Chapter 35
A Promise Given
No horror per say here, just the last Marcus journal at some point.
……
Chapter Thirty-Five
The first Monday back at Hogwarts was always an exercise in forced cheer—numb fingers wrapped around steaming goblets of pumpkin juice, eyes bleary from too many late nights pretending the holidays hadn’t ended, and the distinct hum of groans echoing through the Great Hall as timetables were passed around like ominous fates.
Snow clung stubbornly to the window panes, melting in slow rivulets that traced crooked paths across the ancient glass. Outside, the lake was frozen over in silver, and the sky hung low and grey with the promise of more snow before nightfall.
“Double Defence with Slytherin first thing,” Ron muttered, squinting down at his timetable like it might change if he glared hard enough. “Happy bloody new year.”
“At least it’ll be warm in the classroom,” Hermione said, ever the optimist. “Professor Snape’s spells are always spot on when it comes to heating charms. You know, for once.”
Ron gave her a look as though she’d grown a second head.
They rose from the Gryffindor table together, shrugging cloaks on and moving toward the entrance hall with the general wave of students heading out for first period. Harry was just about to complain about the cold seeping through his boots when a familiar voice cut clean through the crowd.
“Potter. A word.”
Snape’s voice was like the crack of frost underfoot—sharp, cold, and wholly unwelcome. He stood just ahead, pale as ever against the dark corridor stone, his robes trailing behind him like smoke. There was no mistaking the narrowed eyes or the flick of a hand that summoned Harry without waiting for an answer.
Hermione frowned. “What do you think—?”
“I’ll be fine,” Harry said, already turning to follow. “Go on, I’ll catch you up.”
Snape didn’t say anything more as he turned, walking swiftly away from the traffic of students. Harry glanced once over his shoulder, catching Ron’s sympathetic wince and Hermione’s worried furrow, before the crowd swallowed them both.
They moved deeper into the castle’s quieter wing, toward a narrow passage that twisted away from the main floor. It was oddly silent here, only the muffled groan of old wood and the whisper of their footsteps.
Harry quickened his pace to keep up. “Sir, if this is about the essay—”
But Snape said nothing. Not yet. Just kept walking, every step echoing louder than the last in the quiet.
Harry frowned. What did I manage to do this time? First morning back and somehow he was already being dragged into private conversations like a troublemaker. He searched his memory, but there’d been no pranks, no broken curfews, no reason—
Snape finally stopped just at the mouth of an unused antechamber, his robes settling around him like a drawn curtain. He turned slowly, eyes fixed on Harry like he already knew the questions crowding behind his tongue.
“I will be asking you to perform a demonstration to open our lesson this morning,” Snape said, voice low and precise. “I trust you are capable of such a simple task.”
Harry blinked. “What sort of demonstration? A spell? A reaction?”
Snape’s expression twitched—not quite a smirk, not quite approval. “You will start with Protego Maxima. Correctly. On your first attempt.”
Harry’s eyebrows rose. That wasn’t standard fare. “That’s NEWT-level.”
“Astute as ever,” Snape murmured, eyes narrowing. “After your… recent experiences, I expect you’ll find it well within reach. And you will be expected to master it by next year anyway”
There was something in his tone—not admiration, exactly, but something adjacent. Recognition, perhaps. Or caution. It was hard to tell with Snape. His face, as ever, betrayed little.
Snape studied him a moment longer. “Your classmates would benefit from seeing the charm executed properly. Most of them haven’t had the luxury of testing defensive magic in… practical settings.”
Harry folded his arms.
“After that, I have another request.”
“Alright?”
“The Jinglong Jianhu.”
Well fuck.
“The Diamond Shield Charm? I only found out it existed this summer. I tried it once—it barely flickered. That’s not even taught in Auror training.”
“Perfect,” Snape said with unsettling calm. “So you know of it. Try not to prove me wrong in my faith, Potter.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Faith? Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”
Snape’s mouth thinned. “Its a little early in the new year to be losing house points” he warned him coldly.
Harry watched him carefully. “You didn’t mention how many attempts I’ve got.”
Snape turned. “Oh, I would never dream of putting a student under pressure for a spell no one else in the room will recognize by making them cast it in front of the whole class—and then add a limit to it, Potter .”
“Ah. Generosity from Professor Snape. That is new.”
