Chapter 6
It is harder than she imagines to keep the secret of them safe. Most infuriatingly, Potter seems to find it instinctive. While Daphne cannot keep her eyes off him, he has no issue. When her hands burn with the desire to touch him as they brush by each other in the hallways, he doesn’t even flinch. Daphne has to scold herself over and over until she can ignore him in the daylight. Her consolation for his easy rebuffs comes roughly once a week as soon as she floats down into the Chamber of Secrets and he cannot keep his hands off her.
‘Is it easy for you?’ she teases. ‘Ignoring me?’
He runs a lock of her hair delicately between two fingers. ‘It is very easy to protect you.’
She kisses the breath out of him for that.
Malfoy becomes more agitated and distant, wrapped up in whatever plan he is hatching. His attempts become perfunctory at best. She takes the opportunity to extract herself from him further. She promises a necklace of hers to Pansy Parkinson if she always sits between her and Malfoy. Parkinson takes the deal happily. Daphne sits at the very edge of their group, closer to the other Slytherins in her year. It does not go unnoticed and the gossip surrounding her finally shifts tides. Apparently Malfoy is now shunning Daphne - she takes that rumour with gladness.
Gradually, life assumes a new rhythm.
But consistency is hardly Potter’s style.
The hair stands up on the back of her neck when he sits behind her in History of Magic. Not an unusual thing - she has often found herself near him and his friends when their houses share this wide amphitheatre for Binns’s lectures. She listens with half an ear as he discusses the Quidditch League in excruciating detail with Weasley. She focuses on Binns, taking careful notes on the hideously boring subject matter. Eventually, Granger hisses at both of her friends to shut it. When Weasley starts an argument with her in whispers, Daphne hears something. A soft hissing. Almost under his breath, just loud enough for her to pick out the words.
‘I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
‘Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
‘Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
‘I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.’
Daphne is glad no one is looking to see the blush on her face. It feels as though it spreads to cover her full body, seeps down through her muscles to reach her bones. Where did he pick up Pablo Neruda? There is only one collection of his in the pitifully small poetry section of the Hogwarts library. And…oh, he must have seen how many times she has checked it out.
Granger and Weasley’s argument continues, and after a pause so does Potter.
‘I hunger for your sleek laugh,
‘your hands the colour of a savage harvest,
‘hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
‘I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.’
To anyone else it must appear as though he is just muttering under his breath. Daphne makes sure to remain inconspicuous as she listens to the Parseltongue dripping into her ear. She continues to move her hand as though she is writing. She scratches out a series of lines and whorls that match the beat of her erratic heart.
To her deep disappointment, Granger ends the spat with a sharp huff. Daphne resists the urge to enact great violence on them both for stopping Harry in the middle of his crooning. She likes his voice in English, but it takes on another quality in Parseltongue that does truly dangerous things to her. It is deeper, softer. The quill in her hand almost snaps.
When the class ends he leaves a balled up slip of parchment behind. Daphne picks it up casually as she walks by, keeping her eyes focussed on the door. In the corridor, as her friends lament another boring lecture, she flattens it in her palm. It is a fight to keep her expression cool when she reads Boris the Bewildered, forget-me-never. She looks down the corridor towards a tall painting of a confused-looking man trying to put his gloves on the wrong hands.
Daphne makes her excuses to her housemates, saying she left her quill behind. They file away with the crowd. It is the end of the school day and they are eager to unwind in the common room. The cords of Daphne’s heart are wound too tightly for words. As soon as she is alone, she casts a disillusionment over herself and marches up to the painting. She stands before it for a second, breathing hard. Her entire body buzzes with the recklessness of it.
‘Forget-me-never,’ she whispers.
With a muted click the portrait swings open. Daphne rushes behind it to find an old, dusty passageway. Standing on the first stair is Harry Potter. She adopts a stern look before cancelling the charm.
‘This is reckless,’ she speaks in Parseltongue.
‘I know,’ he grins, ‘but I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body.’
It is embarrassing how readily she throws herself into his arms. He kisses her soundly. Daphne runs her fingers through his hair.
‘the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,’ she continues for him. ‘I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes-’
The words die in her throat as he lifts her, hands tight on the backs of her thighs. Daphne wraps herself around him, in him. The electricity of his touch burns in the best possible fashion. He leans in to whisper the last in her ear. His voice drips with honey.
