden part of him, the boy in the cupboard who’d once known only loneliness, felt her words like a sunrise. A promise.
“I don’t know what to say to that,” he whispered honestly.
“You don’t have to say anything at all,” she said, her eyes still glistening. “Your gift spoke more than a thousand words ever could. And I love every one of them”
…
The candlelight in the old study burned low, casting long, flickering shadows over the faded tapestries and stacks of scrolls that littered the small reading room within the Department of Mysteries’ public archive annex. The Ministry had long forgotten this tucked-away chamber, and Dumbledore had no intention of reminding them of it. It was quiet here—drowsy with disuse—and more importantly, unsupervised after hours.
He turned the parchment page with care. The genealogy of the Wentworths sprawled across the brittle surface, hand-drawn in sepia ink, with branching lines and meticulously lettered names. Most ended in short, final notations—“d. 1819,” “killed in duel,” “no issue,” or the particularly curt “erased.” The name Marcus Wentworth appeared near the middle, his line running to a dead end. A black circle drawn around the final entry—Marianne Wentworth, disappeared 1842—piqued Dumbledore’s curiosity earlier, but no record had surfaced explaining where she went.
He sat back in the creaky chair, removing his half-moon spectacles to rub at the bridge of his nose.
Two dead ends today. One from the old Black family tapestry, which Kreacher had all but hissed at him for approaching—refusing to discuss anything “polluted with Oakhurst blood.” Additionally Sirius had come up short as well.
Sirius moved toward the fireplace, the flickering flames casting long shadows across the study. He stretched out his hands to the warmth, his shoulders hunched slightly beneath his worn coat. “I looked into the Black family records, like you asked,” he said, his voice low. Then he gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “You were right to be suspicious. There’s no mention of the Wentworths. None. Not even a scandalous footnote tucked in the margins. Which means one of two things—either they were never connected to us… or someone went through a lot of trouble to make it seem that way.”
The fire crackled between them, casting a flicker across Dumbledore’s face as he turned from the window. His eyes gleamed behind his half-moon spectacles, sharp and unreadable in the dim light. “And which do you think it is?”
Sirius shrugged, the firelight catching the silver threads in his dark hair. “We don’t erase people for being nobodies, Albus. If they’re gone, it’s because someone was angry—or scared. Possibly both. Whole branches of the family tree have been scorched for less. And the journals—every generation’s family head kept one—there’s a three-year gap in Arcturus Black’s entries. That’s not like him. The man was meticulous. Obsessively so.”
Dumbledore drifted back to his desk, the floorboards creaking beneath his slow steps. He lowered himself into the worn leather chair with a thoughtful sigh, steepling his fingers. “Arcturus had dealings with many of the old families. If the Wentworths fell out of favor with the Blacks, it would have been for a serious breach… or something dangerous enough to risk the family’s reputation by association.”
Sirius turned slightly, leaning his back against the stone hearth. Shadows played across the walls behind him. “Yes, but you said the Wentworth you were looking for was from the eighteenth century? That’s over two hundred years ago, Albus. It doesn’t explain a missing three years in his journal. That kind of silence—it’s not just lost pages. It’s intent.”
Dumbledore inclined his head. “Any journals from relatives around that time period? Brothers, cousins?”
“A few. Thin volumes. Nothing significant. And not a whisper about the Wentworths. If we had dealings with them, they were buried deep or kept deliberately quiet. If I knew exactly what this was about, I might’ve noticed something that linked to it.”
Dumbledore’s expression shifted slightly, a rare note of gravity in his tone. “I am looking for details of a curse—cast by a man scorned by a woman he claimed to love. A binding spell, twisted by grief and obsession. The victim is made to feel tethered to another against their will. But it’s believed that wasn’t the true intent…”
Sirius narrowed his eyes, tilting his head as he considered. “Hmm. I do recall a passage—Nautrius Black, 1843. He wrote about a woman who was desperately trying to woo his son. But she wasn’t advantageous to the family, so he forbade the match. Though, truth be told, I think his boy was a ruthless little shit anyway. Didn’t need much persuading.”