Snape gave him a long, unreadable look. “Considering your admittedly … competent performance in defence I thought it best you show the class. If you fail then you just re-enforce my viewpoint that your academic achievements to this point have been nothing but luck.
And with that, he swept away toward the classroom, robes flaring like smoke in his wake.
I take it back… the man is still a prick.
Harry stared after him, more confused than annoyed.
The classroom was cold as usual, the stone walls absorbing the early morning chill. Harry shivered as he stepped inside, though he knew it wasn’t just the temperature that made his skin prickle. Snape swept in behind them, his cloak billowing like the tail of some dark creature, the hem barely missing the floor as he took his place at the front. His eyes scanned over the class with the usual sneer, that look that could make even the bravest students feel like they were already failing.
Harry walked to his desk, trying to shake off the lingering oddness of his meeting with Snape, but it was hard to focus with the weight of the entire room pressing in on him. The usual Slytherin faces were as indifferent as ever, but Harry couldn’t help but note Draco Malfoy, who sat near the back, staring off to the side with an expression of bitter contemplation. It was strange. There had been no issues with Malfoy since the school year started, which Harry would’ve taken as a blessing if he wasn’t so distracted by other things. Training for his… well, his life, Quidditch, and the growing complexities of his life outside of class had filled his time, but had he not been so wrapped up in it all, maybe he would’ve noticed more. Maybe he would’ve kept an eye on Draco. Maybe—
A dark pair of eyes snapped his attention away from Malfoy’s sullen form. Theodore Nott. The glare he was sending Harry from across the room was enough to freeze anyone in place, yet Harry just walked on by. There was something unmistakable in the way Nott looked at him—murderous intent, even though they'd never really interacted much before this year. Harry could still feel the weight of it. He didn’t need to think too hard to know why. After all, he had killed Nott’s older brother in the alley during the Death Eater ambush on New Year's Eve. Add that onto being the reason his father was in Azkaban, and well, he wouldn’t be surprised if Theo had a Harry-shaped doll with pins in it.
Eugh, why did I think about it like that?
Pansy Parkinson was less subtle, but equally irritating. She always had that same sneer on her face when she looked at him, like she had just tasted something sour or stepped in a pile of hippogriff—Harry smirked and gave her a lazy wave and a wink, knowing it would make her scowl deeper. And scowl she did, like someone had just ruined her day. It was almost too easy to get under her skin. At this point, it was a bit of a game, one he played out of habit rather than genuine amusement.
But then his eyes drifted to the desk next to his—the dividing line between the lions and the snakes—and everything inside him seemed to stop for a second. Daphne Greengrass. She was sitting there with Tracey Davis, talking quietly, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to focus on anything else but her. Well, he wished he could. He didn’t want to make it obvious, especially with the gossip that would surely start, but he couldn’t help it. His stomach did that weird flip-flop again, and it wasn’t just because she looked so effortlessly beautiful. No, it was the smile she gave him when their eyes met—just a small curve of her lips, barely perceptible to anyone else. But to him? It was electric. And worse, he knew exactly what those lips tasted like. Frankly, her neck had become a physical feature that kept returning to his thoughts.
Is that a thing? Seamus keeps talking about chests and bums, and here I am, thinking about necks? Though I can't deny that the few from behind isn’t bad… stop it!
Ignoring his baser instincts for a moment, the memory of her touch, her fingers tracing along his chest and across his stomach at Grimmauld Place, came rushing back in full force. Her lips, soft against his, her warmth like a drug he couldn’t get enough of. Harry could feel the heat in his cheeks and cursed himself for it. He was so damn distracted since that day. He should’ve been focusing on his surroundings, on the class, on what Snape was about to throw at them, but all he could think about was Daphne. And how just one smile, just one glance from her could send his mind spinning in all directions.
He blinked, forcing his attention back to the present, just in time to feel a tap on his shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Oi, Harry,” Ron whispered, his voice low and curious, “What’s up with you today? You seem… off. You looked spaced out, same as breakfast.”
Harry gave a half-smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He didn’t want to explain everything—Snape’s strange behavior, the conversation that had left him unsettled, or his thoughts about Daphne that were threatening to consume him.
“You’ll see,” Harry muttered, keeping his gaze fixed ahead as Snape began his usual tirade at the front of the room. The man’s voice cut through the murmurs of the class like a razor. Harry had no intention of explaining to Ron why he was distracted, not when his mind kept wandering back to Daphne.