‘and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,’ he kisses her lobe, her chin, ‘hunting for you, for your hot heart,’ he speaks the last into her mouth, ‘like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.’
Their kisses are bruising. It matches the feeling in her heart.
But Daphne is not one to be outdone. The next time he meets her in the Chamber of Secrets he finds the main cavern much changed. Daphne sent a thousand cleaning charms through the place, and took charge of several pieces of furniture left abandoned in a storage cupboard just off the Slytherin common room. She gathered a great many candles and conjured flames in jars to light their little sitting room. To top it off, a great spread of food from the kitchen for their late supper.
She stretches out on the sofa, smiling at him as he takes it in. He looks different in candlelight - softer and younger and far more innocent. Or perhaps its the joy on his face. He smiles at her like she makes the sun come up every morning.
‘You’re beautiful anyway,’ he says gently, ‘but you’re something else by candlelight.’
She beckons him with one hand. ‘Who knew you were such a romantic?’
‘Oh, I blame all of that on you.’
He takes her hand, laying himself down on the sofa beside her. She is glad she picked one so wide. Her other hand raises to brush away the hair that falls into his eyes.
‘My fault, is it?’
‘Absolutely.’ He laces his fingers between hers. ‘You got me into poetry for god’s sake.’
She smiles. ‘If that’s all it took then I would say I merely drew out the romantic hiding within you. And it wasn't hiding very deep.’
His lips press against her forehead. ‘Maybe it’s just you. One more thing to add to the pile of other things that don’t make sense.’
‘You say that but I suspect we make a lot of sense.’
‘Tell me.’
‘We are both, in our own ways, trapped in the lives we lead.’ She speaks carefully, afraid of making assumptions on his behalf. ‘For me that is a life predetermined by my society, a marriage approved of and arranged by my parents, children, and then eventually succeeding my mother as head of the family. Restarting the process again. For you it is a life caged by fame and danger. That must come with a certain amount of expectations too.’
A sadness washes through his eyes. ‘It does. I am…expected to do things when most people just get to live.’
‘And this,’ she squeezes his hand, ‘is an outlet. An escape from expectation.’
‘It’s more than that surely.’
She kisses him reassuringly. ‘We are both romantics. And Parselmouths. And seeking adventure.’
‘Oh, I don’t seek adventure. It follows me around like a rabid dog. But this adventure is far nicer than the others, I’ll give you that.’
‘And you have green eyes,’ she admits with a blush. He levels them at her questioningly. ‘Greengrass women have a weakness for green eyes. My father has them, my grandfather too.’
He wrinkles his nose. ‘So you like me because I look like your dad?’
Daphne pinches his side, making him yelp and squirm. ‘No, you fool. I like you because I was raised to consider green eyes the most beautiful. Astoria’s eyes are hazel and I was so jealous of what little green she got.’
‘Your eyes are stunning. They reflect everything, like pools of stars.’
‘Flatterer.’
Their conversation dissolves into kisses.
Daphne steps into the warmth and noise of The Three Broomsticks. It is a little stifling - May has finally defrosted the air. Spring has taken a firm hold, and she has been snogging Harry Potter for almost two months. She is now expert at finding him in any room using only her peripheral vision. He sits at a table in the corner with Granger and Weasley, a butterbeer in hand and his back to her. The Ravenclaws at the table next to his get up, gathering their glasses to return to the bar. Daphne tugs Blaise towards the empty seats. Tracey Davis agrees to get the first round and moves towards the busy bar. The cramped seating works in Daphne’s favour. She pulls out her chair with unnecessary force, letting it crash against the back of Harry’s. She sits, ignoring him as he twists to face her.
‘Hello, sunshine.’ He adopts the same easy flirtation he had teased her with earlier in the year. It sends a shiver through her. ‘Need a hand?’
He tucks her chair in with a wave of his wand. Daphne braces her hand on the table and adopts an expression of disgust. ‘Don’t ever point that thing at me again,’ she sneers.
‘Where’s your boyfriend? I wouldn’t want to start a fight.’
Daphne examines her manicure. ‘I don’t have the faintest idea who you could be talking about.’
‘The great ferret finally crawled back into his hidey hole?’
‘If you mean Malfoy I can only hope he has finally got the message that I’d sooner marry Snape.’