Dumbledore’s eyes lit with a flicker of interest. “Who was the woman? Perhaps that’s our next thread.”
“Hang on,” Sirius murmured, turning to the stack of leather-bound tomes he had carried in. He flipped one open, thumbing through the yellowed pages with practiced ease. “Here. Eleanor Worthing. Not an Oakhurst, though.”
“Not surprising,” Dumbledore murmured, nodding slowly. “The curse began with Mary Oakhurst and followed the women in her bloodline. They would’ve taken their husbands’ names, when they were able to marry at all.”
Albus leaned back, his gaze drifting to the shadows curling at the edges of the room.
“Another lead to follow,” he said softly. “Thank you, Sirius.”
Another lead ended from the heavily redacted Ministry records about blood curses. Even with his influence, the redacted sections had remained black as ink and twice as resistant to magic. Obfuscation spells from the Department of Mysteries, no doubt. He suspected some of the research had been deliberately buried.
Even Bathilda Bagshot, bless her, had offered little help. Her recollections were muddled, and her mention of the name “Oakhurst” triggered a faint recognition, but nothing more than a muttered, “Yes, yes, something in Yorkshire... or was it Kent? A girl who vanished… or ran away... ghosts, I think…” before she drifted back into silence.
Dumbledore had expected as much.
Still, he pressed on.
He opened another record, this one older—a personal letter collection donated to the archives by the family of Tiberius St. Clare, a known collector of dark magical history in the late 1800s. A hand-bound sheaf of letters lay inside the folder, some water-damaged, others neatly pressed. One bore a wax seal that had long since cracked apart, and on the corner of the letter in a looping hand were the initials M.W.
He raised an eyebrow.
Carefully, he unfolded the letter.
“To whomever finds this, know that I do not repent what I have done. Love turned sour leaves a scar upon the soul. Let it never be said I left the world quietly.
They denied me my legacy, my name, and now they will curse it until the end of time. The blood sings truest through unwilling veins.”
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly. It was unsigned, but on the back was scribbled a note, perhaps by the collector himself:
Suspect: Marcus Wentworth? Language matches “Apology to a Broken Mirror.”
He knew Apology to a Broken Mirror—an obscure text penned anonymously, filled with rambling prose and half-coded references to blood rituals and inheritance rites. Most had dismissed it as the fevered work of a madman, but this connection suddenly gave it new weight.
He summoned a copy from his robes—he had taken it from the Restricted Section years ago and kept it in his private collection. Flipping through the pages, he paused near the middle.
A phrase leapt out at him:
“The vault of memory sealed in Oak and marred by earth”
Dumbledore froze.
Oak. As in Oakhurst?
He tapped his wand against the page. Ancient script shimmered faintly beneath the visible ink—a hidden marginalia, perhaps. With a whispered spell, the hidden writing glowed:
See: the Journal. MW. Grim truth inked in grief. Bound in ash-grey leather, sigiled with ouroboros. Hidden where silence mourns and mirrors lie.
Dumbledore sat very still.
A journal. Marcus Wentworth’s, perhaps? Hidden—possibly enchanted to elude detection. Bound in leather, marked with a snake devouring its own tail. Hidden in Oak and earth?
He slowly closed the book, the soft thump of parchment muffled by the heavy air.
It wasn’t much, whomever did write this was on the fringes of madness. But it was a clue.
And a clue was more than he had when the day began.
He gathered the materials—tucking the letter and the excerpt into his robes—and rose from the chair with the slow grace of someone accustomed to moving quietly through history’s dust. The instruments at Hogwarts would need to be tuned, the right questions whispered through the right channels.
For now, he would return to the castle. But he would not sleep.
Something was stirring beneath the layers of silence and time. The echoes of a long-dead man who had not repented but maybe his hatred could be a boon for them.
And somewhere, a journal waited to be found.
……
If longer chapters are wanted then updates will be slower, i love hearing your thoughts and maybe some predictions. I needed some fluff after a couple of depressing stories so I hope the Haphne scene warmed your socks.
I am very happy with one of the lines Daphne says to Harry personally.