And then, despite the growing tension in the room, despite Snape’s booming voice and the churning thoughts in his head, Harry stole one last glance at Daphne. Just for a moment, her eyes caught his again, and that smile returned—this time a little more playful. It was like everything else in the room faded away, the chatter, the stares, even Snape’s looming presence. All that was left was the warmth of her smile, lingering in his chest, making his heart beat just a little bit faster.
“You are all aware of the way the world is currently, you may be walking to collect your … whatever it is you wish to buy and suddenly you come under assault from a wizard or witch who wishes you harm. What tools do you have to address this?” Snape began.
“Oh I’ll just knock em out sir” Seamus shouted.
“Nice one mate” Ron muttered to himself and closed his eyes.
“Given your talents for blowing up everything but your target Mr Finningan I somehow doubt you are capable, five points from Gryffindor for being a moron”
Harry rolled his eyes. Most of the class answered with jynx’s hexes or curses.
“Offense is one method as some of you like to point out, however unless you can aim your attacks well … most of you clearly cannot. The shielding charm would be your best tool” Snape spoke, writing it down on the blackboard.
Harry knew what was about to happen.
“Potter, come up to the front please, I would like to do a demonstration for the class”
Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, Malfoy’s face was still set in that scowl, but his eyes were narrowed, watching with interest. The others, Nott and Parkinson included, looked like they were already enjoying the thought of his downfall. Daphne remained neutral, and it occurred to him she hadn’t actually seen his abilities outside of the odd practice in these lessons.
“You’ll start with the Protego Maxima,” Snape’s voice cut through the room, smooth and commanding. “Show the class Potter. Should you fail your punishment will be being stunned on the floor for the rest of the lesson” Before Harry could protest Snape launched a stunner in his direction and on instinct without saying a word the professor's spell impacted a vibrant glowing shield that surrounded him.
“He didn’t even say anything?” he heard someone whisper, Snape however looked on without a reaction.
“Well done, Potter,” Snape said, his voice dripping with something that might have been begrudging respect. “Ten points to Gryffindor for at least knowing what a proper shield looks like. And for casting silently”
A few heads turned in surprise about the points when, without missing a beat, he began to explain the next challenge.
“The next spell you will attempt is a much more advanced one,” Snape said, turning to the blackboard. “The Jinglong Jianhu, or Diamond Shield. It’s not taught to ordinary students, but given your… recent experiences, Potter, I’ll make an exception.”
“Are you ready, Potter?” Snape's voice dripped with mock sweetness, but before Harry could answer, the first stunner was already speeding toward him.
Harry ducked just in time, the spell whooshing past his ear. He side-stepped the second with ease, eyes locked on Snape as more stunners flew at him in quick succession. His movements were fluid, graceful even, as he dodged each one, but his thoughts were still caught on the charm. He had to focus—he couldn’t afford to fail again.
“Whenever you’re ready, Potter,” Snape goaded, his voice laced with cruel amusement.
Harry took a breath, blocking out the taunts and the whizzing spells. He muttered the incantation under his breath. “Adamas Defendo.”
The wand movement was smooth, the way Snape had demonstrated. But the result was far from what he hoped for. The charm sputtered, fizzling out weakly. A few sparks flew in all directions before vanishing into the air.
"Are you kidding me?" Harry thought, his frustration building.
Snape raised an eyebrow, a dark glint in his eye. “Again.”
Harry grimaced but nodded. He stepped back, gathering himself. This time, he added more force to his movements, his arm flicking through the air with greater precision as he muttered the incantation once more. The air shimmered faintly, but again, nothing solid formed. Another burst of sparks, just like fireflies scattering in the wind.
“Not quite there, Potter,” Snape sneered, his voice sharp and mocking. “Maybe a few more tries and you might actually manage something.”
Harry could feel the wall of frustration closing in on him. The room was getting smaller, and he was getting closer to the stairway leading to the professor’s office. He had nowhere left to move. The Slytherins were practically cackling at his struggles, and his housemates were urging him on with half-hearted encouragement.
Come on, work, damn it!
He took a steadying breath, and with a last burst of determination, he raised his wand once more. “Adamas Defendo!” he shouted, his voice ringing out with more conviction than before.