‘So that’s your type? Guess I should stop washing my hair.’
She twists to give him an evil look over her shoulder. Harry grins back at her, eyes bright. They are so close it steals her breath, perhaps the closest they have ever been in public. Her face is just inches from his. Daphne struggles not to smile in return, but only for a moment. She has played this role her entire life. She will not forget her lines now.
‘You are utterly ridiculous.’ Her eyes slide towards his friends. ‘Genuine question: why do you tolerate him?’
‘Get lost, Greengrass,’ Weasley fires back.
Daphne laughs once in the back of her throat, a noise she knows is as condescending as it is infuriating. Weasley’s face turned beet-red in response. She turns back to her own table before he can form a retort. Blaise looks at her with narrowed eyes and leans into her side.
‘If I did not know better,’ he murmurs, ‘I’d say you enjoy Potter’s attention.’
‘I’m a glutton for punishment,’ she replies.
‘Nothing to do with those green eyes, then?’
She scoffs. ‘They’re wasted on him.’
Tracey puts their drinks down heavily, looking harassed from shouldering her way across the bar. She blows a lock of hair out her face as she sits. Tracey has proved an unexpected ally this year. The quiet girl actually possesses a great deal of spirit, and her friendship opened like a flower the second she saw how much Daphne loathes Malfoy.
‘What are you muttering about?’ she asks bluntly.
Blaise draws his wand and casts a muffliato before adopting a smug look. ‘We were just discussing Daphne’s crush on Harry Potter.’
‘I do not have a crush on that goody-two-shoes.’ Daphne makes sure to reply playfully, sportingly. She cannot afford them thinking she protests too much.
‘I used to have a crush on Potter,’ Tracey announces quite casually. They blink at her. She laughs, sipping her butterbeer. ‘What? His hair looked particularly good in third year, sue me.’
‘He is certainly not the ugliest member of our year,’ Blaise adds reluctantly.
‘Do not forget his outstanding moral fibre,’ Daphne mocks. They laugh.
‘Seriously though,’ Blaise says, ‘who are you thinking of since Draco is non grata.’ He speaks of the future, of marriage.
She shrugs. ‘I fear I shall have to cast a wider net, perhaps see what Durmstrang spits out.’
‘You don’t want some Durmstrang brute,’ Tracey says, her mouth downturned. ‘Two of my cousins went there and came back just awful. Left stupider than when they started.’
‘Beauxbatons?’ Blaise suggests. ‘How are your romance languages?’
‘Rusty.’ Daphne runs her finger along the edge of her glass. ‘Perhaps I will not marry at all.’
‘And leave the running of the family to your sister?’ His eyebrow quirks as he says it.
She relents. ‘Point taken. But perhaps I will not marry right away. I should like to spend my life meaningfully before it belongs to someone else.’
‘By doing what?’ Tracey asks. She often speaks with a piercing sincerity that compels Daphne to answer truthfully.
‘I should like to sing. Opera. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen an opera.’
‘Oh, I’ve seen one,’ she replies. ‘My grandmother took me once and I fell asleep. But good for you if that’s what you want.’
‘I will never understand your family’s obsession with the muggle arts.’ Blaise’s voice is disdainful. ‘And your mother will never allow it.’
‘I will make her life a living hell if she tries to sell it again,’ Daphne promises. ‘Not to mention that she had her time with the Royal Ballet. She cannot fairly deny me.’
‘After she married and bore children,’ Blaise points out. Daphne gives him an irritated look. ‘Fair doesn’t come into it, you know that.’
‘Well if all else fails there’s always Potter.’ Tracey raises her glass in mock salute.
They laugh as they toast.
They exit the pub long after Harry and his friends leave, stopping in Honeydukes before returning to the castle. Daphne buys an extra sugar quill to share with Harry, but she does not get an opportunity to slip away until the small hours. Her and her housemates stay up late to honour the weekend, sharing butterbeer by the fire and playing cards. When the clock strikes one in the morning, they finally retire to bed. Daphne waits thirty minutes for them to fall into sleep, and then makes her escape under as many obscuring spells as she knows.
She finds him in the Chamber, fast asleep across the length of the sofa. She pauses there to watch him. His face is delicate in sleep, painted in chiaroscuro by the flickering candles. His hair tangles against the cushion he rests his head upon. Clutched in his fist is an old, well-worn cloak. His eyes move behind their lids. He is dreaming. She wonders what he dreams of. Does she dare to believe it is her?