In that instant, something clicked. A shimmer of light exploded from his wand, and before Snape’s stunner could even reach him, a shield of brilliant, diamond-like shapes erupted in front of Harry. It wasn’t just a weak barrier—it was solid, radiant, a wall of shimmering light that exploded outward like shattered glass. The deafening sound of it was like the rattle of rain on a tin roof, and for a moment, it filled the entire room, silencing everyone.
The stunner, with a force Harry hadn’t expected, collided with the shield and bounced back, the reflected magic speeding toward Snape with double the speed. The professor’s eyes widened in shock, and he barely managed to twist out of the way in time. The reflected spell whizzed past him, smashing into the window behind him with a sharp crack.
The Slytherins were still silent, their earlier jeers wiped away by Harry’s unexpected display of skill. The room was thick with the weight of Snape’s shock, and Harry stood there, his pulse racing, heart still pounding in his chest.
The class fell silent.
The Slytherins—who had been sure Harry was going to fail—sat frozen, staring at the broken window and the brilliant shield that had sent Snape diving for cover. Draco Malfoy’s dower expression had faltered, his lips parted in surprise. Theodore Nott’s glare had hardened, but even he couldn’t hide the disbelief in his eyes.
Snape, however, was still standing, his face a mask of controlled anger. He looked as if he’d just narrowly avoided something far worse than an embarrassing incident.
“Well,” Snape’s voice broke the silence, low and measured, “It seems that Potter can surprise us after all.” He gave Harry a slow, calculating look, before turning to the class. “Ten points to Gryffindor for… persistence. And for somehow managing to reflect my own spell back at me. I suppose that’s one way to get results.”
The Slytherins were still silent, their earlier jeers wiped away by Harry’s unexpected display of skill. The room hung heavy with the weight of Snape’s shock, and Harry stood there, pulse racing, heart still pounding in his chest.
“Mate… I knew you were good, especially after… well, New Year’s, but…” Ron whispered, his voice tinged with awe.
“Ron, it was just a shield charm.”
“Just a—” Ron leaned back in his chair, slamming his hand down on the table as if to anchor himself, before leaning in closer. “I was scrolling through the NEWT book while Snape was waffling. It’s not in there.”
“Yeah, Harry, you been reading ahead?” Seamus teased, nudging the back of Harry’s chair with his foot.
“Something like that,” Harry muttered, trying to downplay it, though the surge of pride he felt was hard to hide.
“Wish you were still running the DA meetings,” Seamus added, his tone light. “You could show us how to pop some Death Eaters like you can!”
Seamus laughed and suddenly the room went quiet and deathly still. Everyone knew about the new years eve attack from the papers, whilst it had mentioned a death eater was killed but not by who the paper didn’t try to hide the fact Harry was surrounded by three of them and of the three, one was dead and another seriously injured. But they didn’t outright say Harry did it. Sirius had been murderous at the article.
Reducto!
Blood
Bone
Death
“So thats what’s been hiding?”
“What have you become?”
“Finnegan, out!” Snape’s voice boomed across the classroom.
“Come on, sir—” Seamus protested, the tension in the air crackled like static.
“Oi, you want to watch yourself, you half-blood Irish—” Crabbe’s voice came from the other side of the room, and Harry’s eyes flickered toward him.
“Mate, you're dumb as a box of toads. Ain’t no pureblood shit making up for that,” Seamus shot back, his voice low but biting. “Daddy shouldn’t have fucked his sister, eh?”
There was a collective gasp, and the classroom seemed to freeze.
“Out! Both of you, now! Finnegan, you will present yourself to your head of house immediately! Crabbe my office now ” Snape roared, his wand in hand, eyes flashing with fury as Crabbe lunged to draw his own, he looked like he was going to murder the Irishmen.
The conflict simmering in the country was starting to make its way into the school.
Harry barely heard the words—his heart was thundering in his ears, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump drowning out everything else. His vision flickered, and the world around him seemed to narrow. He could still hear Ron’s voice, asking if he was alright, his hand on his arm, but Harry didn’t respond. He could feel Daphne’s eyes on him, but he dared not look up. Not out of fear—no, there was something else, something deeper. The pull of ancient magic was swirling within him again, restless and alive, urging him to act. His fingers twitched involuntarily.
That same magic, the same force that had stirred during the battle against the Death Eaters, was rising again. However in the room the situation was not de-escalating.
“Nah sir I ain’t having some half blood bastard speak about us like that, you think me or my family are going to let you get away with saying that?” Crabbe shouted, pointing a meaty finger at the Gryffindor. Harry glanced at Seamus, the idiot's hand was no were near his wand! Whilst he didn’t rate Crabbe it only took a second and a lucky strike.
“Your pa the one who got imperioused so easily, nah I think I’ll take my chances”
“You fuc-” Crabbe’s voice was cut off and his wand was ripped from his grasp. Snape and silenced him and disarmed him in an instant, storming over and grabbing his robes, forcing him towards his office.
“Go now before you make an even greater fool of yourself you idiot” he hissed. “Fifty points from both houses for this outburst, the next person who speaks earns a one-hundred point drop, am I clear! Finnigan, out now!”
Ten minutes later the classroom hummed with the quiet rustle of parchment and the occasional scribble of quills after the drama that just erupted. Harry could hear the low murmur of conversation among the Slytherins as Snape continued his lecture at the front. The stone walls, cold and damp as always, seemed to amplify the whispers around him. Daphne and Tracey, seated at their desk just next to Harry, were deep in conversation, though he couldn’t hear what it was about.
“Who’s the boy?” Tracey asked, her voice cutting through the low murmur of the class. Daphne looked at her in alarm, then quickly glanced around the room to make sure no one was paying them too much attention. Her gaze flickered over to the Slytherin table where some of her less favourable housemates were whispering amongst themselves, clearly more interested in their own gossip and what had just happened than anything happening in the class. No one seemed to be listening, but Daphne felt the pull of suspicion rise in her gut anyway.
“I’m not that dumb, Daph. Privacy charm?” Tracey added, arching a brow with a knowing look, though her voice remained light and teasing. It was the sort of tone Daphne had come to expect from her friend—a bit cheeky, but genuine.
Daphne let out a quiet sigh of relief, relaxing into her seat slightly. “Right, there isn’t one. So why do you ask?”
Tracey didn’t hide her smirk. “Uh-uh, so you panicked because someone might overhear? Why’s that?”
“Because the rumor mill around this place is outrageous,” Daphne muttered, her fingers tapping against the desk in irritation. “First, it’s ‘Oh, Daphne might like someone,’ then it’s ‘I saw Daphne with so-and-so shagging in the loos,’ so that’s why.”
The words were half-joking, but they were too close to the truth for Daphne’s liking. She knew what bored students were really after: scandal. Something to feed the gossip machine, thankfully she never appeared in any of those rumours. The thought of it made her stomach twist slightly.
Tracey, however, didn’t seem to mind the rumors so much. “Shagging in the loos?” she laughed, clearly amused, though the gleam in her eyes was more teasing than judgmental. “The whole school knows your hands touch anything thats not a hand and you’re flung apart.” She leaned in slightly, eyes glinting. “And since when did you talk about shagging? Oh wait… have you?”
Daphne froze for a moment, her face flushing redder than it had been all year. “No!” she replied immediately, holding up her hands as though to ward off the thought.
Tracey didn’t let up, her expression playful. “Nothing wrong with it, you know.”
Daphne made a face, leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms with a huff. “There’s nothing wrong with not doing it, either,” she said, her voice edged with frustration. “Honestly, Tracey, you’re not helping the stereotype some of the boys have of the girls here.”
“You mean the one where we’re all desperate for attention and can’t talk about anything other than boys and sex?” Tracey smirked, leaning back in her chair as though enjoying this conversation way too much. Her eyes scanned the room briefly, making sure no one else was listening, but mostly, she was keeping an eye on Daphne’s reaction. “Pansy doesn’t help”
Daphne grimaced but didn’t back down. “Yes, that one,” she said, her voice tinged with annoyance. “Just once, I wish people would realize we’re more than just…” She gestured vaguely, as though to encompass the stereotypical expectations of teenage girls. “More than just... bodies to be talked about.”
Though you seem to keep fantasizing about Harry’s bare top half dont you?
Stop it!
She was a teenage girl after all, one whos magic compelled her to one person so she half wondered if that would play a role with how out of kilter her hormones were. Most of the time her magic was settled around Harry, given that he had not turned her away and embraced her she felt her affection? Feelings? Grow for him each day, the pendant that rested beneath her shirt was warm against her chest and she had played the memory a few times now, each time she wanted to find Harry and show him just how much she loved that gift. A slight blush gracing her cheeks.