She kneels and touches the hair that falls on his forehead. She has dreamed of this - of spending a whole night together and then the day that follows. She dreams of kissing him beneath sunlight.
Harry starts awake, eyes flying open. When they focus on her he relaxes like a fist. His hand slaps over his chest. The cloak slides to the floor.
‘Jesus,’ he curses. ‘You scared me. What time do you call this?’
Daphne smiles. ‘I can go if you’d rather be alone.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
He leans over, pushing both hands into her hair and pulling her into a deep kiss. She is familiar with his touch but it never fails in thrilling her. She smiles against his lips. Her heart does unspeakable things in her chest. He pulls back, trailing his fingers along her jaw.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ he says.
She raises an eyebrow as he shoots to his feet, all exhaustion wiped away as easily as chalk. He picks up the old cloak in two hands and holds it out proudly.
‘It’s not exactly my colour,’ she replies.
Harry smiles. Without a word he throws it over his head and-
Disappears.
Daphne stands, staring in shock at the empty space where her Harry used to stand. She reaches out and feels the silken fabric under her fingers. It may have looked old and worn but it feels like water in her palm. She gives it a tug and his head pops back into existence. He grins at her.
‘Where in all the world did you get an invisibility cloak?’ she asks a little breathlessly.
‘Would you hate me if I said long story?’
Daphne pauses for a second. ‘In the summers I like to sneak out into the muggle world to watch trashy romantic comedies at the cinema. So spill.’
‘Rom-coms? Really?’ His grin turns teasing very quickly. ‘What’s your favourite?’
‘Tell me about the cloak,’ she presses.
He removes it, bringing both himself and the cloak back into visibility. He holds it in his arms with affected casualness. ‘Inherited it from my dad. Presumably he got it from his. Never got to ask.’
‘And that’s the whole story? I’m sure you’ve had zero adventures with this thing.’
‘Adventures will cost you.’ He steps towards her, leaning down to brush his lips across hers. ‘Favourite rom-com, Daph?’
He smells like old books. Merlin, how?
‘I do often wonder,’ she breathes into his ear, ‘why you have been sent to torment me so. What sins have I committed to deserve such a fate?’
He makes a wounded noise. ‘Couldn’t I have been a reward for your virtues?’
‘I don’t have any virtues. Four Weddings and a Funeral.’
He kisses her neck. ‘Let’s see…I’ve broken into the restricted section with it. I’ve snuck down to Hogsmede. I broke into Umbridge’s office with it. One time I went down Knockturn alley. Primarily I’ve used it to eavesdrop on people. And now I’m going to use it to go to the top of the astronomy tower with you because I want to kiss you under the stars.’
She kisses him soundly. She will kiss him like that again under the sparkling blanket of the sky.
It is thrilling to walk with him hand-in-hand through Hogwarts, even though the halls are empty and they are rendered invisible beneath the cloak. From beneath it is like a gauze through which they must peer at the world. Her heart screams in delight to walk so closely by his side. It pretends there is no barrier between them and the world. As if she could hold his hand in public.
At the top of the Astronomy tower they find a clear night shot through with stars. It is a stunning scene. One that quiets her breath as they stand, looking upwards. Harry slips his arms around her and she leans into him. She rests against his chest and listens to the beat of his heart. It is quick, but it slows as they stand in silence staring at the night sky.
‘Do you believe in heaven?’ Harry whispers.
She wraps her arms around him tightly. ‘I believe the soul is set free in death, and isn’t freedom the ultimate heaven?’
‘Is it freedom if you have to leave so much behind?’
‘It bears a high price.’ She presses a kiss over his heart. ‘Immeasurable. No one pays it willingly.’
He sighs. ‘I know. I can’t help but wonder if they are in heaven or if they’re stuck somewhere, waiting. Watching…. I’m sorry. The sky makes me sad sometimes.’
‘Make it up to me then.’
He looks down at her. Daphne smiles warmly. She reaches up and pulls the invisibility cloak away, letting it flutter to the stone floor. Harry looks at her in surprise.
‘Kiss me in front of whatever souls may see.’
His eyes brighten. He obliges. The night wind blows her hair around them. The stars witness what no one else ever will.