“Well, I do think about boys and sex,” Tracey said, her voice light but with a glint of something mischievous in her eyes.
Daphne raised an eyebrow. “And yet you’re still a virgin.”
“Shh! Don’t use that word!” she hissed, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She leaned in close to Daphne, looking around the room in a panic.
“Privacy charm … remember” Daphne grinned, her usual composed self slipping as she enjoyed the rare moment of throwing Tracey off balance. “Virgin?” she repeated, her voice teasing.
“Stop it!” Tracey whispered harshly. She was a flurry of motion, but the more she squirmed, the more Daphne’s grin grew.
Daphne chuckled softly, leaning back in her seat with a satisfied smirk. “Honestly, Tracey, you act like that’s the worst thing anyone could say.”
“Well, it is when you’re so… so... forward about it!” Tracey sputtered, looking anywhere but at her friend. Her fingers toyed with a stray piece of parchment.
Daphne shook her head. “You’re hopeless.”
“So … No boy?”
“Nope, far to busy with my studies”
“Merlin you do need to get shagged in the loos”
“Tracey!”
Not in the loos, oh merlin, get a cold shower.
…
The quiet crackle of magic filled the air as Albus Dumbledore stood over the ancient relic, his long fingers brushing the edges of the runic array carefully etched into the stone table. The relic itself, housed in an ornate glass case, shimmered faintly under the shield charm he’d placed around it—a delicate but powerful barrier that ensured no stray spells could disrupt the relic’s volatile energies.
Remus Lupin stood a few paces away, his brow furrowed as he observed Dumbledore’s every movement. The werewolf's sharp eyes constantly darted between the relic and the wizard’s face, keenly aware of the importance of the moment. “Albus,” Remus asked quietly, “do you think it’s safe to keep it here? In the castle, I mean. The wards should be enough, but… whatever was back there you do not want here”
Dumbledore didn’t immediately answer, his attention fixed on the relic, and his gaze more focused than Remus had ever seen it. A faint hum, barely audible, seemed to emanate from the relic itself, as though it were alive, its magic reaching out in all directions. After their experience in Yorkshire he was well aware of the risks, and though the malevolent energy was missing, he still added projections around it. Fawkes was still out of sorts after rescuing them, not willing to come near the relic on his desk.
With an elegant movement, Dumbledore adjusted his glasses, studying the glowing runic symbols that encased the relic. His wand, held lightly in one hand, was tracing a protective series of wards in the air above the artifact as he muttered softly under his breath, the syllables of ancient spells resonating around the room.
“I believe we are safe, Remus,” Dumbledore finally spoke, though his voice carried the unmistakable weight of concern. “The runic array will stabilize its energies for now, but we must tread carefully.
“Whats next?”
“Well two things, I need to speak with the family in question to ensure the curse entrapped within here links to them, and secondly review the second journal from Marcus about if it is removable”
“Well if you don’t have any objections, I am going to go back to Grimmauld place. I could use a rest after that experience”
“I understand Remus, go, inform Sirius I have found a reliquary and am studying it, we can reconvene in the next day or so” Albus replied, weary himself, yet he had work to do. As Remus left he pulled out the journal he retrieved, and with a bated breath opened the first page.
June 6th, 1769
What have I become?
The valley feels darker now. Not in light, but in feeling — as though some unseen veil has been drawn across the sky. Even on cloudless days, the sun no longer warms my skin. The air tastes of iron and ash. The birds have stopped singing. Even the crows, once bold and cackling, now watch me in silence, their black eyes like chips of flint.
The shadow at the foot of my bed still comes. Every night. It does not speak anymore. No matter what I say—or shout—it only stares. Its outline flickers like heat-haze, indistinct but somehow sharp enough to cut. Sometimes I wake with tears on my cheeks. Sometimes with blood beneath my nails. I do not know whose it is.
The village feels… wrong. Like a malice has seeped into the very stones, spreading from mortar to hearth. The old smith's boy disappeared last week, and the river turned black for a day and a night. No one will speak of either. The baker’s wife whispers prayers in a language I do not know and nails poppy stems to her lintel. The vicar has not opened the chapel doors since Easter. I passed him in the lane yesterday—his eyes were raw with sleep, his hands shaking. He clutched a Bible like it might bite him.
They know. Or they sense. That something has changed. That something is watching. I feel it too, in the cracks of the floorboards, in the spaces between heartbeats. A breath that is not mine. A presence that is not God’s.
I thought I had carved my sorrow into the world and walked away. That the curse I wrought would end with her — with Mary. But something woke when I used that place. Something older than grief. Older than me.
And it has not gone back to sleep.
June 18th, 1769
The mist hasn’t lifted in days. The villagers say it’s the moor breathing bad air, but I know better. I saw a fox yesterday — its eyes were weeping pitch. It died at my feet, without a sound.
Sometimes I think I see Mary through the trees. Not her as she is, but as she was — hair braided with heather, dress muddy from our walks. I blink and she’s gone. But the ache remains.
July 4th, 1769
She had a child.
A little girl, born late May. I only learned of it through old Thom at the market. He said the birth was quiet, too quiet. That Edward no longer stays at the cottage. No one knows why. Mary walks alone now, even with the child in tow.
Once, that would have filled me with a shameful joy.
But I feel no triumph. Only the weight of what I’ve done.
A child should not suffer for the sins of the heart.
July 12th, 1769
There are things I don’t remember doing. Waking with the scent of iron on my breath. The pages of this very book are filled with symbols I don’t recall writing. My own handwriting — but not mine.
I tried to reverse it. The curse. The binding. I spoke the counter-seals, even traced the runes in gold instead of blood.
It laughed at me.
The relic drank deep from my hand — not just blood, but memory. I bled for minutes, but it was my thoughts that left me dizzy. I lost an entire afternoon. When I came to, I was beneath the sycamore, and the earth was scorched.
August 3rd, 1769
I saw her in town today. Mary.
She did not see me. Her hands were chapped, her face pale, but she held the child like something holy. The girl has her eyes.
Edward was not with her. The townsfolk say he hasn’t been seen since Midsummer.
I fear I know why.
This was not what I meant. This was never what I meant.
August 30th, 1769
The dreams are not dreams.
They are visitations.
The woman — the shadow — she is no longer silent. She tells me this is penance. That I asked for justice, and justice is cruel.
She calls me her vessel. I don’t know what she means. I don’t want to.
I only wanted her to feel what I felt. To know.
September 14th, 1769
I hear the child crying. I am three fields away from the cottage, and still I hear her cries — like a bell tolling at dusk.
No father. A mother with sorrow etched into her face. A village that crosses itself when they pass. The curse lingers. It feeds.
I tried to write Mary. To tell her I was sorry. But the quill broke in my hand. The ink boiled. The parchment turned to ash.
The relic will not let me take it back.
October 9th, 1769
The tailors boy is gone.
He went into the woods to find their hound — just a little ways, Thom said. He never came back. A search party was formed, torches raised, but they came back pale and trembling. One man claimed they walked in a circle for hours, though they swore they had marched straight. When they emerged, their boots were soaked in brackish water, and moss grew on their sleeves.
The boy’s mother says she hears him crying in the walls of her cottage.
No one answers her anymore.
Some have tried to leave the valley. They pack their carts and bid farewell. One even made it as far as Kettleburn Cross — or so they claimed. But that night, their wagon returned to the square. No horses. No driver. Just the wagon, with every bag and blanket still tied down, frost on the edges of the wood.
The villagers grow quiet. They look to the church but the priest fled weeks ago, how far he got i do not know. The bell has not rung since Mabon.
November 3rd, 1769
There is a kind of unspoken rule now: no one goes out after dark.
I spend my nights in the inn, as do most of the village now. Mother and father are gone, I returned to the manor one morning to find it darkened, oppressive, something lingers on the top floor. I did not linger.
Even by day, the streets are thin of voices. People walk quickly, eyes down. I saw old Meg Whitlow muttering to the stones on the path, pressing herbs into the cracks. She looked up at me and gasped like she'd seen a corpse.
She told me I stink of regret.
She’s right. The curse — my curse — has taken root in more than Mary. It coils through the land like ivy, wrapping around every kindness, every warm hearth and familiar face.
Mary no longer meets anyone’s eyes. I saw her through the chapel glass last night. She stood at the altar, alone, hands clenched in prayer. The baby was with her — not crying, just watching the windows, as if expecting something to fly in.
December 19th, 1769
I have learned something terrible.
The relic speaks again. But not in riddles now. It shows me things — images, memories, visions not mine. Blood on snow. A ring split in half. A man’s heart torn not by hands, but by will.
I see now that the curse does not banish love like I intended. It denies it by tethering Mary’s magic to one truth alone: she may only love, and be loved, by one her magic chooses. And if that love is not returned, her life will be devoid of love any others she tries to love she will feel nothing but resentment and anger. That must be why Edward left.
It is not her heart that pushes others away. It is her power. The only thing she cannot defy.
And worse still — the curse can be undone. There is a way.
But it demands a sacrifice. A willing one. A soul offered freely. Not by a stranger, not by blood — but by one her magic has chosen.
He must love her back. Truly. Without coercion, without glamour.
Only then can the curse be unraveled.
Only then will the darkness uncoil.
But who would ever choose such an end? Who would stand at the altar, knowing their soul would be unmade? I would do it if i could, to undo what horrors I imparted on the innocent.
January 6th, 1770
The hills are silent.
Tonight, I saw Mary at the edge of the field, barefoot in the frost. She was not alone.
Edward had returned. I do not know why, or from where. Perhaps something in him still burned. Or perhaps he could not bear to let the child be raised in this haunted place.
She held the girl out to him. Pleading. Weeping. I could not hear the words — only the wind, and the low hum from the chapel behind me.
He took the child. Held her tight even from a distance I could see his love for that child, Mary had been right when she said he was a good man. Then fled on his horse. I bid him haste from my position by the church. And for the first time in two years did I pray, not for my soul but that of the sweet child and her father.I asked god not forsake them and take me in their place.
Mary did not follow. She stood there, hair loose, face streaked with tears.
And then… she turned.
And saw me. Like fate twisting the dagger she saw the man who caused all this pain. Yet he didn’t even know.
The bells have begun to ring.
And I fear they do not toll for the living.
Dumbledore read the last line again.
Not by a stranger, not by blood — but by one her magic has chosen.
The candle on his desk flickered. The silver runes etched into the stabilisation array glimmered faintly beneath the glass dome that housed the reliquary, like breath caught mid-moment. And in the hush that followed, he understood. Though Marcus had still inflicted this horror onto Mary and her line, in those final months he had tried to undo his mistake.
The curse did not merely exile love from the afflicted’s life. It twisted the very thread of magic that bound them to the world. Romantic love — desire, devotion, deep soul-forged affection — was not merely chased away. It was rejected violently, unless it came from one source: the singular heart her magic reached for first. It's one chosen.
And to lift it?
A sacrifice. A soul offered freely — not by kin, not by chance, but by the chosen one themselves. One who returned the love. One who would give everything for her. Willingly.
Albus closed the journal and sat back, spine aching, fingers curled around the aged leather. For a moment, the sound of crackling fire was the only thing to answer the silence that stretched between him and the truth.
Mary is long gone, he thought, but her blood lives on. Her pain lives on. Studying Elizabeth's family tree had revealed a long list of tragic ends, suicides, murdered by a grieving ex lover. No this curse had cut a bloody swath through history for her family.
Thomas Greengrass.
Elizabeth’s husband who had returned her love when her curse activated, he had no doubt the man would willingly give his soul if nothing else to spare his daughter their future granddaughters the burden of this curse.
It was the answer. The plan revealed, precise and cruel, like sunlight breaking over frost-covered hills — golden, beautiful, and bitter. But Albus did not smile. He bowed his head.
For in solving the mystery, he had uncovered the cost. And that made it no victory at all. The curse had to be removed from the reliquary so they could house Voldemort's soul before the relic consumed it to whatever darkness it housed.
He drew a quill and parchment, he would write to Thomas and Elizabeth tonight.
……
I am back in work as of tomorrow so updates will return to a little slow pace but still hopefully at least once a week.
So they finally have their Recliquary, a way to end the Greengrass curse and somewhere to banish Voldemort’s soul to and getting around the horcrux issue (This has been a LONG time coming) 30 chapters or so i think. Albus is very much unaware that Daphne’s curse has activated and Harry is the target otherwise he wouldn’t even think about Thomas here.
Getting the horcrux out is not going to be a walk in the park however, for Harry or for the person i pick to do the ritual.
Thank you to all my reviewers, once the story is done I will think of a way to reward those frequent engagers, maybe some inputs on my next Haphne short fic. Or even a private epilogue i'm not sure. I’ll figure it out to reward you all!